Theme Twelve – The Taste of Frustration

 When I was a young child, 
Somebody placed something delicious
In my mouth
Once

Mommy’s lips tickled the
Very tip of my ears and she
Whispered
Bite

I sat there wondering at the
Sweet and heavy nectar,
The sweet dew that was in my
Mouth

Mommy thought I couldn’t hear her
And she raised my small hand to the
Tears rolling down her
Cheeks

Then I bit down, the soft
Fruit she called mango, 
Enveloping my tongue 
Completely

It was so sweet, so refreshingly
Cool, I told her I liked it,
Even more than 
Candy

She fed me small pieces, put
Some on a plate, and leaned in
Really close, her breath tickling my
Neck

There’s some on your plate,
I want you to feel it,
Bring it to your lips, and then
Eat

It was slippery and I cried,
Wiped my face with my mango hands
Brought them to my face and tasted
Salt

I laughed, the salt and sweet
Mixed, and I told mommy I didn’t like
The taste of
Frustration

She told me to kept trying,
I felt her hands, a steady 
Presence on my
Thigh

I tried again and again,
For almost thirty minutes.
I heard the clock continue to
Tick

Finally, the piece, the slippery
Piece of heaven – I triumphantly
Brought it to my lips and tasted
Victory

Theme Eleven Response – Abstract Insanity

I know I’ve tried really hard to get recognized for my work. I’ve tried for a long time now to make my work reflect ME. I want people to think of me, think of the passion I pour into my art…I want them to see the intricacies, the details. I want them to admire my even brush strokes, my thousand discarded attempts before I create my masterpiece. I want them to collect those attempts, journal my adventure, and tell me I have potential to be great. I want to be recognized as a genius, even though all I’ve really done is paint what I see.

But it’s never good enough. They never see it for being the brave and life-consuming effort that my paintings truly are. They look at them, puzzle over them for half a second, scoff and walk away.

I’m not just another lunatic.

My paintings have meaning, they sketch out the ordered chaos of the life I have experienced and visualized around me. How can they look away so quickly? Are they scared of what they might discover about themselves when they look at my work? Do they think they’ll get so lost in the swirling spectrums of colors that I map out for them?

Why do they disregard me? My art. Why am i still trying to please them? Why am I sitting here, dirt poor on the corner of a park right now, garnering dirty stares from the women that cross me. You know, when they subtly cross over so that they stand between me and their child, I can’t help but want to cry out to them, “I was an innocent child too. I had a loving mother too. But now nobody understands me and they call me crazy.” But out here, on the street, trying to communicate your life story in any way is simply unallowed. It is devastating to one’s ego, this life of mine. The stares I get from them. Sometimes, I just want to kill them.

Once, I stuck my leg out when a woman gave me this vile look. She tripped and broke her nose on the cement. When she got up to call 911 and began yelling horrible obscenities at me, I watched the swirls that her blood had left on the ground. There was a beautiful design there, and I didn’t have a phone or camera to capture it on. But I wanted it, I wanted it so badly. So I tore off my shirt and slapped it against the blood, hoping I would lift the pattern onto it. If only I could duplicate it….it was perfect. The blood changed directions at just the right instant, and the mini-maze it had encapsulated in the little space was breathtakingly brilliant. See, I recognized brilliance, I didn’t scoff at it and then walk away.

And then they picked me up and threw me into the back of a police car and while they dragged me away, my shirt fell out of my grasp. I tried to tell them I just wanted it for the pattern but they wouldn’t listen. They told me I was crazy, I was going to be hospitalized. They yelled at me to put my hands up or else they would shoot me and the entire time, I just kept lunging and lunging for my shirt.

That’s all I wanted and they took me away. Took away my art just as they disregarded my life.

