In Quiet Rooms

Your eyes are what I remember most

Those warm, happy eyes

That drowned in lies

 

Your laughter echoes around in my thoughts

That contagious laughter

That ended up in disaster

 

In quiet rooms we talked

Our words dimming in silence

Like deposed tyrants

Crimson Snow

The girl

Dressed in red

The sweetest person the town ever had

Her mother once asked

For her to go to her grandmother’s shed

“Don’t go into the forest, it is dangerous.”

She said.

Snow was falling, but still, the girl went

She walked and walked,

but in the end she got lost

She found a man with an alluring scent  

Before she could utter a single word,

she slipped on the frost

He helped her, saying,

“Why are you walking in the forest?

It’s snowing!”

The girl explained where she was going

So the man smiled, nodding

And led her through the forest,

with the girl following

The man disappeared

And never once reappeared

That was what the girl thought

Little did she know of the wolf’s plot

As she got in the shed,

For her grandmother she asked

But what she found instead

Was the woman dead

The girl fell to her knees and cried

She heard a noise and looked back,

wide eyed

She saw a wolf walking inside

She knew she couldn’t run,

so she sat and cried

As the wolf walked closer

She felt the air getting colder

The last sound she heard

“You should’ve listened to your mother”

Then her life was over

Eternal Lies

In an uncertain cold night, I asked the ghost what force kept us together. Me, whom I presume is free of everything, and him, who stomps in the shadows projected from my inner turmoils. He gave me no answer, as expected of him. It has been a few years since he had infiltrated my brain, carving a hole through it and accommodating himself quite quickly. It all started a few weeks before my father’s death.

My father was a good man, an active member of the community who worked as an architect. Always happy, always present. But that was only on the outside. On the inside he was ugly – a violent man who made my life a living hell. Murderous, dangerous. I thought forgiving was a parent’s duty, but I learned the hard way that it’s not always like that. Now father lives in the foggy underground, building gray houses of silence.

When he passed, the ghost seemed to get louder and louder. My violent thoughts hiding him like a monstrous mask. I never knew of such thoughts until my dreams were invaded by them. Of course, the sullen ghost has helped me in some situations before. Like the time when I was questioned by the police right after my father’s death had been pronounced to the public.

I was shaking, looking at my father’s corpse being pushed away in a stretcher. The paralyzing hurt spread through my veins, making me fight the impulse to turn around and run far, far away from the scene being played out in front of my teary eyes. The ghost was there, whispering words of comfort that danced around aimlessly in my brain. Then came the authorities, swarming me with questions about my deceased father.

“I’m sorry about your loss, Mr. Lenan,” said Rick, the nicest cop in town. Everyone knew him; it was a small town after all.

“Is it okay if we ask you a few questions?” he asked, putting an orange blanket around my shoulders as we sat down on the curb. I just nodded, throat still tight from the still fresh images of my father’s lifeless eyes.

“When you called 911, you said you had found your father already dead when you got home,” Rick said, looking at me with empathy in his cerulean eyes. It wasn’t exactly a question, but I knew he wanted an explanation.

“Y-Ye,” I stopped, clearing my throat. “Ye-ah. I came home from the park and he…” I motioned with my head towards the ambulance, not being able to verbally admit that my father had passed away. Rick nodded, writing something down on his small, black notebook.

“And you always go on these walks, correct?” he asked, looking at the entrance of the city park at the end of the street. To be honest, it wasn’t really a park, it was more like a forest with a few trails. It was quite large, too, but everyone knew not to go too deep into the forest.

“Yeah. Every day.” I answered, looking down at my shoes, sniffling. Everyone in town knew this. They all knew I loved the beautiful, green forest.

“Did you notice anything strange when you walked into your house?” the cop asked, looking up from his notebook. “Like a car in the driveway or something out of place?” he asked, gesticulating towards the white house.

“Um…kind of,” I answered, looking at Rick’s eyes. “The door was open, but my father usually did that when he forgot to lock the door,” I explained, watching as his eyes shifted back towards his petite notebook.

“Okay, we’re almost done here, son,” Rick notified me, giving me a small, friendly smile. I nodded, not in the mood to smile back. “Did your father have any enemies that you know of?” he paused. “Anyone who had any reason to do this to him?” he clicked his pen.

I thought for a moment, hesitant in my answer. “Maybe,” I whispered uncertainly. He heard it, immediately clicked his pen again, and hurriedly flipped to a new page in his notebook.

“It’s okay. I’m here to help,” was Rick’s response. I fought against the urge to roll my eyes. No duh; you’re a cop.

“There’s this one guy…” I started talking, looking from side to side as if I was telling a secret. “Dad always talked about him when he thought I wasn’t listening,” I said as Rick took notes. “He called him his dealer, whatever that means.” I knew what it meant. I just didn’t want to admit it. Rick’s light eyes were blown wide with my answer. “Dad always got in fights with him over the phone,” I said, pulling the shock blanket closer to my body.

