storm297 - Hello Poetry

I don’t know what I’m reading. I stare and stare and stare at the book given to me by my professor but can’t bring myself to open it, because I don’t know what I’m reading. It’s not in a foreign language that I’m having a hard time translating, because ironically, that would be far too easy. It’s in my native language, the words registering to my brain like breathing, but I still don’t know what I’m reading. What are these authors saying, as they twist and weave their words into a world that everyone around me seems to understand? I can see the surface level of what the author is trying to say, and if I try hard enough I know I can scratch at it to see the layer right underneath, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough. “Don’t give excuses,” my professor says, and I know it comes across as an excuse as I try to explain that I can’t tell anyone what the underlying meaning of this scene means, or the symbolism it’s supposed to represent, since it goes flying over my head like a bird narrowly avoiding collision. “You need to participate,” my professor says, and I know I need to try but how can I when everything that takes ages for me to think of is said within the first five minutes of class discussion? What takes me an hour takes my classmates a minute; what takes time for me to raise my hand for takes my classmates to the next topic, my contribution long past relevant. How do I survive college this way? How do I get by when writing is what I’m good at, but I can’t understand the writing of other authors and poets who put just as much work into their stories as I do? I am a fraud; the looks of confusion and shame I receive when I state my major to the world are well-deserved. “Could you share with the class?” my professor asks before we are dismissed, the eyes of my classmates tearing into my soul as I try to bring the words to my lips that I know will never come. What could I say to everyone that expects an intelligent conversation from a college senior? “I’m sorry professor,” I say. “I can’t.” And I sag under the weight of disappointment. It’s not my fault, after all. I don’t know what I’m reading.

0

Dec 10, 2018

Dec 10, 2018 at 2:50 PM UTC

i don't know what i'm reading

I don’t know what I’m reading. I stare and stare and stare at the book given to me by my professor but can’t bring myself to open it, because I don’t know what I’m reading. It’s not in a foreign language that I’m having a hard time translating, because ironically, that would be far too easy. It’s in my native language, the words registering to my brain like breathing, but I still don’t know what I’m reading. What are these authors saying, as they twist and weave their words into a world that everyone around me seems to understand? I can see the surface level of what the author is trying to say, and if I try hard enough I know I can scratch at it to see the layer right underneath, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough. “Don’t give excuses,” my professor says, and I know it comes across as an excuse as I try to explain that I can’t tell anyone what the underlying meaning of this scene means, or the symbolism it’s supposed to represent, since it goes flying over my head like a bird narrowly avoiding collision. “You need to participate,” my professor says, and I know I need to try but how can I when everything that takes ages for me to think of is said within the first five minutes of class discussion? What takes me an hour takes my classmates a minute; what takes time for me to raise my hand for takes my classmates to the next topic, my contribution long past relevant. How do I survive college this way? How do I get by when writing is what I’m good at, but I can’t understand the writing of other authors and poets who put just as much work into their stories as I do? I am a fraud; the looks of confusion and shame I receive when I state my major to the world are well-deserved. “Could you share with the class?” my professor asks before we are dismissed, the eyes of my classmates tearing into my soul as I try to bring the words to my lips that I know will never come. What could I say to everyone that expects an intelligent conversation from a college senior? “I’m sorry professor,” I say. “I can’t.” And I sag under the weight of disappointment. It’s not my fault, after all. I don’t know what I’m reading.

9

lights flashing through the city and polluting the air, car horns honking and people colliding with your shoulder. billboards flashing advertisements for the crowds below: ‘get a coke! stop by olive garden! try this phone service!’ and surrounding those screens, posters for the theater. wicked, lion king, hamilton, and more go to west 46th street and fight the crowd, feel the excitement, hear the orchestra, touch the souvenirs, let even a native new yorker become a tourist for one day take your seat, admire the view, take some pictures, listen to the ushers, watch the crowd settle, straighten as the lights dim. everyone in places--it’s showtime.

0

Oct 26, 2016

Oct 26, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC

broadway

lights flashing through the city and polluting the air, car horns honking and people colliding with your shoulder. billboards flashing advertisements for the crowds below: ‘get a coke! stop by olive garden! try this phone service!’ and surrounding those screens, posters for the theater. wicked, lion king, hamilton, and more go to west 46th street and fight the crowd, feel the excitement, hear the orchestra, touch the souvenirs, let even a native new yorker become a tourist for one day take your seat, admire the view, take some pictures, listen to the ushers, watch the crowd settle, straighten as the lights dim. everyone in places--it’s showtime.

12

I miss you, but I can't have you. I miss your laugh, but I haven't heard that as of late. I miss your art, but now I only see videos of you doing them. I miss your friendship, but it ended too quickly. I miss you, but you're hurting. I miss our conversations, but those were taken away by him. I miss our comfort, but that was gone when you asked that question. I miss our trust, but I can't tell what was you and what was him. I miss you, but you can't either. I miss our closeness, but we both know it's gone over the years. I miss our secrets, but I no longer want to tell them. I miss our letters, but talking to you hurts too much. I miss you, but I need this. I miss my excitement, but I don't think you felt the same. I miss my friend, but one question tore it all away. I miss my happiness, but I don't know where that went. I miss you, but... I can't.

0

Mar 9, 2016

Mar 9, 2016 at 11:25 PM UTC

Untitled

I miss you, but I can't have you. I miss your laugh, but I haven't heard that as of late. I miss your art, but now I only see videos of you doing them. I miss your friendship, but it ended too quickly. I miss you, but you're hurting. I miss our conversations, but those were taken away by him. I miss our comfort, but that was gone when you asked that question. I miss our trust, but I can't tell what was you and what was him. I miss you, but you can't either. I miss our closeness, but we both know it's gone over the years. I miss our secrets, but I no longer want to tell them. I miss our letters, but talking to you hurts too much. I miss you, but I need this. I miss my excitement, but I don't think you felt the same. I miss my friend, but one question tore it all away. I miss my happiness, but I don't know where that went. I miss you, but... I can't.

