I ARE POET! RAWR!

So the other day in my creative writing class, my teacher was handing back some of our work and I got a couple of poems back that I had written. Now before I go any further, I need to preface this by saying that I've never thought of myself as a particularly good poet, nor do I usually like the poetry that I write. So I wasn't really expecting anything good when I looked at her comments.

Paint me surprised.

She actually really liked what I had written. She even suggested that I submit one of the poems somewhere, which took me completely by surprise. When I saw everything she had written, I kinda wanted to jump up and down and giggle like a giddy little boy.

Since my teacher liked them, I figured they might actually be fit for reading by other people and decided to put a few of them up here on my blog. Hopefully you'll enjoy them. Therefore, without further ado...

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I________________________Painted On
was____________After reading Tar, by C.K. Williams

I like to look around at the world we have built;
forced_ smooth and beautiful,
but this world isn’t; there are only skins, masking over what
to_____ we don’t want to see:
paint and wallpaper covering dust sheetrock and splintered studs with rusty nails
put____ driven through them,
steel and glass and carbon fiber encasing dirty black oil and grease caked tubes
white__ and smog spewing fire,
plastics and polymers to wrap and organize and disguise the truth
text___ of what we buy and eat and play with.

Yet how very appropriate this we world have built is for us, creatures so similar to their
here___ toys and cars and houses.
Blood and mucus and sinew and slime and gristle, all
to_____ sheathed in smooth skin.
Fiery hate and searing pain and aching grief, secreted away
make___ behind a winning smile.
But even as I see these things, I do not hate them, for this is what we are; our nature
the____ cannot be escaped.
And perhaps life is such that what beauty and order exist is worthy, even if it does not
blank__ run to the core.

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spaces_________________Delicate Fingers

From time to time, as I stretch out and rest my head on the unyielding ground,
floating aimlessly within the dim silence,
good_________________I miss the delicate fingers that played with my hair.

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job______________Onto Your Own Shoulders

Pain is a rainbow, made up of the reds of loss and blacks of despair
But the strongest color by far
is that suffering which you are helpless to soothe;
the cerulean of tears that no number of tight hugs or kind words can stem.
Only time, that infernal, unstoppable master of humanity
can cleanse such a colorful stain,
if he so chooses.
And you are forced to sit on the sidelines,
wishing their misery onto your own shoulders.

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