Theme Ten Response – Adé

I was so fucking proud of myself today. I mean, DAMN man, that shit was hot. I was on FIRE on that stage. All the judges thought so too. That hot chick – I forgot her name – she was like man, I can FEEL ya. Okay so maybe she didn’t say it that way but I mean, seriously, there was a vibe goin on in there tonight, and it was all cuz of me. I neva knew I could move my body that way. I never knew the power of expression in my limbs, in my leg extensions, in my spins, twirls, and leaps. Hell, my dad thought I was trippin or high or something every time I practiced in front of him. “Contemporary…is a piece of SHIT” he would tell me. “You ain’t no white kid son. You livin in the ghettos you gotta stop doing this shit.”

But nobody understood me. Nobody knew the..axxilleration I got from my dancing. When I heard the music, that beat just runs through me and my arms and legs synchronize themselves and just move. They move to the beat, and my entire body begins leaping. My face reflects the song, but my eyes reflec the ecstasy and joy of dancing. “You have a real sparkle in you. You’ve got heart,” another judge told me tonight. She told me that, and I thought to myself “I gotta have heard. I’m from the ghetto. You ain’t got heart here, you’re dead.”

“You were loyal to the piece, you’re going to go very far Adé”

I started crying when she said that to me, great big tears of pride and satisfaction. I had fought real hard to get there too, so it was only fair that I finally got some respect for putting everything that I thought was normal for this. I wasn’t playing bball in the streets all day, I wasn’t getting hammered..as much. So what if I don’t like guns and knives, so what if I was born n the ghetto. My heart fucking soars when I leap; I live for the music. Going to the downtown New York City studio was my escape. When I got on that train and left Brooklyn for downtown New York City, I was escaping. I left behind Brooklyn’s streets, the rules of the ghetto, and the stereotypes – I shed my outer skin. So I went there for the five free lessons at first – there was a coupon we’d gotten in the mail but my dad threw it out before he thought I could see. But I saw and grabbed it outta the trash later. Even then, he hated how much I liked dance. He thought music was fine – tonsa famous rich black singers, he said, but there ain’t no black singers ever on the news. I didn’t care though. This was my ticket to equality. I’m finally gonna do it, and I’m gonna get outta this shithole too.

It wasn’t hard to get to the actual studio, I mean, my dad didn’t expect me to stay at home all day. Hell, he was prolly glad I was breaking curfew and staying out late and shit. All his friends had sons that were already juvenile delinquites – he told me often enough that I wasn’t troublesome enough. But I mean, he don’t know nothing about what it means to live. I don’t need no gang to represent myself, I just need to dance. I tried hip-hop when I got there, it seemed like a lot more people did that and still got rep for bein cool, but it wasn’t for me. It was too harsh, my dance needed to be fluid because my life wasn’t. I mean seriously, life in “the hood” is all about rules, and the lethal consequences of not memorizing and abiding by them. Can’t be nice to nobody in one neighborhood, can’t speak at all down the block unless I wanna get shot up or hurt real bad. It was just too much, but here in New York City, all that was miles away, and dance was more important.

The studio gave me free lessons but I loved the place, I wanted more. After the first three lessons I walked in early once and saw this bombshell of a girl. She was all butt and boobs, but pretty good at dancing. She did what they told me was contemporary – you moved how the music told you to. She did it like it was all acrobatics and tricks. That’s all I saw that first time – some wack girl doing cartwheels, flips, jumping all over the place, and acting weird. I thought she was just goofin off because she didn’t think I was here but then I saw that there was an instructor there and she looked pretty happy with what she saw. I walked in and she told me I should try this too – said I had the right build; I’d make a real good contemporary dancer. I tried it with her and I felt like I was flying! I was so caught up in the feel of the music, I felt my arms and legs expanding and leaping all by themselves when the music got faster or louder, and my entire body contracted itself into a finite dance space when the music seemed to slow down and condense itself. There was a pause and I swear I wasn’t fucking planning it at all, but my entire body just froze right after a flip I’d done, and it was stock still for an instant before I sprang back into another leap that turned into a front flip when the music suddenly soared to new heights. I loved this. This was what my body had been craving all this time.

