Graduation Poem

Posted on by soporifica

 

Four years ago, I was planted in the soil right where you are sitting today.

I sprouted up slow, looked toward the sky each morning and begged for my days to be numbered.

Now that it’s here, and I am full grown next to my peers, limbs long enough to touch the stars,

I find myself with empty hands, longing so dearly to hold onto the days which I shed as easily as the leaves in Autumn.

However, this is not the end.

I walk through the crowded halls of this school, shoes squeaky against the linoleum,

Catching bits and pieces of familiar faces, some of which I have greeted each day since kindergarten,

Some of which have slipped underneath the door without notice, leaving me to wish they had navigated the messy map of my life much sooner,

With teenage indolence, we roll our eyes, tell ourselves that essay can be written easily in just one night,

Feeling like we are handcuffed by the people above us, yet in reality we are given every key in their collection;

It’s up to us to find the right fit.

Certain careers are pushed toward us, poured over us like water, almost drowning us

Yet others are little prizes. Locked behind secret trap doors, knocking, begging to be released by the beautiful talents that are buried deep within us.

As a senior, I have been hiding behind the curtains, pulling down a single blind and peeking out at all the pathways set before me.

It can fill even the bravest with fear.

But, my favorite quote goes something like, “This world is made of sugar. It can crumble so easily, but don’t be afraid to stick out your tongue and taste it.”

That is what we must do.

Whether you are traveling miles from home like myself,

Or rather sticking to the roots which have held you so carefully all these years,

We are setting off on this journey together.

We will be scattered across the nation like lost puzzle pieces,

Connected in ways that not even the greatest among us can comprehend.

From 800 miles away, I will reach toward this pinpoint on the map of my life,

I will trip over my own feet searching for those old writing classes where I first found my voice,

I will laugh at the tears that reached the brim of my tired eyes and spilled out on the floors of AP Calculus,

I will find myself lost when I reach out to embrace the teachers who have been a bright light in terms of my future,

But I will grow.

Seniors, we were planted here years ago.

Now is our time to spread our roots,

Grab our dreams, hold tight, and grow taller than the treetops we thought we’d never reach.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bird Bodies!

Posted on by soporifica

 

Light fell onto the streets and splattered across the length of sidewalks, just barely missing my body. I had to sway back and forth to avoid the rays of sunlight pouring like rain. I could almost feel the gears of my mind turning, trying to figure out what time it was, or even where I was located, but to no avail. My mind was completely empty except for thoughts of the prickly feeling that made its way across my skin like a snake. I watched the curtain of night fall over the sky, my feet planted in one place the entire time. My eyes could make out shapes and colors, nothing more. Suddenly, I found the trees pulling me into their embrace, their smiling faces seemingly normal at the moment. Their teeth were quite yellow. I stumbled over roots that reached for my feet despite my requests for them to leave me be. I continued to make my way through the dark and desolate forest, beams of light floating before me and guiding me down the twisty trails, my hands ardently attempting to catch them. Soft voices whispered in my ear, claiming they had something to show me for some time now. Fireflies carried me to an opening, and there lay an animal never seen before. I felt my body lie down next to it on a nearby pile of damp leaves, my eyes staring at the creature with pure curiosity. I could no longer stifle my loud laughter, causing colorful birds to fly out of treetops, greeting me with animosity. The creature before me stayed put, however, it’s puppy face and owl body showing no sign of life. However, each time I tried to reach out to grab it, wanting to pull it closer and examine it carefully, it scurried just out of reach with its tiny legs. I began to follow it down an overlooked path, shrubs growing on each side and nearly toppling over. It came to be a sort of game, following the animal and trying to catch it, a “tag-you’re-it” type thing. However, before I knew it, my ankle was captured by the evil roots and I was pulled deep into a never ending abyss.

Revisions and Revisions

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The sudden noise of a slammed door cracked like thunder and reverberated throughout the silent, summer night; save for the hum of crickets and the soft boom of loudspeakers fading in and out from a party somewhere near. Sticky air pulled the wide-eyed girl outdoors despite the late hour and beckoned her to leave behind the mess of events that remained trapped within the suburban brick building she called home. She expected her parents to come storming out after her, almost hoped they would, yet after several slow minutes passed by with her feet planted along the steps left with no sign of a possible truce, she found herself unexpectedly carried down the street.

As she walked, the young girl reached up and slid her glasses up the bridge of her nose, quickly wiping away the dry residue of salty tears. No more crying, she told herself. Somewhere in the distance, she heard the familiar sound of breaking glass and, soon after, obnoxious laughter. With a gulp of air and furrowed eyebrows, she was surprised by her own actions as she made her way over to the location of the noise. The sound of her heartbeat was still audible over the melody flowing through the air.

