Unwritten

 Author's Note: This piece has sort of two parts. The first is a poem, and the second is reflecting on my poem... I just couldn't separate them, though, but I hope you enjoy!

Climbing up the limbs of the tree,

Sitting on top of the world beneath me.

Bringing a journal to take notes on my life,

And yet it lays unwritten.

I swing upside-down and glance at a twirl,

To discover a new and whole different world.

Could this possibly be what to explain?
I'd rather be left unwritten.

Leaping through the leaves seeming effortlessly,

Although there are so many flaws in me.

Throwing my journal to the ground,

Forever choosing to lay unwritten.

 If you are writing my story,

Isn't my past holding me back?

From who I can be?

From my future?

Because,

Isn't the future made to be left open?

For you?

For me?
Our pasts' are resisting us and pulling us.

Away from possibilities.

Away from life.

Which is why I am left,

Unwritten.

Author's Note: It has been recently requested that I had write a happy piece... very, very, difficult! Anyway, I hope you enjoy.

There is a single ray of sunshine,

That seeps through the gray of  clouds.

It swirls down to the earth,

And dances on the moist ground.

God's spotlight,

That sets the stage for me.

As I turn, facing the world,

I let my hair free and kick off my shoes.

I breathe and feel the mud seeping through my toes.

And then,

I dance.

Leaping and twirling through life,

My hair whipping the wind.

My heart beating uncontrollably,

Yet not noticing.

As happiness and hope overcome me.

I felt the elation surge through me,

As I collapsed in a sea of grass.

My golden hair caressing my face,

I smile.

Columbine Part 1

            Author’s Note: This is a historical fiction piece based upon the events of the Columbine High School shooting, 1999. A main character in this piece is Rachel Scott; Rachel was the first victim of this massacre. This piece is in the point of view of Rachel’s brother, Craig.

Laughing echoed the hallways as I strolled down the corridor, surrounded by my friends.  As I turned the corner, I stopped dead in my tracks. There, lay the sight of the century, soon to be turned into the laughing stock of the school. There, slowly approaching me was my sister Rachel. Not only was it my sister though, it was my sister talking to *Cristina Barnes.*  Cristina Barnes! I walked anxiously to Rachel and hissed,

“What do you think you’re doing?”

My sister replied plain as day, “Reaching the unreached.”

“What?” I exclaimed.

“You heard me. I’m reaching the unreached.”

“But, what does that mean?” I replied, annoyed.

Rachel said calmly, “No one seems to talk to Cristina. I am choosing to be that one.”

“But why?” I cried.

“Why not? You don’t have the compassion to care.” Rachel snapped.

I turned my back on Rachel, facing my highly amused friends as I told them that Rachel was just being dumb.

“I have a theory.” I failed to hear Rachel mumble as I walked away.

            “Craig! Craig!” The sound filled my ears as I sauntered to lunch. Turning on my heel, I saw *Mrs. Labokowski* calling me. “Craig—I forgot to give Rachel her essay back today; you think you can give it to her for me?”

“Sure thing, Mrs. Labokowski.” I retorted.

“Great. Your sister did such a good job on her essay, she is such an inspiring and aspiring young author.” Mr. Labokowski rambled.
I sighed, “I’ll be sure to get it to her.”

“Thanks, Craig.” Mrs. Labokowski exclaimed, a smile elongated across her face.

“Anytime.”

As I slouched down the hall, my eyes skimmed Rachel’s essay, landing on this paragraph;

¹Compassion is the greatest form of love humans have to offer. According to Webster’s Dictionary, compassion means a feeling of sympathy for another’s misfortune. My definition of compassion is forgiving, loving, helping, leading, and showing mercy for others. I have this theory that—“

“—Craig!” A voice interrupted.  I snapped my up my head to find my friend, Isaiah Sholes, calling me from the doors of the cafeteria.

“Craig—you sittin’ by us today?” Isaiah questioned.

“You bet’cha!” I shouted as I raced into the cafeteria. The smell of undercooked chicken patties lingered in the air as I followed Isaiah to our table. The essay lay crumpled up in my back pocket, waiting to find me.

