I think part of this is because I was much more curious about, well, everything. I constantly asked questions, kept strange objects, and most importantly wrote, drew, and danced.
When I was little whenever I ran into a new word, I would always ask my dad what it meant. After a while I'm surprised I didn't stop asking him, because every simple definition I asked for turned into a 20 minute speech about roots, stories, and proper uses of the aforementioned word.
Part of this general curiosity of new words led me to creative writing. I was so interested in the power of the word, as I still am.
In middle school I attended the creative writing club we had, and always wrote original pieces for the dramatic arts competitions we had each year (I won second place in 7th grade!). I can look back at all of the poems I wrote and see more than anything the errors, but also the inspiration. Nowadays it's pretty difficult to come up with a purpose behind a poem or a story, that I might not of considered necessary before I started writing when I was younger.
Every once in a while I still do have some sudden inspiration. For some reason, this seems to happen a lot after exams. Maybe it's just my boredom, or maybe it's the universe's subtle way of laughing at me, because I am never able to keep the poems I write during exams. Although I never really do keep my favorite poems (I like to give people my favorites as presents).
This time though I remembered the poem as best I could, and then in a way sort of edited it.
It's kind of dark, and not based on any personal experience, but I still kind of like it.
Her silent protests,
his mindless words.
Her colorful arms
record his unprovoked rage.
She stopped fighting
to break his control.
The control that crazes him,
the control that tells him
to add blossoming purple flowers
to the garden that decorates her body.
The garden that is tended only by his unwanted love.
No comments:
Post a Comment