Poison

- A poem of corrupted love -

 

You’re the worst kind of poison,

Tempting, drawing me ever so near

Till my fingers close around the bottle,

And I gulp it all down at once.

 ♦

It slowly works its way inside of me,

And soon every part of me is tingling

As if it were running through my veins—

This pleasurable, liquefied version of death.

 ♦

Soon my mind becomes clouded,

And I begin to lose all sense.

Suddenly nothing exists in the world

Other than this wonderful, dreadful intoxication.

 ♦

There is a little voice inside of me

That tells me the end is near,

But I ignore it because nothing matters

Except this delirious state I am in.

 ♦

If I had noticed, I wouldn’t even had cared

That Death got a hold of me,

Wrapping his arms around my quivering body,

Sending me to eternal sleep.

 ♦

A wicked smile was plastered on my face—

A reminder of how I had enjoyed the venom.

The bottle was still clasped in my hands,

But eventually my fingers proved to be too limp.

 ♦

You’re the worst kind of poison,

Tempting, drawing me ever so near;

But I couldn’t stay away from that bottle—

No matter how hard I tried.

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Childhood Memories

Let’s go back to the days

When the world was a single street,

And days were marked only by

The toys we played with

And the friends we made.

 

Let’s go back to the days

When our backyard was a jungle,

And we made up stories in our heads

To act out with each other

And feel like we were adventurers.

 

Let’s go back to the days

When the edge of the neighborhood

Was as far as we could go,

And summer afternoons

Meant a glass of fresh lemonade.

 

Let’s go back to the days

When the playground was our home,

And you were only brave

If you went down the tallest slide—

The only danger we knew.

 

Let’s go back to the days

When we played dress up and house

Because the future was so far away

That it was something we dreamt of—

An unknown fate waiting in the distance.

 

Let’s go back to the days

When we were young and naïve,

And the only thing to fear

Was being put in the time-out corner,

For that was the worst punishment of all.

 

Let’s go back to the days

When we were only children—

Shielded from the real world

And everything else that would

Shatter our golden innocence.

 

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The English Teacher

      As knowledgeable as any respected scholar, she is an expert on the English language. There is no grammatical question that she can’t answer, and if a student made any blunders in the paper they wrote, she will not hold back. It is a good thing, however, for her meticulousness allows her students to learn from their errors and do better next time. She makes the complex rules of grammar become understandable and applicable. She helps her pupils sound much more sophisticated in their writing than they actually are. Fragments are her sworn enemies, but if you use well-placed commas, you will become her best friend.

      Not only does she teach well, but she also keeps her class entertained. Whenever it relates to the material, she shares anecdotes from her personal life—stories about her beloved family members and her adventures at Dickens Camp, which is heaven for all the Charles Dickens aficionados out there. The sentences she writes on the board as examples of correct and incorrect grammar are always about her class, and she becomes so absorbed in them that they become an amusing tale that keeps the children laughing while they learn. She engages her students in discussions that relate to what they have read and allow them to share their views with their peers. These conversations give her a new, fresh perspective and keep her thinking long after she has gone home. She loves to hear what the children have to say.

      It is clear that she wants the younger generation to further involve themselves in reading and writing—diversions that seem to have become lost with the rise of technology. The knowledge her students have gained in her class will forever be to their benefit. Although they complain of their assignments now, as they progress on their educational paths, they will never forget how much she has taught them. She, on the other hand, will never forget how much they have taught her—they, the students she considers as her own. The students who remind her that, although she is a teacher, there is still so much for her to learn.

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Birds of a Feather

 

It may not seem like it,

But we are the same—

You and I,

And if you don’t believe it,

It won’t matter;

It won’t make a difference;

It won’t change the truth.

 

Despite all the quarrels,

The disagreements,

And the many contrasts

That exist between us,

We both have our fears;

We both have our longings;

We both have our souls.

 

We are like birds,

Trying to break free

From the rusty cage

We have been trapped in.

Imprisoned together—

You and I—

Birds of a feather.

 

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Message in a Bottle

If I could send you

A message in a bottle,

Would it reach you

Where you stand

Alone

On the shore?

