Poems (Personal Blog Post #3)

 I'm running out of things to blog about, so I'll talk about writing. I've been attempting to write since 5th grade and it never clicked until I took a creative writing class a couple of months ago. It wasn't something the teacher said or taught, it was almost as if something in my head just shifted into place. I started writing poetry, which is something I've really come to love, because it's little pieces of me being spurt out in to stanzas, forming this little slice of artwork.  I don't really believe in explaining my own poetry because I feel like it ruins the readers experience. Poetry isn't something that always makes sense, as long as you have an experience with the poem, no matter if it's good or bad, the poem had done its job. So I'll put a few of my poems on here for you to read. 

This is my first poem:

             Splendor

The dulled red of the smoke stack,

contrasting the glimmering mass of the ocean.

High and low,

nothing is quite even.

Black tiled floors are a sparkling gateway to bliss.

The wonder of the details surpasses the 

whole.

The long hallways extend forever,

voyeurism never ends.

Animated posters depict unlikely scenarios.

Repetition, repetition 

The renters age is apparent:

lipsticked mirrors, American flag bandana.

Little speakers protrude, provoking sounds,

cushioned by luxurious pillows.

Scattered personalities fill the room.

Each person is their own decoration,

opinions expire, chatter clangs.

He sits quietly in red and black:

special shoes.

The hat is missing, no representation of home.

Expression is intrigued by a familiar position.

A release of comfort flows from his teeth.

Wink.

Air shifts, intimacy is inhaled through the door and into his nose.

Glare, then slowly makes his

exit.

                        Southern Distress 

Blue eyes roll back into her head, a violent, uncanny scene. 

It was worse back then:

stolen kittens and freshly killed meat.

She raises a finger, 

There, that's where he hung the drunk man by his feet, with the dirty rope. 

And the smell of okra and intolerance rose from the ground.

Which reminds me of that black, mid-night snake I found in the barn.

It crawled, with hands, into my dream.

He came to my window last night and he's all there was.

Cold and white, the moon leaked a fresh stream of air.

With the things i can not have you force - 

a cut,

beneath my skin.

And i'll see you and me in the distance.

Daydream

Bronze statues and grey horizons,

weeping cities of no existence.

Yellowed pages bound in leather lay on antique rugs.

The tree will catch your dreams.

Stars in the night sky are over filled, magic 

bubbles.

The spider's web is shattered:

a broken hand mirror reflecting rainbow light.

The moon follows the tide,

plumet.

Darkness is void of your of mistake.

Remember, blood stains.

And they'd never guess I'm talking about you.