My Father Told Me

This is... whatever kind of poem we need to have by the 11th. It's also a "first line" poem from the list we got on the 9th.

This feels unfinished. I'd like ANY feedback you have about finishing it. Anything else is cool too though =-/

It's written from my point of view.... 7-10 years ago. My father is racist, sexist, and homophobic. There's not much I like about him.

My father told me,
"Stay close, they'll touch you in bad places"
I remember that day clearly
We were at the outlet mall in Castle Rock
Two men were walking toward us
One had a colorful bracelet
Like mom's friend Jim
Just before we crossed to the other side of the sidewalk
I saw them kiss
And I became afraid

My father told me,
"Stay close and keep your hands on your pockets"
I remember that night clearly
We were walking down the street in Denver
We passed by a group of people
They were dancing to fast music
Like Michael from church
Just before he pulled me behind him
I saw their skin was dark
And I became afraid

My father told me,
"Stay close. Let's walk the dog."
I remember that morning clearly
I was playing with the dog in the front yard
A car with a man and a woman inside parked across the street
The woman looked angry
Like Heather gets with Dad
Just before we turned the corner out of the neighborhood
I saw the woman was wearing a headscarf
And I became afraid

I went back to mom's house

My mom's friend Jim was there
He saw me walk in the front door
He said, "Your mom isn't home"
I was scared
He asked if I was hungry
He made me grilled cheese and tomato soup
He had a colorful bracelet on
And he was my friend

I went to school on Monday

I was paired up with a dark-skinned boy
He saw the pokemon cards in my pocket
He told me, "I like pokemon, too"
I was scared
He asked if we could play
He had dark skin
And he was my friend

I got into 3rd grade

There was a girl with a headscarf in English
She saw me sitting alone
She asked me, "May I sit here?"
I was scared
I told her why my dad told me people like her were bad
She asked how someone could be so horrible
She wore a headscarf
And she was my friend.

I Could NEVER Hit a Girl

Edit: I am in no way proud of this. This was the first thing I'd ever talked badly about another person in years. I feel terrible about writing it.


I realize that this blog is primarily for school, but I'm posting this anyway. If you're adverse to cussing, you may want to skip over this one.

Okay, this time I'm going to b*tch, rather than lament
About a b*tch who likes to mock my intelligence
She fills my hood with paper and with insults fills my head
Then she's got the nerve to say, "You woke up on the wrong side of the bed."
Half her vocabulary is "um," "like," and, "whatever
B*tch, I think you need to lern 2 tock more better
Work on your vocabulary before you insult my math
You're lucky you're not a guy 'cause I'd f*ckin' drop your ass
Work on aggrandizing your mental lexicon
Do your best to attempt to cohere a couple neurons
I refuse to be called stupid by someone who's cerebral archive
Is small enough, they need to ask, "How many times does one go into five?"
The answer's five, nothing about that should be hard
I'm done before you can start number 1 and I'm the retard?
Yeah, I may be a sophomore in Algebra 1
But I've got the intelligence of a god damned brain surgeon
I would pay to watch you try to spell the word "rhyme"
But frankly, I don't have that much free time
Here: y = x. Find the slope
Can you do it in your head? No?
Here, take my pen and a piece of paper
You messed up? Too bad, you shouldn't need an eraser
Can you define the word "hypocritical"
The irony of the things you say about me is hysterical
Do you understand what it means to be blunt?
Well then here's an example: You're a f*cking c*nt =)

Imagery Poem

Great poetry is difficult to create
Especially when abstract concepts don't feed its power
Using tangible topics is making me irate
I'm getting more and more frustrated by the hour

But in my last minute panic I know
Just what I want to describe
Writing this poem took me more than one go
I'm writing it hurriedly during hour five

The others are reading, by the rules they're abiding
I'm writing in a red hoodie during English class
Kramarczyk's saying, "We're reading, not writing."
Constructing this poem's a pain in the ass

Kramarczyk's mad but I don't really care
I'm actually doing my homework for once
I know this poem is lacking and bare
But I'm writing while avoiding a hat that reads, "dunce"

In my cargo pants my leg moves up and down
I rub my head and rack my mind
My elbow is resting on a desk colored brown
I know that rhyme sucked but I'm in a bit of a bind

I'm just about done with my half-assed poem
It's lunch now, I finished right on time
Let's do something I'm good at, Porterfield, throw me a bone
The time on the clock reads 1:49

To a Piece of Paper

Here was the format for the poem:

Here is the place_____________.
 Here is ____________________.
Where _________________ of Creation.
Here is _________.
Here is ______________
Where ____________ wish to live.

