Tatum's Dance

She hears the pitter patter
As her steps hit the hardwood stage.
She slips around the dancers
Taking her place in the middle
Posing.
Her arms curl over her.
Purple bruises go unseen
But she sees them below the spotlight.

The music reverberates against her chest.
The fluorescents snap above her.
She drops her head.
Her hair falls; red strands graze her shoulder.
She glares against the hushed crowd
Smiling.
Her grin reveals her delicate gapped teeth.
They watch with deep expectation.
Though none are there for her
She begins her dance sliding across the floor.

I Stand Here

You spoke words of peace
To me when I was discouraged.
You revealed your wisdom
To me when I felt abandoned.

I search your word
For hope you can see me.
What comes doesn't console me.
God send me scripture
To calm my spirit.
I search the pages
So you'll speak to my heart.
Lord, where are you?
I reach for you and
I grasp the air between us.

I reminisce in the times
I saw you mighty.
The blessings when you were faithful.
When I deserved that dark pit.
I picture the moment you refined me.
God show me your acts.
I search my thoughts
To find you strong once again.
What have I done wrong?
I can't see your hand upon me.

I stand here at your alter
And wait for you to move.
Come show me your face
I want to move on ahead with you.

I, Too

I, too, have been broken.

Look at me
I smile and speak kindly.
I rejoice in your joy.
I have compassion
For the troubled.
I'm happy wihen I'm with you.

But it's a facade.
I can hide my heart.
I can rejoice in your joy.
And pretend to be happy.
But once I leave
The sorrow follows me.

One day I won't be.
I'll be happy all the time
And with me and you.

I, too, am broken.

Shower of Bubbles

Bright caramel chocolate eyed
Squinted with a smile so wide.
Cheeks the color of a Sorbonne Lily.
Delighted wonder was not to hide.

Hair flowed and wrapped in a wind.
Wavy yellow swished behind.
Ran care free atop the grass
Arms spread open nothing to bind.

Clear bulbs of pink and blue pearled
In big and small and medium whirled.
They popped along the face and arms
Wind flew them above and on they swirled.

Fingers clawed feeling the sticky gel.
Breaking their wet, fragile shells
They disappeared, they exploded well.
Leaving the air with a sudsy smell.

The Wounds - A Villenelle

The wounds grip and cut deep
When I push the pain down to hide.
Desire, rejection, neglect heap.

The harder and down farther I push it will seep
From my skin exploding over from the inside.
The wounds grip and cut deep.

The voice and image rings in a beep.
Reasons for my feelings I can not provide.
Desire, rejection, neglect heap.

The more I open and pull down walls, I reap
sadness for my rules I have defied.
The wounds grip and cut deep.

The loneliness I feel and curl up; I weep.
No one comes with me by my side.
Desire, rejection, neglect heap.

The pain and stagnant remain tied.
No change no remorse keep.
The wounds grip and cut deep.
Desire, rejection, neglect heap.

Tumbler

Your smell
uplifts me instantly; it draws me to you.
Your beans. Your grounds. Your brew.
I can hear the pitter patter as you drip
slowly through the open lid into the pot.
I grip the handle and lift over the heated
surface. Scratching along the raised lip.
You bubble in the glass; you’re so hot!
I pour you over until you’ve exceeded
the top. You rush in encircling the low
bottom of my tumbler, gurgling as you
fill up to the almost top. Leaving room
for cream. You sit, staring with a glow
as I stir you to perfection. Sips ensue
once our lips touch. The day resume.

