inthecloset
Porn Star
Hey everyone! So in my time away from writing my story during the semester, I've been writing more poetry. I feel like I need to share them with more people so here are a few of my best ones. These are all assignments for my Poetry Writing class and all the subjects were writing prompts.
This one was two objects or beings that cross paths at some point in time.
Journey
Two people, who live far away,
meet one day on a bus ride home.
He sits next to her with his headphones on,
and spends the drive staring out his window.
Her eyes never leave the dark ink of her book,
turning each page with care and grace.
She is completely unaware of him,
as their lives cross for those four hours on a bus.
A bump in the road
causes his bottle of water to fall.
It hits the ground and splashed her toes,
exposed in the holes of her sandals.
He apologizes endlessly, reaching for his bag
and pulls out a towel to carefully dry her feet.
Their eyes meet when he looks up at her
to apologize one more time.
He smiles, she returns it,
but words never passed through her lips.
She just sits there reading, wishing
that she could gather courage to speak.
The courage never comes, but her stop does.
She puts her book in her bag and waves goodbye to him.
He waves back to her and she would never know,
that he is wishing he could speak as well.
When he gets home, he drops his bags on the floor.
He sits in a chair looking at the towel through the open bag,
And she sits on her couch staring at her feet,
the toes exposed through the holes of her sandals
A smile stretches across both their faces,
and they look out their windows
They both stare at the colors in the sky
as the sun falls beneath the horizon.
-----------------------------------------
This prompt was a subject of Place. We were supposed to write about a place that was important to our lives or a place that holds a lot of memories to us.
Going Back
Every now and then, late at night
He returns to a place he forgot about.
A place with desks and swings and slides,
But the desks weren't what they were there for.
Sometimes he would go alone,
sometimes he went with his closest friend,
He never knew why he really went there,
but he never went with the intention of moving forward.
The sky is dark and the rooms are empty,
as are the playgrounds in each area.
The two boys stop in the closest playground
and remembering the time they stood in that spot before.
They held their heads high, for they were short;
unaware of what life would be like in just a few short years.
The friend goes directly to the monkey bars,
wanting to see if he can still do his tricks.
And the young man sits on the spiral slide,
contemplating what he should do next.
They ask each other questions
as the woodchips crackle under their feet.
Questions neither of them can answer.
So they stare out at the long field of grass.
They remember when they used to play soccer,
back before they had those questions to ask.
Questioning who they were, and where they were going,
Unsure of the paths they had each chosen.
These questions would always make them wish the same thing:
to return to this playground, as the children they once were.
They move on to the playground for first graders,
the only place where there are swings.
And they swing as high as they can,
to forget only for a moment who they are.
And then they both remember who they were,
as if their past selves were still on this playground.
The younger versions tell them it's okay to have these questions,
and it's okay to forget and grow up.
As long as they occasionally come back and remember.
Because the world is not as empty as this school.
They are reminded that they are never alone,
and isolation is a state of mind that can be changed.
So they fill this playground with memories,
making sure they find a way to remember.
-----------------------------------------
This prompt was about the craft of our poems; more specifically meter and rhyme. I chose the subject of my experience growing up as a gay teenager and how it differed from other people.
Talking To The Dead
I never once met him
I never knew his name
I wish I knew how he felt
But our lives were not the same.
I never talked to anyone,
determined to be unknown.
Everything that I said and did
made sure my heart was never shown.
No one knew my secrets,
I hid behind my lies.
I made sure my head was always down
so no one would see my eyes.
Eyes full of dishonesty,
and quivering in pain.
It slowly ate me up inside
and almost drove me insane
But looking back I can tell
that those lies were for the best.
Cause no mater what I went through,
it wasn't as bad as all the rest.
They were targeted by hate,
and betrayed by those they trust.
They were kicked out of their homes
because of their unnatural lust.
At least it kept me safe
and now I can see why.
Every breath I take today
is worth every single lie
I never once met him
But if I did I would have said
“It's on you to make things better,
and you're worth nothing when you're dead.”
-----------------------------------------
This was our very first prompt in the class, which was writing what you know. We were supposed to write about something we love and something we hate, and combine them together in the poem. I chose my intense hatred for summer and how I long for the winter and the cold rainy weather.