The studio was $240 a month for unlimited lessons. I had to take a break for three weeks while I planned this all out. Damn, those three weeks without any lessons to look forward to were hell. I mean I ended up getting hammered with my friends – we were totally twisted and I felt like shit the next day, which means it was an awesome night, but it just didn’t feel as fun or relaxing as dancing did now that I had a real taste of it. So after those three weeks I was like, “shit man, I really need to keep dancing.” Math was never my favorite subject, but I took out my rusting calculator and told myself that I was gonna start up a proper budget and stick to it.

See, I work at a deli here in Brooklyn. It’s minimum wage but its like seven hours a day and five days a week, plus lunch is on the house. So that was $7.25 an hour times 7 hours a day times 5 days a week times 4 weeks a month. Anyway, I made like over a thousand bucks a month – I could definitely afford spending $250 on the unlimited studio lessons. I was prolly gonna go there every day cuz my dad paid for the unlimited Metrocard I had – I told him I needed it for when I went out to west 4th street for my basketball games with my crew. We weren’t really a crew, just a buncha kids who liked playing sports in the city more than being possibly killed at a park in Brooklyn cuz our ball bounced against the wrong basketball net. I wasn’t gonna be able to drink as much, prolly get hammered every other weekend instead of every other day, but I was bein productive with my life again, and it was healthier for a dancer anyway. I can’t believe I already think of myself as a dancer. I ain’t nobody yet, but I’ll change it, don’t worry.

So I signed up for those lessons and three months later, here I was, walking from the studio to the Christopher street subway station. It wasn’t the closest but the walk through the West Village was always calming. Someday, I was gonna buy myself an apartment here – it was a real pretty neighborhood.

By the time I finally got home taking the most roundabout route you can imagine, it was pretty late. I took out a cigarette, lit it up, and passed it all over my clothes and skin. When I thought I smelled disgusting enough I threw it on the ground, stomped it out, and made my way inside. I didn’t wanna fake alcohol unless I had to but I walked past the living room and walked straight to my room. I walked in ready to collapse in bed after the tiring day but I saw my dad sitting there with a letter in his hand. He looked pretty livid so I told myself I was a fucking retard for coming home this early. Shoulda just let myself in after he went to sleep. He got up and lunged at me, I jumped outta the way and asked him what the hell I’d done wrong now.

He threw that letter in my face.

I read it quickly, my mind only half in it – I was eying my dad cautiously cuz I didn’t wanna get caught unaware. My body was already sore enough from the dance lessons, I didn’t need him beating the shit out of me on top of that. I’d spent the last month preparing for a huge dance competition. Okay well not huge, but all the schools in downtown NYC got together and put on this friendly competition. Those comments I mentioned up in the beginning – that’s what those were from. I came in 10th place but i was fucking proud as hell. I beat over a 100 other dancers to get there, and next year, I was gonna be first no matter what.

The letter was for auditions for an upcoming dance competition. They needed talented dancers like me to try out – if I got in, I was getting a spot in this dance show and the chance to be on TV. My ticket to equality. I have a lot of those; none of them ever go all the way there, but I’m always at least one stop closer. The studio had sent it out to all the students and addressed it as such – my dad was, needless to say, pretty pissed. He didn’t know about my dancing at all, remember. He didn’t think it was manly enough, and didn’t wanna come watch me so I could prove to him how wrong he was.

We fought and I left the home for some fresh air to clear my head. I regretted not actually smoking that cigarette before and took another one out. I was about to light it, had second thoughts, and put it back away. I kept walking and this hobo on the street who’d probably seen me take out my cigarette asked me to help him out and give him a cigarette and light. Now I mean, I work hard to afford my cigarettes and I ain’t about to give them to some nobody lowlife on the streets. I ignored him and kept walking.