It's Taught Me Confidence

As I looked through the class catelogue at the end of my Spring quarter at the beginning of the year, I thought I should take a writing class before I continue with my general ed. or the lower division classes for my major. There were a lot of things I was interested in besides English and I wanted to sort out what I wanted to take for sure. I decided to take the beginning creative writing class for my major to see what it is that I wanted to do with my life, and I ended up learning more about myself and what I wanted than I thought I would.
Originally, I wanted to take this writing class to see if I should stay in the English major, or devote the rest of my education some where else. I wanted to see if I was good enough to write novels so I didn't have to become a teacher as a backup. I thought if I took the beginning class I'll be able to tell and continue taking higher English classes and literature classes that I don't really care about if I'm going to major in something else. Also, I wanted to see if I'll be willing to do it for the rest of my life. I have a lot of fun writing and I find relief in it, but I wasn't sure if writing is something I really wanted to do as a career or if I was really good at.
I've been in this class for nine weeks now, but by the second and third week of classes I thought I couldn't do this for my life. First, I thought, I'm not good at this. I was too ashamed of my writing to read it allowed in class. And half the time I wasn't able to finish my assignments on time to do so, anyway. My other classmates were way better writers than me. I thought, I should be at that level. I had written two assignments and had recieved the same grade. So, I started thiking you can't learn art, you're supposed to just be good at it. And there was no sign that I was improving. I soon asked myself if I can live the rest of my life without writing. There were many things I could do instead and I started to consider doing something else completely. I wasn't even writing. I wasn't getting the feeling I always get to write and to write something. I wasn't getting any new ideas. I wasn't excited about writing. So, if I gave up on writing novels it wouldn't be a big deal to me.
Then in class one day my teacher had us write a "the first" line for a book. I decided to read it aloud as my teacher advised the week before. He said it was poetic and I used imagery and put the plot in media res: Simon tipped his white pressed hat to his red haired girl waving him off from the docks. I kind of skipped as I walked to my car after class. Something I wrote was poetic? Interesting? And he used my line as an example to explain to the class that in media res means in the middle of things. He told me I used imagery because of the "white" hat and the "red" haired girl. He said it makes you see bright, it makes you feel happiness; joy. But he also told me how to work on it as well. He said tipped and pressed weren't the right verbs and would be more effective if I used other one's. Well, the next few days it seemed like I was being shown that I couldn't just walk away from this. I came up with the idea to use what I've learned in my life for my novels. Like, I had forgotten that I was thinking about quitting. I, then, asked myself as I'm going through each story idea I've planned if the characters are similar and went through each personality for each one. Then I started seeing things to put in stories. A friend of mine has a friend who seems very unique to me. I would use her as a character, name and all. So, I started doing it with sky scapes, distinct land details, like the plateu I see when I drive home, cars, buildings, it all just flooded in! So, I said wait. What am I thinking? It's not can I write? Can I learn how to write good? It's who I am. Every fiber of me screams, "Writer!" I'm weird, creative, emotional, high strung, passionate. I put emphasis on everything (kind of goes with passion, I suppose), I see what's behind the scenes, I have to know what I don't know or understand. I use what I've been through and what I see others go through in my writing, I stare at people to see how they are and how they interact with others, and I get writing ideas from anything (it just comes to me). And the most important thing I couldn't give up was the fact that I love writing on paper, even if it's just a list of things to do, names, or my thoughts. Yeah, writing is art and it has encompassed every part of me.
So, I decided to continue through my class and by the final session, it taught me so many things. For one, it's motivated me to write. I've always has this conflict to write and write right now who cares what else you're doing, but it's actually let me sit down and not worry about what it is that I wanna accomplish and just write. Two, it's allowed me to write without doubt. I didn't tell myself okay that sounds bad, but you can go back and change it later. I started asking myself, is that an effective word, does it tell your readers something about the characters or the plot, does it work there or do I need a different word. Three, when I do write and reread what I've written, it's good. I mean, I've said that before, but there's times where I write something and tell myself that's aweful and I have to start over or completely change it. I often found myself stuck and don't know how to continue. Of course I fixed things here and there (I'm not gonna be perfect), but it makes me excited to continue. Hands clapping, jiggling in my seat excited. And where I can say, yeah there's a big difference. Four, Hershberg's told me that I need to trust my strong verbs. I have strong verbs? I always struggled to find the right word and it turned out the one's I didn't even try hard on worked better. And I have great tension building dialogue between the characters and to just trust in it. He's told me to write what I really mean and fix stupid grammer (that's my own emphasis).
All-in-all, Hershberg and my classmates have given me the confidence. The confidence to write, but also the confidence to know what I'm good at and where I need to practice. I still don't quiet know if being a good writer is what I'll become. I don't know if I could become the writer publishers and readers want. But this class leaves me excited for the future and the willingness to write and to try; to learn all I can to possibly become that good writer.