Posts
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A Sonnets Sonnet
I now must write a sonnet but I can’t.
It seems my mind is dim with things to say.
I’d like to plagiarize, alas I shan’t!
I’ll suffer through the darkness all the way.
Oh thoughts! Do come and grant me with your light. -
Time creates impending fear
I have this impending fear that I won't have enough time.
that I am precariously balancing everything that is precious to me
While standing on the head of a pole
And no matter which way I twist,
either to get away from work, -
Introduction- J
Well- I'm kind of late to this workshop, but it still sounds really intruiging, soooo, I'm doing it. Heyo my name is Jay, aka Treblemaker, and I'm so excited to participate in this workshop. This is the first YWP workshop i've participated in ever. -
My Better Self
Help me be my better self
Do not bring me down.
lets not fight about all this
Falling to ground.
You can help me love myself
Why don't you hold your tongue
The easy path is quicker, sure
But take the better one. -
We New Yorker's call that Snow
A quite winter snow at night
Is magical and pretty.
Until the morning traffic comes
Because its New York City.
the cold and sparkling snow so bright
is fresh and clean and pretty white, -
One empty well
One empty well.
My head has dried up with words that I could
once string together effortlessly.
The ink well once so plentiful with ideas
and colorful with picture book tales
has since vanished.
Loves
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Spooky Season
When the air is crisp,
with a chilly breeze,
fall puts a spell on me.
The leaves fall in a wisp,
as an artist weaves-
a portrait of the fiery sea.
Though, it’s not February,
love seeps through the air.
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The Orchestra of Fall
Autumn leaves flutter around my head,
The color popping in the chilly,
Swirling air.
The veins stretch out,
Delicate within the leaves.
They connect,
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autumn's embrace
as fall starts rolling in
and summer slows to a stop
i like to imagine many things,
everything, nonstop
i imagine the sweet, sweet song of hooting owls after dark
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Things to remember, pt. 1
You are not a number.
You are not a letter.
You are not something that can be
measured
on a scale
with a beginning -
My Childhood Home
My childhood home is filled with plants,
plants that we never water
but are somehow still alive.
Its island is littered with junk mail,
different types of olive oil,
stray flakes of salt,
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Thoughts after the fair
I’ve never enjoyed the feeling of being sick to your stomach on a fair ride. Maybe I just don’t have the iron-willed intestines that all of my friends seem to have, because I get sick from going on the teacups at a normal speed.