Just thought I'd post this is light of my new song I made haha. Tell me what you thinkk!!
https://soundcloud.com/gking93/forever-in-a-dream
Monday, November 24, 2014
Thursday, November 6, 2014
On Being Yourself
You are so you,
the way you count your freckles
when everything is dying,
the way you value your privacy
but coat fragile glass screens
with your fingerprints,
the way your art mimics your
personality
and the way you don't understand
when people tell you this.
The way you always wanted
a place to be at nine at night
and the way you have fulfilled
this wish among several.
Your persistent ways are mimicry
of your hatred to long for
things and people,
and your way of dancing around
metaphors about sadness
is mimicry of your passion
to convey feeling
and creates the same in others.
The way you tell people to follow
when they beg you not to go,
the way your favorite music from
years past makes you cry
and yearn for experiences
that will never happen again.
The way you boldfaced that.
the way you count your freckles
when everything is dying,
the way you value your privacy
but coat fragile glass screens
with your fingerprints,
the way your art mimics your
personality
and the way you don't understand
when people tell you this.
The way you always wanted
a place to be at nine at night
and the way you have fulfilled
this wish among several.
Your persistent ways are mimicry
of your hatred to long for
things and people,
and your way of dancing around
metaphors about sadness
is mimicry of your passion
to convey feeling
and creates the same in others.
The way you tell people to follow
when they beg you not to go,
the way your favorite music from
years past makes you cry
and yearn for experiences
that will never happen again.
The way you boldfaced that.
Dead flowers ~Hannah
Visit me under the bare oak
on the shaded hill.
Nothing worth more than
my earthly dwellings.
It is an empty hole,
I have returned to dust.
Dust cannot respect the
dreary dead flowers.
Bring me your love
so that I may see her.
Tell her stories of my quiet moments
and sweetest quirks.
Visit me on the hill even though
I will not be there.
Visit the empty space that I was.
And remember.
on the shaded hill.
Nothing worth more than
my earthly dwellings.
It is an empty hole,
I have returned to dust.
Dust cannot respect the
dreary dead flowers.
Bring me your love
so that I may see her.
Tell her stories of my quiet moments
and sweetest quirks.
Visit me on the hill even though
I will not be there.
Visit the empty space that I was.
And remember.
Wednesday, November 5, 2014
you're not my rebirth, i know
all day I wait until the sun touches the edge
of Palmer building, my worn feet shuffling
against the gravel because the earth
is so slow when college life is this fast. Oh, I miss your laugh that I’ve never tasted
upon my own and I cannot sit still in class. I stop reading
when people walk through these doors because I am afraid
you will pass by, every minute a chance
to share a breath with the mix of you in it.
I don’t need you but I want to know you, more than I want to dream.
of Palmer building, my worn feet shuffling
against the gravel because the earth
is so slow when college life is this fast. Oh, I miss your laugh that I’ve never tasted
upon my own and I cannot sit still in class. I stop reading
when people walk through these doors because I am afraid
you will pass by, every minute a chance
to share a breath with the mix of you in it.
I don’t need you but I want to know you, more than I want to dream.
Thursday, October 23, 2014
Rotten Poem
In the dumpster of my mind,
I felt your sight on me.
I neglected to take out the trash today
Maybe I'll try to do it tomorrow.
I felt your sight on me.
I neglected to take out the trash today
Maybe I'll try to do it tomorrow.
Rotten Poetry
Thanks for coming out to our first LHSP workshop!
Here's my "rotten poem":
Here's my "rotten poem":
In the incandescence of my mind,
I tasted the cacophonous sounds of spring.
I blew my nose on a soggy tissue
Everything happens for a reason.
Rotten Poetry
In the hospital of her mind,
his ears saw smells that made his touch taste...salty.
Tears turned their faces red and puffy.
Eventually the embarrassment will fade.
~-~
In the chalkboard of my mind,
the smell of tears is black and white.
This function is isomorphic!
Someday this proof will be right.
Rotten Poetry
In honor of human trafficking. Price of Life Week. . .
In the trafficking of my mind
I hear the smell of her cries
I'm angry that I've been so blind
Change will come in tomorrow's skies.
-A.W.
In the trafficking of my mind
I hear the smell of her cries
I'm angry that I've been so blind
Change will come in tomorrow's skies.
-A.W.
Wednesday, October 15, 2014
Cut Up Poems!
Hello poets,
Here are all of the awesome cut up poems you all created last week.
Happy Writing!
"These Patchwork Organs" (Hannah Rhodenhiser)
As requested, here is the poem I read last week in club.
Feedback welcomed.
These Patchwork Organs
If you offered me new parts,
I might say yes.
But please do not,
I don’t want them.
I am scientist and therefore must admit
that my body is broken,
malformed,
inefficient.
I cannot depend on vital acts,
intended to be subconscious,
manifested as war.
My lungs don’t move air
to my brain for the
hardcore mathematics
by which I define myself.
My lungs reach down and ensnare each leg
crushing my chest,
stop kicking the ball into the goal
stop swimming butterfly,
stop being such a hipster.
Please lie on your back,
please let me take over.
Let me change you.
But I do not want to be proof-read,
my typos and grammatical errors are how I express
the fashion of my existence.