“Don’t you dare fucking ignore me nigga,” the hobo yelled out behind me. I kept walking, cursing myself a thousand times over for leaving the house. This was not a good day, and this was not the safe West Village in downtown New York City either. I told him I didn’t have none for him but that was definitely the worst mistake ever cuz now the hobo was freaking following me. I called the home phone hoping my dad would pick up but obviously he was too pissed and probably drinking on the cough, too lazy to get up for the phone. Fuck my life. Fuck.

I quickened my pace and still, he noisily followed me. I was a block away from the main road now, there’s no way this creep was gonna stalk me there. I thought I heard him say something behind me again but I was too busy trying to put as much distance between us as I could. I considered running for it but that was a sure way to get myself into even more deep shit. I kept trying the home phone, still no luck.

“Dude, take a cigarette and get away from here,” I said in desperation. Annoyed, I slowed down and held out a cigarette to the dirty homeless man who was staring at me with a very disconcerting expression. He got closer, muttering about how selfish I was. I bit back my anger and waited for him – he was a few steps away now. I reached for the lighter in my pocket. He thought I was reaching for a gun and leapt those last few steps straight for my throat. And then my world went blank.

He died. The dancer died.

Theme Nine Entry, Poem – A Plea, A Plea for Love.

I would tell her not to plunge headfirst
Into her emotions. I would tell her, sift them out some
First, and ask your heart for truth, not
Instant emotions. Life’s a roller-coaster, I would say,
But please, love doesn’t have to be one.

Oh but that’s nonsense, she would say,
Petting my worries and my doubts away.
Life will never be fun that way,
You have to love passionately, she would say.
I would scoff. It was make-believe, the love of her fantasies.

Of course, she didn’t listen, she fell in headfirst anyway.
The man of her dreams, the person she had been waiting all her life for.
She knew all this from but a simple glance in his eyes.
When will you ever listen to me? When will you learn?
Grow up. Your foolishness will cause you much despair someday.

She didn’t listen, didn’t approach love cautiously enough,
And I watched her, worried and fretted for her, cried for her
As she headed down a tough and unforgiving path.
If her heart broke, mine would shatter irreparably into a million pieces,
I would have failed her, and the carefree elegance within her would die.

How was I going to let that happen? I had to do something,
Intervene in some way. But no, that would break my own rules,
I had taught her, the rest I left in her hands. I hoped, I truly hoped,
That her dear smile, twinkling eyes, lighthearted nature
Would win him over. I hoped that her laughter would keep him there.

He seemed nice enough, polite and handsome at first glance.
I worried though – had she looked deep within his soul?
Was it of ice or of raging fire, as passionate and capable of love
As her own? Did he collect hearts, dash hopes, and scorn promising futures?
Was he as full of dreams as she?

They ran off together, and I could do nothing
Nothing but pray and hope for the best.
Hope that her lack of caution would make her love
Twice as romantic, so that she may partake in enough
For us both. Me, who had been so careful, so thorough, and so
Alone that I had never given myself the chance,
The chance to love.

Theme Six Response – Flight

Lessandra, the queen’s favorite daughter as a toddler, had quickly turned into the little royalty with the greatest skill set. She knew how to take charge of situations, how to defuse a tense argument, how to take care of herself and make sure her older siblings never got into a fight, and make time to sneak off into the Dragon hold besides. The Castle occupants were supposed to be superior to the commoners who used their Dragon mounts in order to travel to and from the surrounding cities. As she looked at the magical globelights surrounding her Castle, her Home, in a brilliant display of vibrant pinks and oranges, she felt a twang of despair. If they caught her now, she would never be able to explore the world, and Lessandra didn’t want to squabble away her entire life pretending she was a noble. She wanted the open skies and the rush she felt when her dragon lifted them both into the air.

Lessandra had been adopted, and as it seems, she came from already incredible stock. The castle was unapproachable save for those special guests invited by the King and Queen themselves and yet somehow, somebody had managed to sneak Lessandra up, past dozens of checkpoints, hundreds of sentries, tons of watchtowers and levels of bureaucracy and place her in the King and Queen’s private chambers one evening. They had left her there and the king and Queen had adopted her as their own, hoping that someday, her true parents and identity would be revealed.

