The End
A large tidal wave; it is moving towards you. Your last moments, captured in slow motion.
You cannot breathe.
You cannot think.
You cannot be
A quick turn.
You run. Escape.
You are safe.
Life returns to normal.
You sleep.
You wake up.
You go outside.
Turn the corner.
The tidal wave is there.
Another turn.
Too late.
You turn back, taking one last look.
It swallows you.
Journal
A small, red covered, worn journal, with blue, green, and pink paper.
It is in the corner of the room.
I walk over, pick it up.
Open it.
Read.
So many memories, all simply
Unwritten
Unremembered
All flooding back, together.
Remembered.
Missed.
And then,
Written.
Some of the people will understand that one from the start, but for those of you that don't, I'll explain it. Last year we used journals in English, but they were really just folders with some paper in them. Still, we called them journals. I only just found mine a bit back, and I read through it all. I had so much stuff in there that I never published, back then, or even now. It brought back memories, one could say. And so I finally thought of something to write about!
This next poem isn't mine. It's Robert Frost's. I really liked it, so I thought I'd just throw it on here.
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
So please, comment if you read, spread the word if at all possible, and lastly, thanks for reading.
It is far better to grasp the universe as it really is than to persist in delusion, however satisfying and reassuring. -Carl Sagan
Times change, worlds change, but people, people never change.
What had started as an arduous project is now one of my passions. I love to write; this is where I try to paint pictures--with words. I'm a sophomore in high school, if you're wondering.
Need to contact me for some reason? My email is dsrandhawa3244@gmail.com.
5 comments:
You have some nice things going here. The flow of the poems will be greatly helped with a larger selection of word choice and using fewer conjunctions, like "and."
Aw Dilpreet. I love the Journals one. Your poems always remind me of the past, which is why i love reading them so much. And I also like The End, something about it makes me want to read it over and over again. Please, keep posting!
--Abby Rae
Jacob, thanks. Most of my stuff I post on here isn't ever edited, which is just a dumb habit of my own :D but thanks for the input. I'll probably start writing things and actually looking them over seriously before adding them on here. I know in The End I used the word turn 4 times or something, but that was intentional.
Abby, thanks :) the past is always fun to write about, y'know? And you better start posting stuff too! I enjoy reading your writing, and I'm sure others do too!
I like The End the most, probably because it reminds me of sometimes in my life that feel like a tidal wave. I also like how you use the word turn so many times, it adds to the affect it has on the reader (if that makes sense). The journal poem actually put an image of an old dusty journal in my head. You must have had a lot of fun in your language arts class last year.
I am especially fond of the Journal piece. You know, sometimes, when I'm alone in the classroom and look around, I can almost hear the voices of the different people who've all shared the room, and shared some thoughts with me, and I grew to know just a bit, and it's a melancholy moment; I'n not really saddened by it, by the moving on, by the change. After all, it's necessary, and good. Still ... still there is a place inside me that is sad when I think of all the people who flowed through my class, and I'll never see again. It may sound melodramatic, but it's just how it is. The journal image in your poem evoked those same feelings I have when I look to a painting students have done, or when I read a novel, I can still hear the comments people have made over the years. Thanks for bringing that to light, and reminding me that I'm not alone.
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