Texting and Driving Poem

Blink of an Eye

A blink of an eye

Is all it takes

To decide yours and someone else’s

Fate.

Don’t be that fool

Who ruins it all,

Not just for you

But for everyone too.

Be in control

And know it can wait,

Focus on the present

Before it’s too late.

Imagine a world

Safe as can be.

Responsibility is the key,

Just wait and see.

Crash and bang

Could be the last sounds

You hear because

The message was just so dear.

Yet, if you survive

Then you must face

The consequences

And be a disgrace.

The face of death

Is what you’ll wear,

For your scythe

Could not wait

To the a life

Not planned to go.

Oh how you

Altered the life of everyone close.

The shameful thing of all

Is what you must say

To the family of the loved one

That cannot be replaced.

How would you feel?

Would you take their place?

Because you are the one

Who made the mistake.

Now you are left with

That thought in mind.

With a pain and heartache

Trail close behind.

You cannot escape it.

There’s no where to hide.

You will always remember

A blink of an eye.

______________________
1. Scythe- Grim reaper's staff.
Curved blade attached to a long
pole.

Journal #12

Rare

I rarely see the light of day. In the few times that I do get to see the light, I bathe in the warm golden rays of the sun. I take it all in with long breathes. I usually hide in the deepest part of a drawer or tucked away safely in a wallet. I feel as if I am a special secret that only a few people know about. Yet, wherever I may be, which hasn't been many places, I know I am appreciated due to my rareness. I do not recall seeing a relative of mine in a very long time. I fear they are no more but I still hope they are stowed away safely like I am. I have not been spent in ages. My owner now has either great pride or forgotten about me. I know many would like to be spent on something and meaningful, I would like that too but i do not think that is in my future. So I settle for little or simple things to be spent on. For example, ice cream on a first date or maybe something someone really worked hard on saving up for from working. It's those little moments that, that gives my existence a purpose. I may not live a very exciting life but it is one that is worth living for.

Journal #11

English, Really?

Struggling trying to figure out what class to take? That was how I was. Now just sit back, relax and let me help you make your decision a little more clearer.

English class may seem intimidating and pointless to many but not this english class, not at all. It will keep you on the edge of your seat, just waiting to hear what is going to happen next. The teacher, Mr. Juarez, knows how to grab the students attention and keep them wanting to learn more. Each story or Poem you read helps change your perspective in the best way possible. The class really makes you think and interpret things in a way you never thought you could. English class lets the creative side of anyone come out and play for a while. It makes putting a pencil to paper mean so much more. It gives you a chance to show who you are and what you can do in a beautifully way and that way is called writing. Writing is a way to help you leave your mark on this world and this class makes it seem that it actually means something, that there is a purpose to it all. Overall this class is a real page-turner, literally.

Journal #8

End of The Road

This world has gone to pure chaos. I used to have the strength to get by and make the most of this terrible world, not for me but for my son. He deserved to live his life not survive in it. He was the one thing that kept me fighting another day, to make this place better for him. He was always positive and full of so much hope even though we have lost the few who were dear to us most. Before and the start of all this it was just him and me but now it’s just me…

My son was the only thing I had left. The one thing that put a smile on my face and I cannot let that go, I will not. We had made it so far. I kept him safe and healthy and the minute I let my guard down, it was a minute too long. It’s all my fault. If I would of watch my surroundings more thoroughly this would of never happened. What’s the point of surviving when you lost the one thing that made you want to live?

When he was “transforming” I could not end his suffering. I could not let him go, not yet. There was still this part of me that thought he might get through this. He might be one of the few who were immune. I clung on to hope so hard and I did not let go. Once the breath left his body and all that remained was coldness I knew it was too late. Then a rasped inhale filled the room. I looked down at him, my baby boy, with blurry vision. He clawed at me and moaned in hunger. I ran out the room and locked the door. I have never cried so hard in my life. He was gone and I will never get my boy back. It was like a part of me died and turned with him. I am not the same anymore. I do not think I ever will be the same.

Whenever I left the house I could hear his moans echo through the empty streets. Our neighbors who some how managed to make it through this disaster looked at me different. They use to have warm smiles and hellos for me but now I receive stern looks and threats to my baby boy. I know it is not right for me to keep him locked in there but I do not want to be alone. It is selfish, I know but I do not want to. There is no point for me to keep trying to survive in this world if there is no future for him. All in all I know what I have to do.

Weapon in hand I walk do the locked door with my son on the other side of it. With a deep breath and tears streaming down my cheeks I turn the door knob. He turns and looks at me and tries to walk to me. He is weak and his flesh is rotting. I look into his eyes and I do not see him anymore. Eyes once warm and young are now cold and hungry. I take one more look and then do what I have to do. The right thing for him to be able to move on. His blood stains my hands. What have I done?