Her steps were followed by a quick examination of herself; a comfy sweater could make it through party doors, right? Her fingers trembled as she made her way to the mansion planted right in the middle of the cul de sac. She knew who the house belonged to, and how they were well-known for throwing the craziest parties around town. The yard was littered with shiny, plastic cups and broken glass bottles, causing her to cringe inwardly.

Analysis of My Writing

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Writing at the Beginning of the Semester

 

Personally, the last time I had been in a writing class was freshman year. Of course I had taken English, yet creative writing and academic writing are two extremely different things, with almost no correlation. I hadn’t written in a very long time. Reading my very first piece, “Obituaries”, you can almost hear the nervousness in my tone. I was rusty from lack of consistent practice. My vocabulary was elementary and I lacked the ability to provide concrete detail.

The quote “…sadly suffered from a fatal heart attack after seeing her favorite band live in concert” displays just how simple my sentences were. It lacked style and a voice because, frankly, I had forgotten what voice I had. Moving on from the first assignment, our next challenge was to write an open letter to some version of our past selves. I chose a touchy subject, hoping to evoke emotion and detail from the depths of my writing, yet on the first attempt I was left with nothing but dissatisfaction.

I knew I could do better. Writing had always been my thing. It was the one thing I could proudly say I was good at while I simultaneously enjoyed it. I went home after being giving the open letter assignment and revised, revised, revised. I found myself eating dinner while reading my piece and still revising little things. By the time I was finished, almost a week later, I was proud that I had finally found my writing style once again. That is still my favorite piece I’ve written within this class.

 

Improvements

 

My main improvements have been located within the realm of poetry. Before this class, I truly had no idea how to write poetry. Sonnets, sestinas, and villanelles have certainly helped. These forms of poetry have most definitely been a challenge, yet I enjoyed pushing my abilities to the limit. I was overly content with the outcome. I found a keen liking for writing poetry, whereas before I only enjoyed viewing it from the sidelines, admiring poets from afar. My favorite poem that I have written was “The Patient”, a sestina based off of Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar. “Anger is an IV stuck in my arm; my emotions are no different from yours..” Trying to portray Plath’s insanity was a challenge, seeing as she was thoroughly crazy.

Along with this, my detailing abilities have remarkably improved. You can easily see this by comparing some of my first pieces to the ones I conjure up now. I almost have too much detail. I love writing vignettes now, because they are always packed full of detail.

 

Favorite Lines

 

She knew my facial expressions better than anyone, and as her comforting hand reached for mine, raindrops began to fall on the windshield.

 

Feet resting on the dash, the glowing moon shone down on my pink tinged face and cherry red, sunburned lips.

 

A metal smile and a simple nod intertwined and rolled her way before I allowed the bright blue to take me under, my lungs filled with nervous air.

 

I had torn various pages of prose and pretty words out of books, tacked them onto my walls, scattered them about and wrote them on my hands which begged to see sunlight. An earthquake erupted in her voice as she told me this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily, but don’t be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it. I knew the quote well, fought the urge to find it among my bookshelves, and let the flick of her hand pull me up and push me into the blistering sun.

 

Moonlight crept through my windowsill and tugged at my eyelashes, beckoning me to come and see all he had to offer, the stars scattered around the clear sky like Dippin’ Dots.

 

Her hands ached and she silently cursed herself for writing long into the crisp autumnal twilight, her thoughts flowing like wine onto the pages, leaking without a sign of letting up.

 

These quotes all have one thing in common: detail. I love the way they ooze of imagery, the description providing a perfect picture within the reader’s mind. That is what I’m always striving for, and these are a few moments where I feel as though I’ve reached my goal.

 

A Perspective on Spring Break

Posted on by soporifica

Driving at night came to be one of my distinct pleasures in life, especially when the highway was involved. My eyes stayed trained on the road ahead of me, headlights nowhere to be seen but too far ahead and too far behind. Our limbs tired and our eyes heavy, Allison and I remained enveloped in an unspoken agreement of little to no conversation. We allowed the melody flowing out of the radio speakers to communicate for us. Like usual, I had everything on my mind all at once, woeful attempts at pushing him out of my brain.

 

Touring the university today, just a short drive away from the sand and sea salt which I loved so much, I knew it was meant to be my home. The “Lumina Theatre” within the commons area sort of tipped me off. Coincidence doesn’t exist within the realm of my beliefs. To break it down, long distance was not what he signed up for. Albeit nagging thoughts of missing him ate at my brain as I drove away that night, I knew that I had to think about myself and my needs. For once.

