There is a ghost in my heart,
There is a ghost in my mind
Haunting me, taunting me
Singing of my crime.
I write to release
I describe to decrease.
My constant flow of feelings
Are far from appealing.
I give thanks to Shakespeare
I give merit to Plath
For beautiful literature
That makes more sense than math.
At times I wish my soul would simmer
Discourage this ghost from scaring others.
I cannot control my divine desire
To one day write pieces
That are better than my mother’s.
I promised my ghost it would one day be free
No limitations, no constrictions
I promise, you will see.
I wrote this for my new creative writing class. It's interesting to be in a class where you are graded on your ability to be creative. I like it, but at the same time there is a little more pressure to write well and structured poems. Overall, it will definitely make me a better writer...I hope, at least.
This morning I was fumbling around for my glasses and scrambling to fix my scraggly hair when I thought about something a bit more profound than my usual morning thoughts (review of dreams, where's the toothpaste? I wonder what happened to the shirt I was wearing...) Anyways, I looked at my hands and realized how much I take them for granted. In twenty years or so I'll be looking at these same hands and wishing they were soft again. Wishing they looked attractive. I spend a lot of my time focusing on the future and fearing what lies ahead. I'm truly scared of growing old. Some people want to grow up, but not me. I still wish I was five years old, without a care in the world. It's hard being a big girl. It's hard to make my own decisions. In two years, I'll be older and wiser and even more scared of the future. It's almost time to make my own living and be out on my own. Maybe even have some responsibilities that are more crucial than waking up in time to listen to a pointless lecture about the value of biology. In the mean time, I hope I can learn to live in the present. Not the past, not the future, but the present.
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