Sleep
Every morning I'm drenched in sweat
The nightmares just won't go away
I long for the cold nights of winter
to sweep me away in a pleasant sleep.
The sunlight burns my tender eyes,
I pray for the thunder and the rain.
For the gloomy blankets of cloudy skies,
So that I may be able to dream again.
Vexation plagues my existence.
The heat outside seems magnified,
When I spend all night dreaming of the cold,
And my sanity unwinds.
My mind races with empty thoughts,
My heart echos within my head,
My blood boils under my skin,
And my hands shake as though on ice.
I long for the cold nights of winter
To alleviate my pain.
I'm only happy when the sun is missing
Hidden behind the cloudy winter skies.
Depression is widespread amongst the youth
When the long sunny days disappear.
But a smile stretches across my face
For my dreams are peaceful once again.
I am no longer haunted by the dreams,
Now that the heat is finally gone.
The cold wind washes over my face,
And finally, I can sleep.
-----------------------------------------
Now this prompt is my favorite. This one was on the Poetry Community and we were supposed to copy the subject or style of another poet we've encountered through the class. I chose a poem a local writer named Suzanne Lummis read at a reading we went to as a class. It was about her own death and how she thought it would happen.
Washing Away My Blood
Someone once told me that God was in the rain.
That's how I know it will be raining outside,
and my windshield wipers will be in bad shape;
worse shape than I will think they are.
They will smear the water across the glass,
instead of pushing it out of my view.
I won't see the other car until it's too late.
He will run a red light just as mine turns green.
He will tear into my driver's side door,
and shards from my shattered window will rush forward,
charging at my skin.
One large piece will puncture an artery
as it pushes its way into my neck.
Death will come quickly, because when I was younger
I begged it to take me in the lonely, quiet nights.
I won't feel much pain, it will be nothing
compared to the pain those I leave behind will feel.
But in my last moments, I will feel the rain on my face.
And for the first time in my life
I'll believe what I was told when I was a child.
I will feel God in the tiny raindrops that hit my face,
and I will be carried away by the light in the sky
as the light in my eyes slowly disappears.
This one was two objects or beings that cross paths at some point in time.
Journey
Two people, who live far away,
meet one day on a bus ride home.
He sits next to her with his headphones on,
and spends the drive staring out his window.
Her eyes never leave the dark ink of her book,
turning each page with care and grace.
She is completely unaware of him,
as their lives cross for those four hours on a bus.
A bump in the road
causes his bottle of water to fall.
It hits the ground and splashed her toes,
exposed in the holes of her sandals.
He apologizes endlessly, reaching for his bag
and pulls out a towel to carefully dry her feet.
Their eyes meet when he looks up at her
to apologize one more time.
He smiles, she returns it,
but words never passed through her lips.
She just sits there reading, wishing
that she could gather courage to speak.
The courage never comes, but her stop does.
She puts her book in her bag and waves goodbye to him.
He waves back to her and she would never know,
that he is wishing he could speak as well.
When he gets home, he drops his bags on the floor.
He sits in a chair looking at the towel through the open bag,
And she sits on her couch staring at her feet,
the toes exposed through the holes of her sandals
A smile stretches across both their faces,
and they look out their windows
They both stare at the colors in the sky
as the sun falls beneath the horizon.
-----------------------------------------
This prompt was a subject of Place. We were supposed to write about a place that was important to our lives or a place that holds a lot of memories to us.
Going Back
Every now and then, late at night
He returns to a place he forgot about.
A place with desks and swings and slides,
But the desks weren't what they were there for.
Sometimes he would go alone,
sometimes he went with his closest friend,
He never knew why he really went there,
but he never went with the intention of moving forward.
The sky is dark and the rooms are empty,
as are the playgrounds in each area.
The two boys stop in the closest playground
and remembering the time they stood in that spot before.
They held their heads high, for they were short;
unaware of what life would be like in just a few short years.
The friend goes directly to the monkey bars,
wanting to see if he can still do his tricks.
And the young man sits on the spiral slide,
contemplating what he should do next.