I do not claim perfection, but
my problematic bit have stolen my affection,
and by fixing me you will alter
the self that got me here.
I want to be here.
I just want to breathe.
My body is a gift I never asked for,
that hideous but oh so very soft
sweater. Made by someone who loves me.
My organs are odd and frustrating,
but they are mine,
No Take-Backs.
Constant pain a constant companion.
And the line between “okay” hurts
and End Times blurs.
disappears
and is gone.
I would never cut myself.
But that doesn't stop me from
keeping accidental injuries from
scabbing,
disappearing.
I bleed.
I must cover every hole
with a spaceship band-aid
from IKEA.
Every paper-cut,
every damaged piece of tissue,
inside my lungs the adhesive traps mucus,
opens the constricted airways
declaring None Shall Pass.
I thrive on the constant sting of ignoreable pain
blocking out the real threat
of mortality
of exhaustion
of defeat.
There are cartoon stars
inside my chest cavity.
And an unrealistic moon.
I can see them
when my fingers and toes go
to a weird place in flux
not entirely my own.
I will defy your assumptions
even if they are correct.
Hurting myself to prove
that I am not hurt.
I am not done yet.
I may decline these patchwork organs.
Save my life please,
but let me cling to the inefficiencies that make me human.
Not that you are actually offering,
but no thank you.
Feedback welcomed.
These Patchwork Organs
If you offered me new parts,
I might say yes.
But please do not,
I don’t want them.
I am scientist and therefore must admit
that my body is broken,
malformed,
inefficient.
I cannot depend on vital acts,
intended to be subconscious,
manifested as war.
My lungs don’t move air
to my brain for the
hardcore mathematics
by which I define myself.
My lungs reach down and ensnare each leg
crushing my chest,
stop kicking the ball into the goal
stop swimming butterfly,
stop being such a hipster.
Please lie on your back,
please let me take over.
Let me change you.
But I do not want to be proof-read,
my typos and grammatical errors are how I express
the fashion of my existence.
I do not claim perfection, but
my problematic bit have stolen my affection,
and by fixing me you will alter
the self that got me here.
I want to be here.
I just want to breathe.
My body is a gift I never asked for,
that hideous but oh so very soft
sweater. Made by someone who loves me.
My organs are odd and frustrating,
but they are mine,
No Take-Backs.
Constant pain a constant companion.
And the line between “okay” hurts
and End Times blurs.
disappears
and is gone.
I would never cut myself.
But that doesn't stop me from
keeping accidental injuries from
scabbing,
disappearing.
I bleed.
I must cover every hole
with a spaceship band-aid
from IKEA.
Every paper-cut,
every damaged piece of tissue,
inside my lungs the adhesive traps mucus,
opens the constricted airways
declaring None Shall Pass.
I thrive on the constant sting of ignoreable pain
blocking out the real threat
of mortality
of exhaustion
of defeat.
There are cartoon stars
inside my chest cavity.
And an unrealistic moon.
I can see them
when my fingers and toes go
to a weird place in flux
not entirely my own.
I will defy your assumptions
even if they are correct.
Hurting myself to prove
that I am not hurt.
I am not done yet.
I may decline these patchwork organs.
Save my life please,
but let me cling to the inefficiencies that make me human.
Not that you are actually offering,
but no thank you.
Thursday, September 11, 2014
First Group Write Poem!
The Food Poem
Today I went to the campus dining hall.
I didn't know what to eat
Got lots of things, ate them all.
I even ate pig feet!
But now my stomach hurts, I have diarrhea
The stuff in my bowels is as smooth as my rhyme
I bombed the toilet with my tortilla,
Gotta use four-ply paper towel, it's going to take some time.
I wonder what the dining hall will have tomorrow
Because I'm hungry as hell!
Waiting and waiting brings me nothing but sorrow
But tomorrow all will be well.
Today I went to the campus dining hall.
I didn't know what to eat
Got lots of things, ate them all.
I even ate pig feet!
But now my stomach hurts, I have diarrhea
The stuff in my bowels is as smooth as my rhyme
I bombed the toilet with my tortilla,
Gotta use four-ply paper towel, it's going to take some time.
I wonder what the dining hall will have tomorrow
Because I'm hungry as hell!
Waiting and waiting brings me nothing but sorrow
But tomorrow all will be well.
Thursday, August 28, 2014
Welcome To Poetry Club!
Welcome poets!
This is the official blog for the 2014-2015 LHSP Poetry Club. This is your space to share your work and get feedback from the rest of the group, or to read your peers' work and get inspired. This is a safe space, so we ask that you all be respectful when critiquing work (Remember, critique the poetry, not the poet!). If a video, poem, image, etc. inspires you, feel free to share it here as well. Remember, this is your blog and your space for everything poetry!
Looking forward to poetry-filled year!
This is the official blog for the 2014-2015 LHSP Poetry Club. This is your space to share your work and get feedback from the rest of the group, or to read your peers' work and get inspired. This is a safe space, so we ask that you all be respectful when critiquing work (Remember, critique the poetry, not the poet!). If a video, poem, image, etc. inspires you, feel free to share it here as well. Remember, this is your blog and your space for everything poetry!
Looking forward to poetry-filled year!
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