 

Where you stand—

With the waves lapping

At your feet—

Where you stand,

Gazing out

Across the ocean blue—

 

Gazing out

Towards the sun

On the horizon,

Where you could find me

If you chose

To someday set sail—

 

To set sail

Through the storms

And through the wind—

Just as my message

Sailed across

To get to you.

 

 

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Land of Eternity

 

There is a land

Just beyond these trees—

Just beyond this path

That stretches out in front of you,

Beckoning you to take a step forward.

 

In this land,

Which I call home,

The grass is greener than emeralds,

And the orchids and daffodils

Are always in bloom.

 

The earth is never buried

In snow

Or layered in ice,

For winter never comes,

And summer is endless.

 

We dance

In the light of the moon

And sing of all that is ours—

Beauty akin to the rose;

Youth that lasts eternally.

 

This land can be yours

Just as much as it is mine;

Take the path, and you’ll see

Forever isn’t rhetorical—

It’s a promise.

 

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Facebook Page + Two Blog Awards

       I am very happy to say that The Writing Aficionado now has a Facebook page! You can go like it here: http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Writing-Aficionado/292482364165225?ref=tn_tnmn. I would be thrilled if you showed your support—nothing is more dreadful than making a page on a social networking site and being afraid no one will like it/follow you. If you check it out, you’ll see how fine and dandy it is, and there I’ll make sure to include direct links to my posts. There is, however, a catch (because when is there not?): don’t expect too many updates that differ from those on my Twitter. My number one priority is my blogging, and I don’t want to spend valuable time on staring at my computer screen trying to think of something witty. Instead, I’ll use that time to write; after all, isn’t that the most important thing here?

       In other news, I’ve won two new blogger awards. David Cummins of The Noise of Silence has kindly nominated me for the Liebster Blog Award, and Samir of Cecile’s Writers has given me the Versatile Blogger Award. I thank these two gentlemen, who have frequently shown their support with my works. Their blogs are definitely worth your time, if you are not following them already.

 

       Unfortunately, I’m not going to do the whole 7 facts or 15 facts (or whatever it is) thing. I feel like I’ve done that too much already, and I don’t wish to seem repetitive. Plus, it’s actually hard to think of interesting things about myself that are worth sharing! If you want to learn more about my quirkiness, you can read my posts for my last two blog award here. If you’ve read them already but still want to know more about me then… You’re out of luck. I’m sorry. You can always reread them.

       So yes, in conclusion: Like me on Facebook if you wish to do so. Thank you for the awards and support and comments and likes, et cetera. I wish you all a wonderful rest of your Friday. Keep blogging!

 

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Red

 

There is a single flower

Lying on your doorstep—

A single flower,

Red as desire.

 

You pick it up

With a tenderness like velvet—

A tenderness as soft

As a midsummer rain.

 

Attached to the stem

Is a handwritten note—

A note you read

With your now fervent eyes.

 

“This is my apology

For what I shall do;

This is my apology

For breaking your heart.”

 

The flower now drifts

Out of your hands—

Your cold, cold hands—

And onto the snow.

 

Red on white,

Blood on a canvas—

A canvas that once

Depicted your dreams.

 

Love can be tragic;

Lies are convincing—

Convincing enough

To bury the truth.

 

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The Staircase

 

Perhaps it is a universal truth

That we are all on a staircase—

A flight of steps that seems

So vast, so infinite

That when you ponder over it,

It feels like a trapdoor has opened

In your mind.

 

Some are going up

To reach the stars and the heavens

And to fulfill each and every

Of their countless ambitions.

Some are going down,

For they tried to ascend,

But they could not handle their dreams.

 

There is an end

Although at times it seems as if

We will be walking these steps forever.

Whether you are going up

Or down,

This staircase eventually reaches

A final landing for us all.

 

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The Surprise

I wouldn’t be surprised

If his eyes were fire,

And I was the moth that strayed too near

 

Or

If he was part of my

Overactive imagination.

 

I wouldn’t be surprised

If this was all a dream,

And I will soon wake up with a jolt

 

Or

If he was an angel

Who made a deal with the Devil.

 

I wouldn’t be surprised

If I became intrigued

By the secret I know he keeps,

 

But I would be surprised

If the risk of danger

Actually kept me away from him.

 

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