Lessandra had been raised with all the proper protocol. She knew how to knit, sew, and weave. She could cook delicious meals if needed, but knew the recipes of fifty different lands, and the grace, language and poise needed to order them no matter where she went. She could speak to any commoner from any land, as was expected of all the members of the Royal family, and she was trained in all of their quirky customs. She knew to curtsy low in front of the men of Ashara, and display the briefest hint of a bow in front of the men of Ramoth. She could manage her maids, servants, and ladies-in-waiting, she could rattle off the specifications for any dress she envisioned in her head – down to the exact shade of lace, the accessories desired, the type of pearls, the exact pattern and placement of gemstones and the amount of material required. As her mother, the Queen Shonara, put it, Lessandra was bred to be a Queen. She had been gifted into the position, and trained to perfection.

But above all else, Lessandra prided herself not in her royal knowledge, but in her secret stash of skills that she had let nobody, not even her younger brothers and sisters, discover. Above all her talents, Lessandra prided herself on her ability to care for, ride, and understand dragons. The understand part hadn’t come easy though, and Lessandra could think of countless examples of sore and bruised arms, legs, thighs, shoulders, and even torso when she had misinterpreted what her dragon was about to do and taken a hurtle.

When Lessandra was five, she had taken a different route back to her wing in the castle after arriving from a playdate with her best friend, Niamh. Niamh, a daughter of one of the numerous Lords and Ladies who co-inhabited the immense castle, loved spending time by the nearby moat, and so, Lessandra and Niamh found themselves there, at the edge of the castle boundaries, frequently. The moat’s crystal clear water, kept immaculately clean by the host of pacifist earthen caretakers who lived within the castle walls, was a thing of precious beauty. The water was always a deep sapphire blue, and one could peer deep down and look at the strange underwater foliage that grew around the edges. The very center of the moat reflected the colorful skies overhead.

She had been looking up and admiring the lovely light orbs that gave the castle its distinct foreboding glow when she realized that she was walking along a different path. She looked ahead and it seemed to lead towards the castel as well, so she shrugged and continued along. As she neared the stone façade, she sniffed and frowned – her delicate nose had detected the slight stench of the castle dragonhold.

She had continued walking, curious and eager to see the dragons. She thought they were beautiful and knew that there was a dragonhold on the castle grounds – what castle didn’t have one? – but she had never had reason to visit it. Her regalia demanded certain respect, and she saw the dragonmasters and dragonmounters alike regarding her with caution. They kept their distance and she continued walking, peering occasionally into one of the dragon’s covens, until a man asked her “How can we be of service to you Princess Lessandra?” in a kind but stern, voice. “I am responsible for running the dragonhold. Has there been a problem? Is anybody in need of a mount?”

Just as Lessandra was about to speak, he said in a rush “My humble apologies Princess. I am at fault for having thought you would visit our hold to request a mount. I am deeply sorry if I have off-“

She interrupted him smoothly. “Not at all, Sir –“

“Sir Leon, my princess.” He bowed.

She politely curtsied in response and continued speaking. “I was just on my way back from the castle moat and happened to follow this pathway. I’ve never been to our Dragonhold before, and wished to take a look before proceeding to my chambers.”

She thought for a moment before adding “It does tend to get a bit boring in there” in a conspirational voice.

He allowed himself a quiet chuckle and offered to show her the Dragonhold, and this is when she discovered her love for the animals. If caught early and tempered by consistent and gentle human contact, the dragons would allow a human to ride upon them, thus aiding in travel to and fro the various lands of the Kingdom. However, when royalty traveled, they traveled not in the air on potentially volatile or ill-mannered dragons, but on the ground, where they traveled with proper guards, servants, and equipment. This also gave them ample time to meet the people. In fact, once every five or six years, the King and his Queen, along with their older children, would make a Grand Processional all over the Kingdom. Sometimes, one such processional would last up to a year to complete. The King and Queen hoped that by taking their older children with them, they would come across a noble who struck their fancy. Many of the royal marriages had been arranged this way.