“Did you ever happen to get his name?” Rick asked, fingers white from how tight he was holding the blue pen.

“Something like Jason Mallor or something,” I answered, watching as he suddenly shot up from his sitting position, running towards his partner, officer Shane.

The ghost congratulated me, his words swimming around in my thoughts.

Officer Rick came back and asked me if I had somewhere else to spend the night. I answered truthfully this time, nodding my head. He helped me up and gave me his card, telling me to call him if I remembered anything else. Once again, I nodded.

Officers Rick and Shane dropped me off at my aunt’s house, who hugged me tightly when she opened the door, fresh tears streaming down her face like a waterfall. I stayed with her for a few weeks before getting the okay from Officer Rick to go back to my own house.

They eventually caught Jason Mallor, the most dangerous drug dealer around. Of course, he was sentenced to life with numerous charges of selling and consuming drugs and, of course, murder, my dad’s being one of them.

I never expected to have gotten away with it. But why would I, the nicest and most innocent nineteen-year-old in town, ever kill his “loving” father? I owe it all to the ghost, to be honest.

Years passed and the ghost and I are still hanging around in the realm of the living. My doctors tell me it’s schizophrenia, and I pretend to agree and take the medicine. I pretend that I’m getting better, that I don’t hear the ghost’s voice echoing around anymore. I pretend.

When they finally found out the real truth about my father’s death, I was long gone. Ghost and I were now sitting around in the foggy underground, watching my father build gray houses of silence.

There will be a day when nothing will be remembered. But lies, which unite and divide, are eternal.

Love

Love is such a weird four letter word. A word people live by, a word people want to feel.A word that people want to be given. I feel empowered when I am next to him. I feel happy and normal. I feel like a normal person with a normal life, and I hate that. I hate the fact that I’m so weak. I hate the fact that I’m falling for a boy that I’ve barely even spoken to, a boy who I don’t even know. This can’t be love. This is a crush. How would I know what is love if I’ve never even experienced it?

Waiting

While you stop and wait

I walk and invade

As you speak “wait”

I do not behave

I don’t know why you insist in delaying

I want you to speak;

I’m waiting

My words feel like nothing

Because you’re not coming

You wait alone

In your home

As you wait

For me to say

That I’m afraid

Afraid of love

Afraid of hope

For humanity does not have both

How can a person be so sad,

So sullen,

But not bad

There are no words to describe how I felt

At the moment you called for help

Constellations of Bloody Stars

The man with the yellow coat

With the silver knife sticking out of his throat

Could have easily changed his destiny

If he had not been bamboozled

By the man with the dark bumbershoot

And the green rubber boot.

His bloodlust,

Swimming so hard in his veins

His hands in chains.

The sirens blaring

His sight glaring.

The whites of his eyes

Now the color of the boots he was wearing

This man

Famous for writing bibliographies

And biographies

Was now a convict

Blood addict

As his boots he kicked

You

I smile as I see you

Your face,

A perfect image of my future

But as I watch you go

My heart shatters

As you leave

I weep

As you leave

I scream

As you leave

I stay.

I look away as you walk

Your face,

A perfect image of my depression

But as I watch you go

My heart shatters

As you leave

I weep

As you leave

I scream

As you leave

I stay

Please leave

Analysis of Walt Whitman’s “Beat!Beat!Drums!”

“Beat!Beat!Drums!” By Walt Whitman is an amazing poem that uses many metaphors, alliterations, and repetitions to get its point across. The author uses precise and impacting vocabulary that clearly shows his hatred towards slavery.

Walt Whitman uses lots of literary devices in his poem “Beat!Beat!Drums!”.He uses the repetition of the words “Beat!Beat!Drums – blow!Bugles!Blow!” throughout the poem to emphasize that we are not seeing what is right in front of us; it’s a call to action. Every stanza is a different metaphor. They all tell us in different ways to stop and do something, to listen to the drums and bugles.

Throughout the poem, there is a very distinct change of tone. At the end of every stanza, the drums and bugles have gotten louder and louder. On the second line of the second stanza, Whitman uses hyperbole to express how loud the sound is, yet no one seems to hear it. On the last paragraph, Whitman uses a more violent and commanding tone. Almost every line of the third stanza is a command. His change of tone emphasizes how desperate he is, how he wants people to be aware of what’s happening. You can see his passion being poured out on the lines as the poem progresses.

On the first lie of every stanza, Whitman uses alliteration. This is really fascinating because the sounds that are made when people read sound like drumming. “Beat!Beat! Drums – blow!Bugles!Blow”. The repeating “b” sound sounds like drums being played. The author chose to do this to demonstrate how oblivious we are to the sound of the drums and bugles. The reader is making the sound, yet they still do not hear the loud drums.

The whole poem is a metaphor for Whitman’s distaste towards slavery. People are oblivious to the “drums and bugles”, which represents slavery. Whitman is trying to make us open our eyes to what is really happening around us.

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