I am utterly alone now. I have no one. I have no more purpose. I am not a mom anymore. No mother should out live her son. It is not fair. This life is not fair. He deserved more. He was too young. None of that matters now, like I do not matter. I am at the end of the road...

Journal

Sweet Serenity Of Mine

• Friends, plus a little more (They know who they are)
• My books
• Writing
• Drawing
• My fluffy Jack Skellington blanket
• Music

My friends comfort me in so many ways it’s hard to say it all. They always have a warm embrace waiting for me when I need it most. They know when I am just having a not so good day and try to cheer me up with silly jokes, puns, etc… They know exactly what to say and when to say it is, it’s almost freighting.

Books, music, and writing help me escape to a place that I can call my own, away from all the chaos in this world. It is when my mind can wander freely and travel to fantasy worlds like no other. Music and sometimes books can be great inspirations for my writing, just a few sentences can get my mind racing with ideas. When I write it gives me a chance to well be me. I can say whatever I want and make whatever I want happen with just a few words written down on a page. Poems and or proses are my specialty but once in a while I write a short story. Writing is one of my favorite comforts and helps me express how I feel about anything which helps me very much get on with life.

When I put a pencil to paper there is no knowing what they will create. Lines, shapes, textures, colors, etc., just flow from me through my pencil (lead or charcoal or colored) to the paper. Sometimes I have a clear image on what I wish to create, while other times not so much, but it does not take me long to figure out what to draw next.  Drawing distracts me and clears my mind. I tend to over think a lot and drawing helps in so many ways.

Lastly, my fluffy Jack Skellington is like a warm soft hug that never fades away. Not only does the blanket have one of my all time favorite characters on it, Jack from “The Nightmare Before Christmas,” the blanket itself is extremely soft. Who doesn't love a fuzzy blanket to cuddle with? I know I do.

Journal #2 (Poem)

I Am From

Broken down houses fill the streets,

Slang and children run free,

No order in their lives

Sirens echo in the night,

I sigh and try to get on with my life.

I’m trapped in this place and there

Seems like no escape

Then I close my eyes,

My mind begins to wonder

To a place where dreams come true

And the favorite word is “Nevermore!”

In this place birds chirp sweetly,

Winds blow gently,

The flowers bloom beautifully.

Big, beautiful, beloved books of

Mine surround me in comfort

My books are my home.

Yet, only if my eyes are occupied

I can then be where I belong

I am whole

Only if my mind is free.

That’s when I can finally be free.

In this place of mine I am finally free

To be who I am,

Who I wish to be.

How I came to this place

It is hard to say.

A strange man once said

“I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity”

I have come to realize the truth in his words.

That I, too have began to question my stability.

Over time I have become aware

Of the world I built and what I shared

How it does not matter

Where I am from.

But how I made that place better

For me, for once.

I achieved that…

That place where I am proud to be from.

A place that I can call my own

A place that I love

A place I can dream all I want.

No more sirens

No more children running free

Myself

My mind

Is where I am from

Where I must be…

• Imagery
• Alliteration
• Metaphor
• Repetition

(Quotes from Edgar Allan Poe, “The Raven”, and  a letter for a fan, www.brainyquote.com)

Journal #2

Dear World,

Hello. I would like to start off saying that I am no brilliant philosopher who speaks powerful and meaningful words nor a writer who could write a little and make those few words count. I am but a person with a thought and I just so happen to share it with you. All I ask is just to take a few minutes and read what I have to say. I would greatly appreciate it. Yet, if you do not want to read this then forget about this whole thing, delete it and I’m sorry for wasting your time.

As for the ones who stay continue on…

Many would probably write about life and morals everyone should follow or happiness and what it means, just opinions after opinions being shoved down your throat, but I do not what to do that. That is just rude I say. Yes, we are all entitled to our own opinions but that does not mean you have the right to force it on others. I do not want to push my opinions or views on you. I would rather have you develop your own morals, opinions, etc… instead. I am going to write a short story or poem (I have not decided yet but I will soon, promise).Take this mmm…. poem. Yes, a poem. Take this poem just as that a poem. I am not going to tell you what it means or how to interpret it or to even interpret it at all. That is up to you. All I ask of the brave reader reading this is to take a moment and separate yourself from the chaos of this strange world and read. Read for a purpose or for fun or if you have absolutely nothing better to do. Just stop, read, and think a little, maybe...

Why is a raven like a writing desk?

Is it because they’re both not made of cheese?

Or feathers could be apart or use on them?

What makes this two similar?

There are infinite answers.

With these infinite answers come infinite questions.

Who knew one simple riddle could turn into so much more?

Without even realizing it.

Yet, every answer and question to come up

Is but one’s own.

One will hear others answers and questions and

then would take it all in.

The answers begin to change and

Maybe the questions, too.

All that matters is what one thinks  

And that is certainly true.

Now once more.

Why is a raven like a writing desk?