The angst of being a teenager

Who are we?
The dull concrete walls judge us
We don't belong, we are not special
Let's be someone else
Someone is better than no one

Let's try to be like them !
The different ones
The ones with pretty hair and clothes
The ones that have a name
The ones everyone knows
That's what we want, to be a part
A part of an identity

But we are not like them
Who else is there ?
We can not be ourselves
We must find it
The identity that is me, I must belong

Alternant Ending

I heard the door open with a omnious creak and softly close ,shuffled  footsteps approached my resting spot at the other end of the dark room. I looked up from the bundle on my lap that has been my focus for the past few minutes, she stood before me surrounded in sorrow, her dark dress and her fair hair in a spinster bun were the ever present signs of her constant sorrow. She had been mourning for a year, since the news of Kurtz's death, yet no one uttered a single fact of what had happened. Only I knew of the truth, my conscience locked in a grueling battle with my heart and soul to tell this poor woman the truth and free her from this consuming dread and misery of losing her intended. I looked into her eyes, the obvious presence of old tears still welled in the only ray of color left in the room .Yet somewhere deep in the despair of her eyes I saw a glimmer, a glimmer of almost naive and girlish hope that I could be the herald of enlightening news that may free her from impending despair. Suddenly rage filled my heart, the man back in that jungle had misled us both! She truly loved Kurtz and yet he lead her astray, this beautiful woman had been lied to and hurt for far too long, she deserved the truth and that is why I was here. “Ma'am you might want to sit down" I said leading her to the ornate couch as I stood before her looking into eyes, the soft blue pools that ignited my anger in Kurtz. “Madam you have been lied to, the man you knew before, Kurtz, is not a great man nor honorable. The jungle changed him, it drove him power mad and dangerous. He went off into the jungle, never to be seen till I found him dying in a village by the river. He had enslaved the people and used them for his own greed he built himself up as a god and when we tried to save him and bring him back he refuse saying he did not want to leave . The jungle had consumed him body and soul the man you loved was lost long ago, long before he died. He died the moment he entered the jungle and lost himself to a demon of greed and power" I looked at her after I had finished destroying everything she had thought to be true, I was afraid I had shocked her into a comatose state, until she softly began to speak. " ...... Last words, what were his last words ". I couldn't believe this after all the deception and disconcern for her that Kurtz had she still wanted to know his last words? I stared at the small fragile woman sitting here in this dark forsaken room and knew the only way to break her from this despair is to tell her, " the moments before he died he spoke one word twice, he said " the horror the horror" not your name nor anything about you, his only concern was for the fact he was leaving the jungle where he wished to stay. There was no concern for you, no intentions of coming back; you have been living in this gloomy fog for too long." Her eyes were overrunning with tears I knew I had destroyed a life. I placed the packet on the table and walked to the door, I looked back one last time and she was sobbing into the packet, she would never understand and she would stay naive forever. I left that dark house into the gloom of the cities wet and busy streets, never to return to that house again, my memories of Kurtz lost in the gloom of that drawing room, forever to be mourned over by her.

Imagination grows by exercise, and contrary to common belief, is more powerful in the mature than in the young.

A writers second greatest weapon, next to his pen is his imagination. Without it, words are only 2 dimensional scribbles, but with it he can create almost a silent movie in the minds of readers as they read his work. In the poem "Mr. Fear" by Lawrence Raab, it is striking how Raab injects his own imagination into the word by creating a human figure to be the essence of a feeling. The whole poem including the title, is about creating the story of this "person". Through out the context of the poem "Mr. Fear", the essence of "Mr. Fear" walks through the stanzas as the reader imagines this dark cloaked looming figure. It takes imagination to create a character that is Fear, from both the reader and the author, it is a powerful source of thought that can transform a piece of writing. The story of how Fear interacts and is seen by his victims is an iteresting one, the way the victim is almost pleading with the cloaked feeling is something that provoked my imagination, by creating the scene in my head.

Yummmm Blackberries :)

In all works of art, movies, music, poetry and, prose there is a climax. The climax of a literary work of art is the point in a poem or monologue or reading that is the most powerful stanza or paragraph . It is the part where we as readers pay the most attention, its the part that speaks to us because of its power and how the writing flows to accent this climax. In the lovely poem "Blackberries for Amelia" it tells the story of a grandfather, who knows of a blackberry thicket and he tells of the changes in time that affect these berries and it all leads up to the time of year where the berries are finally perfects
"And there will come the moment be quick
And save some from the birds, and I shall need
Two pails, old clothes in which to slain and bleed,
And a grandchild to talk with while we pick."
The grandchild is Amelia who will go with her grandfather to pick blackberries because that is an important time for him and her to be together, it is special to them.  The climax is always the most important part, like spending special time with a special  person picking blackberries.

Investigative poetry reading

Everyone has a reason for picking the poem they choose to read, it could be because it stirs a memory, or it simply looks interesting, but we never truly chose a poem or work of writing that just doesn't appeal to us. I probably read through this list of poems 6 times till I started actually paying attention to the titles, then I was like Hey! 1943 that's world war 2 ! that's my favorite topic in history, OK I will choose that one. I started reading and noticed things I wasn't familiar with so I looked into the back ground of this poem and did some research on some of the named people and places. Choosing to do the antecedent scenario and really diving into the history of the people and places of WW2 was so much fun for me just because I really love this war. I thought it was cool that Ed Monahan was a real person and that he was a skilled fighter and he was a very decorated war hero, or that Tarawa was a true place and what the third wave meant. The antecedent scenario gave me a backstage tour of the poem, helping me understand the feelings and emotions the author is trying to expose us to as we read "1943".