And I turned it into this:

Here is the place where dreamers reside.
Where hidden beauty is released.
Where the truly great imagine the unimaginable secrets of Creation.
Here is the canvass of artists whose hands and mind are aren't steady enough for a brush.
Here is the war zone where the youth die young or the woman weeps alone with her guitar.
Here is the tranquil pool
Where those with restless souls wish to live

A list

I was told to write down a list of what I think. I wrote down words as they came to mind in order, not skipping any even if they were repeats

Life
Death
How the mind works
Love
Suicide
Murder
Kelsey
Hate
Anger
Tranquility
Security
Haven
Symbolism
How my mind works
What causes pain?
What causes happiness?
What causes numbness?
How do past experiences shape who we are?
What makes the quiet silent?
Music
Rhythm
Escapism
Murder
Hate
Rampage
Power
Loneliness
What is wrong with me?
"Welcome to the Family"
Injustice
Morality
Crime
Punishment
Damnation
He'll
Death
Agony
Burning
Fire
Rescue
Heaven
Outcast
Anger
Destruction
Disaster
Despair
Peace
Loneliness
Music
Relaxation
Meditation
Calmness
Peace
Tranquility
Death

I decided to end the list there. It was getting way too long. This list was the topic for the poem right down there. V

Train of Thought

This is based on this list right up there ^

I spend much of my life
Dwelling on questions whose answers I can't find
What is the origin of life,
And what causes death?
What makes past loves so hard to forget?
Why do I like the idea of suicide if I'm not sad?
Why does murder interest me so, and what makes it bad?
How come remebering Her fills me with hated?
What about my endless anger do I find sacred?
Sometimes thoughts of Her give me tranquility
I remember all of her love and security
Her home was a haven from my own
She still hasn't told me why she left me all alone
What symbolism do we find in the heart and it's beat?
We all know it is little more than a pulsing piece of meat
What causes pain, what causes joy?
What causes the numbness that most can avoid?
How did life beat me into being who I am?
Why do I choose not to talk if I know that I can?
What is so amazing about joining notes to rhythm?
What is so hard to understand about escapism?
My train of thought is losing direction
This interest in murder requires correction
I want to go on a rampage before it's too late
I'm going to have all the power on earth, just wait.
My mind drifts again to somewhere new
What is wrong with me, I don't know what to do
Listen to some "Welcome to the Family" Avenged Sevenfold
Make myself feel for a moment that I'm not alone
In the calm I go back to problems larger than me
Of all the so-called "crimes" how many actually stem from bad morality?
If a man robs a convenience store to feed his starving family
Does that give him a criminal mentality?
And what about those doomed to damnation?
Those who in rape, murder, and violence find elation?
If heaven and hell exist after death,
How many will know the blaze when they take their last breath?
I heard 97 in 100 are destined to join the damned
But maybe even the divine wrongly denies those of the Promised Land
Like the atheists and my agnostics who are on the fence about Christ
But beyond that did nothing wrong during their life
And if Jesus died on the cross for our faults,
Why are so many damned by default?
And what of those like me who are between?
Angels to demons and to heaven we're fiends
Are we cursed with eternal life trapped on this earth,
A place I've wanted to leave since my birth?
Maybe if ghost stories are true,
I can take over a body and end all of you
And once everyone has decayed to the bone
I can finally be happy and be left all alone
Create my own music, my own symphony
Alone with my music I'll have tranquility
But I too will need to be gone
One can only stand solitude for so long
If in life I can understand death in this whole
Then maybe in death I'll learn to end the soul

Originality

Some people really seem to like my writing. I can't really imagine why. It's drawn from other people's work for the most part. It's kind of embarrassing how little you'd have to search to find quotes, story lines, and characters that have appeared in my writing. The first thing I'd ever read aloud to anyone was just my first experience on Minecraft made more realistic. How about the poem I wrote about the world escencially circling the drain? "Elective amnesia is the general mentality?" Wrong. Elective Amnesia is a song by Rise Against. And come on, a zombie apocalypse story? You can't get much more clichéd and unorigional than that. When I saved the person who rescued me from a horde of zombies by killing myself with a grenade, did Will Smith come to mind? I am no legend. My next short story? It's like Devil May Cry 3 was the surrogate mother of Kingdom Hearts' and Infamous' illegitimate child. The main character was chosen by his weapon to be it's wielder. He has the power to shoot electricity from his hands and sounds the majority of the story he is ascending a tower to find and kill his brother. My last short story, the big dragon from How to Train Your Dragon was chasing me. In a panic I too, shelter in the kitchen from Ratatouille. There, I was attacked by the demons from Dante's Inferno. My poem that Rick Roll'd an entire class was a small piece of my life, a big chunk of my friend's writing style that I sdjusted ever-so-slightly and an old Internet joke so overused that even the most calm person would become infuriated just hearing it. I guess it's just hard to be original when you're as lazy as I am. But as Mr. Garrison from South Park once quoted, "Everything's already been done."