Ars Poetica Draft #1

What a poem should be
Is worlds away from what it really is

A poem should be easy to understand 
But they truly are a mystery 

A poem should be elegant
And yet the disjointed words make me cringe

A poem should be about what we know
However it delves into the abyss of the unknown

A poem should have a singular style,
One that follows it all the way through,
But the freedom of artistry prevents this from being reality

A poem topic should be unique
Stop with the poetry about nature and humanity

A poem should be beauty and grace
But when I read one all I want to do is break the author’s face

A poem should be easy
And yet it is so hard

A poem should be better than this one
However, here we are

The Why’s, How’s, Where’s, Who’s, and What’s I Don’t Know Draft #1

I don’t know
anything about anything
because the universe is an unknown place.

I don’t know
why the creatures of the deep
have pointed teeth.

I don’t know
why our planet rains water
when others rain glass.

I don’t know
how the panther plans its move
a shadow of the night.

I don’t know
how creativity runs wild
alive in its own right.

I don’t know
where the dead wander
in the eternity of the afterlife.

I don’t know
where hatred comes from
its talons digging into everyone who’s alive.

I don’t know
who made the universe
a god or a crow, humanity may never know.

I don’t know
who exists beyond the stars
little green men or their robotic counterparts.

I don’t know
what is the purpose of war
because power is a social construct.

I don’t know
what my existence means
am I even really alive?

I don’t know anything
because the universe is the greatest mystery of all
but I’m okay with not knowing anything, anything at all.

Scientists try and try
but they don’t really know anything either;
knowing too much would be humanity’s downfall.

Postcard Draft #1

Translucent blue ocean,
Reflecting the pain of the sun,
Second degree burns are not fun.

The tiniest of teens,
Canoeing three miles,
To an abandoned island in the Florida Keys.

The jellyfish were squishy,
So fun to hold in my hand,
Shocking star-shaped jello.

Five island days,
Deodorant and showers and time not allowed,
Living our days by the cycle of the sun.

The friendly Key Deer,
Trying to drink the cleaning bleach,
Hurt my heart to fight them off.

A powerful sand shark,
Caught by the tiniest member of our crew,
Its skin felt as rough as rock.

Chocolate was the keeper of the misfit hut,
TV’s and license plates and car tires,
Oh how the comedic ease of the display filled us with awe.

The day following constant rain,
We returned and choked the air of the base,
My mother paled at the purple burns on my skin.

Seabase; the fun way to be marooned.

Free Poem #1 Draft #1 “A View of Death”

I am the Angel of Death.
Well, 
really I am just Death;
the angel part was not my idea.

I wear a long black robe,
My scythe stands tall by my side
and I do have feathered wings. 

Maybe that is why they think I’m an angel?

But I am no angel. 
I am not a warrior of good,
I do not fight evil.

The dying call to me,
their voices a melodic whisper 
Oh how I pity their weak songs.

I am simply doing my job.

My bones have begun to show
I have the face of a corpse
with an eye hanging out and my brain exposed.

Some view me in awe
others see me in fear,
Cringing away.

As if they could escape me.

I am Death
a collector of the dead
Gifted with forbidden knowledge.

I am Death 
But I am not dead,
not yet.

List Poem Draft #1 “The Pitbull’s Greeting”

The pitbull wandered the streets
looking for people to meet.
It met drunk men and old geezers,
pretty women and grabby children,
Blacks and Asians and Navajo Indians;
infants in strollers and cats on leashes,
construction workers, teachers,
the local handyman and the dog catcher;
tweens and teens of all sorts, 
Goths and Jocks and Geeks by the dozen.
They followed the pitbull,
as it wandered the streets,
to a back alley box full of newborn puppies.

Brag Poem Draft #1

You are such a good writer said parents and teachers.
Keep writing. 
Do AP.
Write a book.
I am such a good writer.

I am such a good writer when it comes to the big picture.
I cannot write a paragraph or a sentence that tells all I think.
I am an artist who writes about the existential questions.
She’s a prodigy said my grandmother to anyone who would listen.
I am such a good writer.

I am such a good writer I keep telling myself.
The A’s.
The 9’s.
The perfect scores on every paper and line,
They mean something, right?

I am such a good writer so I start writing a book.
Short stories and chapters and essays galore.
My vocabulary is perfect and advanced for my age.
My stories may be dark but they are true in every way.
Glorious and advanced and bold is what everybody says.

You are such a good writer says every professor I meet.
My darkness is valued.
My twisted mind makes me unique.
I write the best stories with evil at their core.
I am such a good writer, a wizard of gore.

I am the best writer.
I am the boldest writer.
I am the most brilliant writer. 
I am such a good writer.

Free Poem #2 Draft #1 “Death of a Vampire”

I am alone.
A Child of the Night,
aimlessly wandering
in the shadow of the dark.

I hide in the darkness.
The sun blinding my eyes, 
avoidance of the light
to prevent the melting of my sight.

I am alone.
My family goes about their day,
leaving me to my thoughts
and crummy board games.

I hide in my room.
Avoiding the gaze of others,
my skin blends purple
it is peeling off.

I am alone.
A decision is made,
to venture into the sun
to experience real pain.

I am alone. 
My skin melting like lava,
eyes graying with blindness
heart stopping from the light.

I am alone.
I lay dying in the street,
the medical autopsy will read
died of Xeroderma Pigmentosum.

How sickly sweet.

Bread Poem Draft #1

Mac and Cheese,
like most things,
is only difficult when it’s made from scratch.

I do not make mine from scratch,
it comes prepared in a box,
ready for whatever I have planned.

The box is freed from the pantry,
the top like a grave covered,
contents turned to dry and stale dust.