 

My fingertips trailed along the surface of the steering wheel, Allison’s worried voice infiltrating my thoughts, asking if I was too fatigued to drive. With a simple shake of my head, I alleviated her concerns, yet I still caught her out of the corner of my eye, watching the road closely to be sure I stayed on track. I found it extremely humorous that, over and over, she would shine her flashlight in the backseat and floorboards to double check that there were no ghosts or creatures of any sort.

 

Suddenly, like an eighteen wheeler, the thought hit me that this would be one of our last trips together. Allison would not be there once I  finally got my bottom braces off. My best friend throughout the entirety of high school and I were going separate ways once autumn rolled around. Although we would have chances to video call and text, our little adventures much like this one would be no more. She knew my facial expressions better than anyone, and as her comforting hand reached for mine, raindrops began to fall on the windshield.

Spring Breaking

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After clumsily changing into breathable clothing in the backseat, I sat upon my passenger seat throne while my eyes ardently sifted through the array of stars littering the midnight sky, my thighs stinging from remnants of the evening sun. Feet resting on the dash, the glowing moon shone down on my pink tinged face and cherry red, sunburned lips. I found myself feigning for the night wind to creep through the car window and soothe my sticky skin. Neither of us had showered that day, Lumina and I, and driving away from the beach that night I felt as though we carried the ocean with us. Earlier that day I had swooned over the taste of sea salt present on my lips while Lumina scowled, waves crashing on both of our scrunched-up faces.

 

A frayed aux cord paired with small bands which we shared like secrets intertwined, my eyes closing momentarily as Lumina’s silky voice flowed, mingling with the chorus and creating my own free, personal symphony. Her voice grew shaky and weak with drawn out notes, a result of our previous performances, hair in our faces with a water bottle microphone, lyrics screamed so loud that anyone on the highway could listen in.

 

Time after time, strangers marveled at the two of us, stark opposites and an unusual pair of best friends. Her chestnut, Laotian skin next to my fair complexion, her dark silky hair, my frizzy blonde strands. Looking at the sunset that day, her voice rang in my ears as she spoke. “I wish I could paint this right now.” She smiled as I rebuked, “I could write a thousand poems about the sky right now.” We never agreed on anything. With the topic at hand, we had no explanation or reasoning to give. Simply put, we fit together perfectly. I felt on top of the world with Lumina, invincible, and this was when I could be the truest form of myself. Tonight I felt free, miles away from home, miles away from strict parents, miles away from my worries.
On this particular night, her feelings were mixed due to a recent breakup. My strained voice offered what advice I could, seeing as I know nowhere near as much as her regarding the issue at hand. This resulted in the slow music that now played on her old radio; cheesy, heartbroken lyrics that somehow said all of the things she needed to hear. Affection snaked its way into our lives at the rarest of moments, once in a blue moon, and our fingers intertwined and shone bright blue underneath the night sky.

Flashbulb Memories

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The aroma of sweat and hairspray filled the locker room that Friday, multiple girls fighting for their turn at the single, large mirror within the vicinity. My nose turned up with newfound sass, my eyes taking one scornful survey of the glittery and prim faces around the room, my languid smile saying been there, done that. I kept close to my tribe of “returners”, our freshly plucked eyebrows and rosy cheeks lined in a perfect parallel. We mocked the younger girls with shaky knees and wide, curious eyes as we waited in a swirly line outside of the gym for our turn to present ourselves to the row of high-strung and perilous judges. Tiptoe stances stayed by the door, craving a peek at the current performers while multiple, determined girls practiced toe-touches and cartwheels.

 

My number was twenty one. This was somewhat of a good thing; I did not perform first, yet early, so the unstable nerves would not last long. Horror stories were passed down the line like weapons; returners who didn’t make it, broken ankles, sprained wrists and, God forbid, a fallen hair pin. I was thankful that Sienna was number nineteen, her thick eyeliner a familiarity and slight comfort.

 

A pair of eyeglasses and a clipboard called my group to perform; everything went blank. A blanket of stage fright wrapped itself around my mind, yet my body somehow remembered the entire routine and various counts. Next thing I knew, my ridiculous spirit fingers were raised toward the sky as a parting sign, my feet carrying me toward the enormous double-doors and into the sunlight.

 

Every other weekend, I visited my mother, and this just so happened to be one of those weekends. An agreement formed between Sienna and I of taking a dip in her pool to kick off summer break. We linked arms and strode off together.

 

“Do you think I’ll make it?” Sienna’s voice became a small thing in moments of hope and self-examination. A wave of chlorine polluted water swept over my sunburned face as I searched inside myself for a response.