18

It *****

0

Feb 17, 2015

Feb 17, 2015 at 12:57 PM UTC

I have a secret demon Hidden behind the smiles and laughter Lurking behind my eyes every day Only emerging at night And escaping through my tears I have to wonder, however Does the demon exist? Those with demons have said no, Because happiness drives them away Then again, others have said yes I am happy, but I am not I am sad, but it is not seen The demon will not become all of me And as I fight to smile every day The demon lingers on

0

Feb 17, 2015

Feb 17, 2015 at 12:56 PM UTC

Secret Demon

I have a secret demon Hidden behind the smiles and laughter Lurking behind my eyes every day Only emerging at night And escaping through my tears I have to wonder, however Does the demon exist? Those with demons have said no, Because happiness drives them away Then again, others have said yes I am happy, but I am not I am sad, but it is not seen The demon will not become all of me And as I fight to smile every day The demon lingers on

15

i give up the love is too much to bear and though i try to forget i know i never will i give up i watch you laugh and cry and live so full of life a life we'll never share i give up you'll always go to him because you love him and who am i to stop that? i give up i'll watch from the shadows watch your love for him, as i watch with my love for you i give up

0

Feb 9, 2015

Feb 9, 2015 at 12:43 PM UTC

i give up

i give up the love is too much to bear and though i try to forget i know i never will i give up i watch you laugh and cry and live so full of life a life we'll never share i give up you'll always go to him because you love him and who am i to stop that? i give up i'll watch from the shadows watch your love for him, as i watch with my love for you i give up

17

Love isn't like stories Love is holding her close Breathing her in Matching your breath with hers Love is wiping her tears away Memorizing her laugh Making her smile Love is sharing in jokes Private affairs No one else could understand Love is being understanding Watching her walk away Following her anyway Love is the joy in her eyes The crinkle in the corners The gleam in her pupil Love is the mess of her hair The art she creates The poems she writes Love is the hugs that she gives The cuddles she offers The warmth of her body against yours Love is watching her go Getting left behind But it's okay Love is letting her go Happy with him It's enough Love isn't like stories But I wouldn't have it any other way

0

Feb 5, 2015

Feb 5, 2015 at 11:29 PM UTC

Love Isn't Like Stories

Love isn't like stories Love is holding her close Breathing her in Matching your breath with hers Love is wiping her tears away Memorizing her laugh Making her smile Love is sharing in jokes Private affairs No one else could understand Love is being understanding Watching her walk away Following her anyway Love is the joy in her eyes The crinkle in the corners The gleam in her pupil Love is the mess of her hair The art she creates The poems she writes Love is the hugs that she gives The cuddles she offers The warmth of her body against yours Love is watching her go Getting left behind But it's okay Love is letting her go Happy with him It's enough Love isn't like stories But I wouldn't have it any other way

30

I will hold you if you'd like I will wipe away your tears and sorrows I will be there if you want I will be the ear that listens You can go to him if you want And I will wait on the sidelines If you never return my love I will not mind So long as you're happy I will be happy as well

0

Feb 5, 2015

Feb 5, 2015 at 1:37 PM UTC

For You

I will hold you if you'd like I will wipe away your tears and sorrows I will be there if you want I will be the ear that listens You can go to him if you want And I will wait on the sidelines If you never return my love I will not mind So long as you're happy I will be happy as well

10

Twas the night before the end of the world, And all through the house, Not a creature was giving any craps, Not even the mouse. The rain was pounding On the roof up ahead, But no one paid mind, They had nothing to dread The children were nestled All smug in their beds, While thoughts of still having freaking school tomorrow Danced in their heads. With mom in her kerchief And dad in his cap, They both settled down For a (hopefully) peaceful nap. 12 am struck, and my eyes opened wide! The end of the world! It was coming! We all had to hide! I got out of bed As quick as a dash, And tore open the curtains, Tore down the sash! And what, to my wondering eyes, would appear? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Oh...oh dear. The streets were wet from rain, The grass and dirt muddy. A crazy guy walked down the street, And he was somewhat chubby. Oddly disappointed, I went back to bed. For now, like every other sane person, I had nothing to dread. The children awoke, And as they shouted about the end in fright, I heard mom exclaim, "It's not over, shut up, and good night!"

0

Feb 5, 2015

Feb 5, 2015 at 1:12 PM UTC

End of the World

Twas the night before the end of the world, And all through the house, Not a creature was giving any craps, Not even the mouse. The rain was pounding On the roof up ahead, But no one paid mind, They had nothing to dread The children were nestled All smug in their beds, While thoughts of still having freaking school tomorrow Danced in their heads. With mom in her kerchief And dad in his cap, They both settled down For a (hopefully) peaceful nap. 12 am struck, and my eyes opened wide! The end of the world! It was coming! We all had to hide! I got out of bed As quick as a dash, And tore open the curtains, Tore down the sash! And what, to my wondering eyes, would appear? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Oh...oh dear. The streets were wet from rain, The grass and dirt muddy. A crazy guy walked down the street, And he was somewhat chubby. Oddly disappointed, I went back to bed. For now, like every other sane person, I had nothing to dread. The children awoke, And as they shouted about the end in fright, I heard mom exclaim, "It's not over, shut up, and good night!"

39

I *A D O R E* Y O U

0

Jan 21, 2015

Jan 21, 2015 at 9:47 AM UTC