Lessandra gazed at the beautiful dragons around her, telling herself that they were unsafe, dangerous, and harmful creatures. But still, despite everything her upbringing was telling her, she was still curious and eager to see the creatures up-close. Sir Leon watched as she inched closer and closer each time they stopped briefly at a dragon’s cove.

Lessandra wanted to learn all she could about dragons after that day in the Castle Dragonhold. She went straight to the bookkeeper and began heckling the wizened old man about everything that he knew. He gave her large tomes that recorded the history of the dragons, dating back to the first time they had ever been encountered by literate humans. She ordered one of her guards to carry the tomes for her back to her room.

She spent weeks reading about the dragons, and visited the Dragonhold almost every day, even if just for a few minutes at a time. Of course, the King and Queen didn’t approve, but as talented and schooled Lessandra was, she was equally as independent. They wouldn’t have been able to stop her and telling her outright that she was forbidden would only spur her desire even more strongly. So the King and Queen watched passively, not too worried; they hoped Lessandra would grow out of this phase. And for the sake of their country, they hoped it would be soon, because Lessandra had too many qualities of a leader to put them all away and set off atop a dragon.

But mounting a dragon continued to be Lessandra’s dream once she had read about the intrigue, mystery, and beauty behind how a dragon chose who would be allowed to mount it. She was enthralled by the dragons and wanted to see if she herself could prove worthy of mounting one of the misunderstood beasts.

But she was never given the opportunity to even try – all the workers at the Dragonhold knew that the King and Queen would not be so lenient with them, and they tried their best to avoid giving Lessandra any chance to mount a dragon. They did not want to be the ones directly responsible for her transgressions.

But Lessandra was set on finding herself a lucky break. Several weeks into her interest with dragons, the shy one in particular, she was finally gifted the opportunity that she had been waiting for. The shy little dragon who. Lessandra had secretly been calling Windglide, named for her effortless solo flights, had broken free of her restraints during her feeding.

Lessandra had been the first to notice; she took off in a sprint away from the Dragonhold, familiar enough with the Castle’s windy paths to pick out what her quickest routes could be – she had to save the excited dragon who didn’t know any better. Bred and raised by humans her entire life, she was simply not allowed to escape –she would not survive. Lessandra paused for a moment and then sudden inspiration struck her. She began tearing out the gems in all of her clothing, compiling the decently sized pile on the ground next to her. She picked up a piece of Onyx that glinted in the various color orbs and held it out toward Windglide, who had now perched cautiously far away. The more Lessandra tempted Windglide with the shiny gems, the closer the dragon allowed Lessandra to get.

She began inching toward windglide, nothing but innocent curiosity and concern in her heart. Windglide sensed the purity of Lessandra’s emotions and made no fuss as the girl got closer and closer to her muzzle.

At the very end, Lessandra stood right by Windglide, closed and averted her eyes, and tentatively reached her fingers out to the dragon. Windglide did not make any commotion. Still holding her breath, Lessandra attempted what she had thought would never be possible.

She mounted Windglide.

Theme Eight Response – Peace

I don’t know where I was going with this – I’m trying to establish a flow that, when read the right way, makes the repetition of certain sounds create a soothing and peaceful/relaxing effect. Tell me if it worked? This is a technique we touched upon in my Creative Writing class last semester, and as you can see, I obviously have yet to master it.