 

A metal smile and a simple nod intertwined and rolled her way before I allowed the bright blue to take me under, my lungs filled with nervous air.

 

Bullet Journal

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One, two, three, four…  A small walk down to the streetcar stop kicked off Laura’s daily routine; her mind acted as its own entity and counted each one of her steps, avoiding the cracks in the pavement altogether. Specific holes in which dying weeds protruded evoked a frown from the peculiar girl, one nuisance of many that she would come across as the day proceeded. If she could somehow sweep and scrub the sidewalks of her town and keep them squeaky clean, she would.

 

The trolley nearly made her head spin, Stranger after stranger gripped the rusting poles and sat upon the wooden seats as if they could not feel the germs crawl over their bodies. Each morning, she equipped herself with a pack of sanitary wipes and hand sanitizer, using it religiously throughout the day. Albeit these did not mean as much to her as her bullet journal, she kept them close by her side with an unbreakable ardor.

 

The streetcar’s rickety path did not hinder Laura from further organizing her journal. She kept a itinerary that was set in stone; she’d guard that schedule with her life. A normal first impression of the uptight girl came with a sense of intimidation. Just watching her as she smoothly wiped down her seat before sitting and began to scribble neatly onto the pages of her journal left the other civilians with a nagging feeling that their life was an absolute mess, or at least, compared to hers it was.

 

Within the walls of each classroom, Laura’s professors looked upon her with great pleasure. They felt as if they had accomplished many things with her in particular, even though she had been this high-strung prior to middle school. The other students, however, developed the opposite perception of the young girl. Jealousy was the best word for it. As Laura recorded her sleeping schedule each day before the lecture began, squinted eyes and jutted out chins watched her, knowing smirks and snickers exchanged throughout the room.

 

Laura was not completely isolated and antisocial, but her close friends knew to keep their distance and abide by the tenets of her busy schedule. At a request for her to attend any type of social gathering, her fingers would flip through her journal and slide down to the specific date, followed by a solemn head shake, pointing to her plans which were mapped out months ahead. Study, exercise, study, sleep. Her guard was never let down.

 

Character Development

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Standing at a whopping 6’1”, the people around her could not help but outcast Fran right off the bat. Her fine, silky hair and ivory skin combined to evoke envy within her fellow female classmates; this resulted in a backlash like no other. In response to this, she resorted to books as a coping mechanism at a young age. As the years passed by, she quickly became thoroughly acquainted with nearly every book available at her local library; this warm place became her home. Dark circles made their home underneath her eyes due to late nights paired with an adventure or two locked within the pages of her current read.

Karma stood on Fran’s side as she grew older. Her senior year, she graduated as valedictorian and received an abundance of acceptance letters from universities that her mother described as “best school”, her finger jabbing into the paper, a slight smile on her face.

 

Ken Krueger’s appearance is that of an average, middle-aged, suburban father; this is what he appeared to be at first glance from all of his neighbors and fellow church-goers. His ability to relay an extreme array of puns at almost any time conveyed adoration from nearly everyone that acquainted themselves with him.

However, things are not always as they seem. Ken’s addiction developed at a very early age. Pringles were always available within his household. As he grew older, the addiction grew more severe. A basic supply of Pringles was no longer enough to sustain his hunger. Ken needed more. It began as simple theft; grocery stores, gas stations, etc.

Then, one evening, Ken spotted two cans of Pringles resting in the hands of his beloved neighbor. Peeking over the edge of the fence separating them, he waited for the perfect moment to seize his delicious drug. Gaining more stamina than that of a normal middle-aged man, Ken hopped over the hedge in one swift motion and pounced onto the back of his unsuspecting neighbor. With little to no struggle, he pushed the weakling indoors and proceeded to lock the door behind them, his clammy claws clinging to the Pringles can.

He could not help himself. His fingers ripped the top off of the can and he began devouring the scrumptious snack while simultaneously beating the family with the other metal can. This routine continued for years to come, the small town unsuspecting that he could be the infamous “Petrifying Pringle Phantom”.

 

The young girl grew up being known as “Cynical Sarah”. Very early on, she knew that she’d rather be alone than with anyone else. It’s not that she was an extreme introvert, or that she was extremely timid to the point of awkwardness; she simply did not enjoy being around people. Her cat is the only one she kept by her side throughout the years. The animal developed a sense of cynicism exactly like her; which is why they got along so well.

As she proceeded into adulthood, she grew more and more lonely, which then developed into a fiery pit of hatred deep within her for nearly all of her college peers. She did not stay in a dorm, instead making the conscious decision to buy an apartment right away and live alone, the only exception for a roommate being her cat.