They ask each other questions
as the woodchips crackle under their feet.
Questions neither of them can answer.
So they stare out at the long field of grass.
They remember when they used to play soccer,
back before they had those questions to ask.
Questioning who they were, and where they were going,
Unsure of the paths they had each chosen.
These questions would always make them wish the same thing:
to return to this playground, as the children they once were.
They move on to the playground for first graders,
the only place where there are swings.
And they swing as high as they can,
to forget only for a moment who they are.
And then they both remember who they were,
as if their past selves were still on this playground.
The younger versions tell them it's okay to have these questions,
and it's okay to forget and grow up.
As long as they occasionally come back and remember.
Because the world is not as empty as this school.
They are reminded that they are never alone,
and isolation is a state of mind that can be changed.
So they fill this playground with memories,
making sure they find a way to remember.
-----------------------------------------
This prompt was about the craft of our poems; more specifically meter and rhyme. I chose the subject of my experience growing up as a gay teenager and how it differed from other people.
Talking To The Dead
I never once met him
I never knew his name
I wish I knew how he felt
But our lives were not the same.
I never talked to anyone,
determined to be unknown.
Everything that I said and did
made sure my heart was never shown.
No one knew my secrets,
I hid behind my lies.
I made sure my head was always down
so no one would see my eyes.
Eyes full of dishonesty,
and quivering in pain.
It slowly ate me up inside
and almost drove me insane
But looking back I can tell
that those lies were for the best.
Cause no mater what I went through,
it wasn't as bad as all the rest.
They were targeted by hate,
and betrayed by those they trust.
They were kicked out of their homes
because of their unnatural lust.
At least it kept me safe
and now I can see why.
Every breath I take today
is worth every single lie
I never once met him
But if I did I would have said
“It's on you to make things better,
and you're worth nothing when you're dead.”
-----------------------------------------
This was our very first prompt in the class, which was writing what you know. We were supposed to write about something we love and something we hate, and combine them together in the poem. I chose my intense hatred for summer and how I long for the winter and the cold rainy weather.
Sleep
Every morning I'm drenched in sweat
The nightmares just won't go away
I long for the cold nights of winter
to sweep me away in a pleasant sleep.
The sunlight burns my tender eyes,
I pray for the thunder and the rain.
For the gloomy blankets of cloudy skies,
So that I may be able to dream again.
Vexation plagues my existence.
The heat outside seems magnified,
When I spend all night dreaming of the cold,
And my sanity unwinds.
My mind races with empty thoughts,
My heart echos within my head,
My blood boils under my skin,
And my hands shake as though on ice.
I long for the cold nights of winter
To alleviate my pain.
I'm only happy when the sun is missing
Hidden behind the cloudy winter skies.
Depression is widespread amongst the youth
When the long sunny days disappear.
But a smile stretches across my face
For my dreams are peaceful once again.
I am no longer haunted by the dreams,
Now that the heat is finally gone.
The cold wind washes over my face,
And finally, I can sleep.
-----------------------------------------
Now this prompt is my favorite. This one was on the Poetry Community and we were supposed to copy the subject or style of another poet we've encountered through the class. I chose a poem a local writer named Suzanne Lummis read at a reading we went to as a class. It was about her own death and how she thought it would happen.
Washing Away My Blood
Someone once told me that God was in the rain.
That's how I know it will be raining outside,
and my windshield wipers will be in bad shape;
worse shape than I will think they are.
They will smear the water across the glass,
instead of pushing it out of my view.
I won't see the other car until it's too late.
He will run a red light just as mine turns green.
He will tear into my driver's side door,
and shards from my shattered window will rush forward,
charging at my skin.
One large piece will puncture an artery
as it pushes its way into my neck.
Death will come quickly, because when I was younger
I begged it to take me in the lonely, quiet nights.
I won't feel much pain, it will be nothing
compared to the pain those I leave behind will feel.
But in my last moments, I will feel the rain on my face.
And for the first time in my life
I'll believe what I was told when I was a child.
I will feel God in the tiny raindrops that hit my face,
and I will be carried away by the light in the sky
as the light in my eyes slowly disappears.
