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Literature Text
Someone came up to me once, his eyes were grey and soft, and he asked me, "Teach me how to write, please?"
Frowning, I looked at him, "Write what?"
"Teach me how to write beautiful poetry, I need to be able to write poetry," he paused, "But I never know what to write about...."
In that moment I understood my friend's problem, "Okay," I said, "Write about the reflection of the sun's light on water. Write about how at sunset it bleeds its rays out onto the wet sand to create copper fields. Write about the gritty grip of that sand between your toes, like the most adoring lover it'll never let you go and you'll spend the rest of your life trying to shake it out of your shoes."
He smiled, but it was a small smile, "I've never been to the beach though..."
"Then write about the city," I shrugged, "Write about the flocks of pigeons as they take to the air like soot covered angels, write about the tinny smell of petrol lurking around our heads. Try to ensnare the feeling that creeps into your chest as you stumble down dark alleyways, write how the fear and anticipation freezes in your heart to form an iceberg of trepidation which will not melt until you see the light of the High Street."
Shaking his head, he contradicted me, "I want to write about my feelings, not a place."
"Okay," I folded my arms, "Write about the numbness. Write about how life weighs down on your soul. Write about how bad it is when you can't even register the musty scent of leaves littering the ground during autumn, write about how it feels to be perpetually tired but never able to sleep-"
Leaning forward, he stopped me by placing his finger on my lips, "No. Not the numbness, please. Something, someone, happened to me and now I don't feel depressed. I want to write about something stronger..."
"Ah!" I nodded, "Hate! Write about how –"
"No!" he laughed, "Not hate, definitely not hate. I want to write about love..."
My face fell, "Love. Right. Okay. Well, you know this. Write about the music it plays, and how it makes your heart fly to your throat. Write about the copper, always the same copper, leaking into every sentence. Write about its lips as they drunkenly brush against yours, his lips specifically. Write about the vodka drenched lies he delivers you on an often used rag and then express –"
"No. Not that love. I want to write about true love," Taking me by the hands he pulled me forwards, "Look around you, my dear, what can you see...?"
Like he asked, I looked, "I can see nacreous clouds licked with copper. Always copper," I smiled sadly, "Always copper."
He brought me close, and whispered in my ear, "There's copper in your hair too. I want to write about us. I want to record our love. I love you. And you know what?"
"What?" I was too scared to meet his eyes.
"You've taught me to be inspired," he smiled, "And no matter what happens, I won't lose that."
Because inspiration is always there, in everything and everyone. Sometimes it just has to be found first.
Frowning, I looked at him, "Write what?"
"Teach me how to write beautiful poetry, I need to be able to write poetry," he paused, "But I never know what to write about...."
In that moment I understood my friend's problem, "Okay," I said, "Write about the reflection of the sun's light on water. Write about how at sunset it bleeds its rays out onto the wet sand to create copper fields. Write about the gritty grip of that sand between your toes, like the most adoring lover it'll never let you go and you'll spend the rest of your life trying to shake it out of your shoes."
He smiled, but it was a small smile, "I've never been to the beach though..."
"Then write about the city," I shrugged, "Write about the flocks of pigeons as they take to the air like soot covered angels, write about the tinny smell of petrol lurking around our heads. Try to ensnare the feeling that creeps into your chest as you stumble down dark alleyways, write how the fear and anticipation freezes in your heart to form an iceberg of trepidation which will not melt until you see the light of the High Street."
Shaking his head, he contradicted me, "I want to write about my feelings, not a place."
"Okay," I folded my arms, "Write about the numbness. Write about how life weighs down on your soul. Write about how bad it is when you can't even register the musty scent of leaves littering the ground during autumn, write about how it feels to be perpetually tired but never able to sleep-"
Leaning forward, he stopped me by placing his finger on my lips, "No. Not the numbness, please. Something, someone, happened to me and now I don't feel depressed. I want to write about something stronger..."
"Ah!" I nodded, "Hate! Write about how –"
"No!" he laughed, "Not hate, definitely not hate. I want to write about love..."
My face fell, "Love. Right. Okay. Well, you know this. Write about the music it plays, and how it makes your heart fly to your throat. Write about the copper, always the same copper, leaking into every sentence. Write about its lips as they drunkenly brush against yours, his lips specifically. Write about the vodka drenched lies he delivers you on an often used rag and then express –"
"No. Not that love. I want to write about true love," Taking me by the hands he pulled me forwards, "Look around you, my dear, what can you see...?"
Like he asked, I looked, "I can see nacreous clouds licked with copper. Always copper," I smiled sadly, "Always copper."
He brought me close, and whispered in my ear, "There's copper in your hair too. I want to write about us. I want to record our love. I love you. And you know what?"
"What?" I was too scared to meet his eyes.
"You've taught me to be inspired," he smiled, "And no matter what happens, I won't lose that."
Because inspiration is always there, in everything and everyone. Sometimes it just has to be found first.
Literature
A Child Again
I wish I could be a child again.
Where all I had to worry about
Were skinned knees
And cooties from boys.
I wish I would be a child again.
Where boys ran away from girls
And no one lied.
I wish I could be a child again.
Where parents were devoted
In every part of my life.
I wish I could be a child again.
When there was recess,
And fun and games.
I want to be a child again.
I want the child meant wonder.
I want the never ending hope.
I want loyalty.
I want simplicity.
I want to be a child again.
I want my innocence back.
I want to not have to worry.
I want grades that don't matter
I want time outs to be the worse punishme
Literature
Judgement
"You need to stop doing this."
"Stop doing what?"
"Writing me into your stories."
"...why?"
"Because
it scares me. I'm not this guy that you write about. I'm not some kind of Prince Charming and I'm certainly not a sea God or whatever you like to say about my eyes every now and then."
"Oh really?"
"Yeah. You really need to work on your judgement of people, because this is all wrong. It's like you don't know me at all!"
"So why don't you correct me and I'll fix my idea of you accordingly."
"Well
firstly, I'm a really nervous person."
"Yeah. Your hands are either fiddling with your hair or your sleeve, or you're biting y
Literature
I am.
I am.
I am the person who lives.
I am the person who loves.
I am the girl who cries to sleep at night, wishing I could be prettier.
I am the boy who is trying to live up to everyone else's expectations other than my own.
I am the invisible who linger in the hallways.
I am the person who bullies to feel better.
I am the parent who gave up after my child went to jail.
I am the daughter who works at fifteen because my parents can't.
I am the person who is bullied for being different.
I am the person who lives because I don't know what happens after death.
I am the woman who is hit on every day because of my looks, making them more of
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Nodyn i Lemon711 - dydw i ddim yn gallu i ysgrifennu.....
Note to everyone else - I'm annoyed with myself too for this. Indentation died... everything else was dead along time ago
Nodyn i Lemon711 - dydw i ddim yn gallu i ysgrifennu.....
Note to everyone else - I'm annoyed with myself too for this. Indentation died... everything else was dead along time ago
© 2011 - 2024 Peghan
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I really enjoyed reading this! So much so, I read it four times so that I could enjoy every part over and over again.
It's a great short story with a beautiful ending.
It's a great short story with a beautiful ending.