I fill a pot with water then set it to heat,
the steam a ghostly shape,
I cannot wait to eat.

I layout the milk and the butter,
the box like a coffin,
I snatch out the cheese.

The water begins to bubble and boil,
so loud against the passing funeral, 
the pasta is poured in and I begin to stir.

The bubbles froth over the pot,
rabies is a horrible way to go,
The heat is lowered and the water strained.

Back in the pot to be mixed,
reincarnation is a possibility,
add the milk and butter and cheese.

Congratulations,
Condolences,
You are ready to eat.

Epiphany Poem Draft #1

I walked into a new school,
The tiles and stairs and desks all the same,
But this school was so unlike the others,
New friends, old teachers,
An experience waiting to be discovered.
The playground was a mix
of the old and the new,
Flanders and Power, the colors the same
Eagles and Gladiators, White and Blue.
The smell of the pines and the crunch of dead wood,
The feel of green bristles 
A land of excitement and thrill.

But the bristles turned brown, soft and dead,
The stories became lies
my friends thought were funny to spread,
The wood chips left bruises
As I fell down the rabbit hole of a dying friendship.
Girl after girl,
Day after day,
“Let’s lie to Stephanie
She’s too naive to say anything.”
I never saw it coming
All the fights and betrayals.
All the tears and the lies.
All the struggles to not fall apart.
The school is not shiny
Its halls tainted blue
From new to old and old to new.
Alone in a school
All broken and withered
Not everyone is a good friend,
Not everyone is a good person.

Prompt: La Salle Street, Amsterdam, 1946

Gallery Poem Draft #1 “Scream”

All that was heard was a scream;
Screams and the rain,
the pattering of small feet
against the dark wet pavement.
The gushing of water
as it spurted from a hose
that made a tower of rain,
Driving laughing children away.
The war was now over,
There were no bombs 
or loud bangs
of soldiers entering houses
to drag people away.
There was joy
And cheers heard
with those small pattering feet,
as children played with a hose
Screaming in the street.

Pandoum Poem Draft #1 “War”

Death of an Angel
Screaming in the street
A war never ending
Revenge of a forgotten race

Screaming in the street
Pattering of small feet
Revenge of a forgotten race
Bodies in mass graves

Pattering of small feet
Chaos upon chaos
Bodies in mass graves
Fire and acid and rain

Chaos upon chaos
A war never ending
Fire and acid and rain
Death of an Angel

Final Draft

Gallery Poem Prompt: La Salle Street, Amsterdam, 1946
Scream
All that was heard was a scream;
Manic screams and the rain,
the pattering of small feet
against the dark wet pavement.

The gushing of water
as it spurted from a hose
that made a tower of rain,
Driving laughing children away.

The war was now over;
There were no bombs 
or loud bangs
of Nazis entering houses
to drag people away.

There was joy
and cheers heard
with those small pattering feet,
as children played with a hose
Screaming in the street.

Eagle to Gladiator
I walked into a new school,
My old one closed and forgotten,
The tiles and desks all the same,
New friends, old teachers,
A game waiting to be played.

The playground was a mix
of the old and the new,
Flanders and Power, 
Eagles and Gladiators, 
The smell of the pines 
and the crunch of chipped wood,
The feel of cold metal,
A land of excitement and thrill.

But the bristles turned brown, soft and dead,
The stories became lies
my friends began to spread.
The wood chips scraped me,
My heart molted and dead.
My freedom taken,
Wings black and rotted.

Girl after girl, 
day after day,
I never saw it coming
All the fights and betrayals.
All the tears and the lies.
All the struggles to not die inside.

The school is not shiny
Its halls tainted blue
From Eagle to Gladiator.
From Kind to Cruel.
Alone in my armour
Now dead inside
Not everyone is a good person,
Not everyone is a good friend.

Death of a Vampire
I am alone.
A Child of the Night,
frantically searching
in the shadow of the dark.

I hide in the darkness.
The sun burning my eyes, 
avoidance of the light
to prevent the melting of my sight.

I am alone.
Trapped in my room,
hidden from view
And left to my thoughts of the light.

I live in disguise.
Covered head to toe,
my skin blends purple
peeling off in goodbye.

I am alone.
So tired of being alive,
I’ll venture into the sun
to become ash and dust.

I am alone. 
My skin melting like lava,
eyes graying with blindness
heart stopping from the light.

I am alone.
I lay dying in the street,
the medical autopsy will read
died of Xeroderma Pigmentosum.

How sickly sweet.

The Unknown
I don’t know
anything about anything
the list is so long.

I don’t know
why the creatures of the deep
have hundreds of pointed teeth.

I don’t know
why our planet rains water
while others rain glass.

I don’t know
how the panther plans its move
a calculating shadow of the night.

I don’t know
how creativity runs wild
alive in its own right.

I don’t know
where the dead wander
in the eternity of the afterlife.

I don’t know
where hatred comes from
its damage in plain sight.

I don’t know
who made the universe
a god or a crow?

I don’t know
who exists beyond the stars
little green men or their robotic counterparts.

I don’t know
what theoretical derivatives are
some ridiculous math I suppose.

I don’t know
what my existence means
am I even a living being?

I don’t know anything 
And yet here I still am
Scared of my ignorance.

The Pitbull’s Greeting
The pitbull wandered the streets
looking for people to meet.
It met drunk men and old geezers,
pretty women and grabby children,
Blacks and Asians and Navajo Natives;
infants in strollers and cats on leashes,
construction workers, teachers,
the local handyman and the dog catcher;
teens and tweens of all sorts, 
Goths and Jocks and Geeks by the dozen.
They followed the pitbull,
as it wandered the streets,
to a dirty, back alley box 
full of newborn puppies.