A Written Peace
 A lone water droplet formed from the condensation on a cool Sports Drink falls to the ground. It is quiet, it does not make a sound. Nobody notices as it makes its way down, moving towards Earth at 9.8 meters per second squared, down to the ground. It is a free-moving accelerating object not Bound to any other laws but the laws of nature to which its element is ground. It takes the shape of its container, falls with a splat against the pavement, turning oblique and misshapen where once it was round. It evaporates at 100 degrees celcius, freezes at zero – it follows simple logic, nothing profound. Bound to nature, grounded by gravity, the lone droplet falls and splatters with some sound, with a little rebound. The girl holding the Sports Drink continues on her way, running along the paved ground. She runs along the track, bottle in hand, silent music playing in her ears, her feet making a rhythmic sound. The droplet cannot hear the music – it is for her ears only – the strange white wires focus and hone it in, filling the air around her with unsound. The sound of the droplet as it hits the ground is drowned out by the music as the girl runs around. Peace, she says, and solace she gains, as her feet patter ceaselessly on the ground. Release, it feels, a satisfying rebound, as it bounces onto the scorching pavement, evaporates a little, but collects on the ground.

Theme Seven Response II – Comments + Poem

I want to start clean,

I want to start fresh

I want to break free,

I want to escape this mess.

 

I never wanted to leave,

I always wanted you here,

I wanted you right by my side,

Just you and I

 

But what can I say, I got scared

I saw you become pretty, sexy

Drop-dead gorgeous, but I was still

Just plain old me – a boring and simple guy.

 

I didn’t know you liked me, I thought

We were just friends. I didn’t know you

Saw me the same way. I never saw a

Tell-tale spark in your eye

 

Like I know there was in mine.

Everytime I bent down to whisper in your

Ear, I wished there would be a time

You might beg me to whisper of Romance

 

You were ready to start relationships,

But I held back afraid. You would

Never want me, and I just wanted you more and more

Every single day.

 

So I had no choice, I had to leave.

Leave you alone and take my heartache away.

Rid you of my thoughts, and my thoughts of you

I had to leave, don’t you see? I needed to chase my heartache away.

 

I entered a period of depression,

My mind was yelling at me, raising

Such a racket at my abandonment. My

Conscious spoke to me, you know, and I knew I was wrong.

 

But what could I do? I wanted to do right

By your eyes, but I knew that “Just you and I”

Was a thing of my dreams – a fragment of my

Imagination, and that is all that it would ever be.

 

I left you but I still want you.

Crave you and I still need you.

I still want you by my side,

I still pray for you and I.

 

Please tell me you’ll give me one more chance?

One more time to prove that I can change.

I can gain that confidence, rid myself

Of those fears, and earn your love and trust again.

 

Please give me just one dance – senior prom

In High School was many years ago, and

Though I didn’t know I would lose you then,

I know now, and I miss your companionship the most.

 

I want you, I want us.

I want just you and I.

I want paradise, I want ecstasy,

And I want you to be the one who brings It to me.

 

So will you give me that chance,

Will you plunge into our friendship

Once more? Will you let me

Steal kisses every now and then?

 

Will you allow me your deepest secrets

Once more? I’ll tell you all of mine

Save for one – The one in which

I love you still, love you forevermore.

****I’ve fallen tragically behind in all of my Project Theme updates. I realize this and feel terribly sorry that this has happened. As it is, real life and work are taking its toll, and often I find myself spending my measly bits of spare time watching TV, catching up on sleep, or otherwise goofing off because i can’t do that all day. However, I have finished this along with most of my Theme 6 entry. Theme 8’s entry is due by Monday night and I’m hoping that I can be fully caught up by then?

My music inspiration for my main entry + the reason for writing the above  poem was this song, [http://www.sing365.com/music/lyric.nsf/swing-life-away-lyrics-rise-against/43f4ae5e6d809d1848256ef0000c1728] (Swing Life Away) by Rise Against. I’ve always been a huge fan of the lyrics from "Rise Against"s albums but personally do not enjoy the way they sing their songs. That being said, this song is one of the few that grew on me and got to keep its spont on my iTunes playlist.

I’ll be all caught up soon and I hope I haven’t irritated you guys to death these past few weeks by my lack of punctual updates! At least Poetry Paradise hasn’t suffered yet 😛