 

*Name has been changed*

1- Cited from www.rachelschallange.org

Author's Note: This is just the first part of a most likely 3 part story... hope you liked it and look for the continuation!

What Used to be Me

When you doubted me,

I wept in sorrow and discouragement.

Yet only building up my hope,

To prove you wrong.

Confidence shining through,

The hidden side.

Showing what really is,

Me.

When you just watched,

The world turning, changing around you.

Not caring the least as I lead the world out,

Now you are lost.

I am the only one to show you the way,

But I cannot after, you.

So you left,

Me.

When my world came crashing down,

Only ruins were left at my feet.

Tumbling away into the dark,

The nothingness.

All that was felt was pain,

Just coming back for more.

Destroying what used to be,

Me.

 And although I have saved others from their lives,

No one is repairing mine.

No one can undo what has been done,

And lost.

Just read.

Her lush, lemon scent lingered in the room even after I watched her fade away.  Sorrow clawed at my heart, yet no tears came to me. Guilt surged through me, yet there lies no regret. Fury stabbed my soul, yet there were no wounds.  Staring out into the distance, but searching inside, I wondered. Why did she leave? Why that moment? What did I do to deserve this? I waited for the truth to escape me, for the answers to arise. But there was none. I didn't even notice the single tear that was sliding down my cheek.

The Fantasy

You are my prince.

Fulfilling my fantasies,

Comforting my dreams,

Coming to save me.

 From here.

I am the princess.

Bound to you by love,

No escaping the truth,

Together, ruling.

The world.

She is the queen.

Compassionate around,

Finding fairness  in all,

The queen.

Innocent.

This,

Is the fantasy.

She is the witch.

Locking me up,

Sending me to misery's days,

In her, seeing.

Pure evil.

I am the peasant.

Blamed for all,

Shamed for life,

Escaping the grasps.

Of  foe.

You are my enemy.

Pushing me down,

Letting stone walls rise,

To keep me.

From my dreams.

Your Maze.

The moment you stopped to care,

I had already turned my head and locked my heart.

Lives just stopped and stared,

I was gone.

That memory of you saying my name,

So vague, distant, replayed in my mind like a movie.

Yet everyday treated like a game.

I'll show it love.

The times you tore me down,

Creating another twist, turn, in the maze.

There's only one way out.

I am lost,

All because you have the key to my heart.

The directions to the game.

You know the way out of this maze.

Dusted Yesterday

The saltiness of the air caressed my silky lips and soothed me to awaken as I lay with fatigue on my pillow. I opened my eyes, simply adorning the sunrise seeping in through my keyhole of my deck and watching as dust twirled in the beauty of it all. My eyes sift through my bedroom, finally landing on my bedside table, falling on a key. Pain and sorrow fill me as I shoot straight up in bed. No. No it couldn't have. Racing to my deck doors, I pull aside the curtain, yellowed with age. No. I look out to my ocean, my world, to find it pained by ashes and burnt by sorrow.  My fingers smooth over the key held in my hand; its intricate design intriguing me, and the weight of the brass weighing down my life. All with the dust dancing through my hair.

Heart

Author's Note: I went to a dance convention this weekend (I am soooo sore right now!) and I tried out for a scholarship. Judges were critiquing you the entire day on and off the floor. This piece explains what I felt and what it was like even after my hard work and amazing effort...enjoy!

A pair of eyes watching every move.

Shifting, searching, digging.

Heart beating.

A mouth and tongue disapproved.

 Criticizing, correcting, challenging.

Heart beating.

A nose sniffing out the wrong.

Mark, incorrect, downgrade.

Heart beating.

A head shaking out all joy.

Paining, wronging, pushing down.

Heart beating.

A heart, cold as winters' grounds.

Unsympathetic, misunderstanding, misleading.

Heart beating.

No ears to listen to your pleads.

Ignorance, innocence, no.

Heart racing.

Photograph

Author's Note: I started writing this creative piece, and I didn't know where to go from here! I figured to just post it on my blog and have all of my amazing peers give me feedback and ideas for me to continue this story.
 

Merriam Webster's definition of photograph "A picture or likeliness obtained by photography." What a picture really is; A moment in life, a person, so dear to you and near to your heart that time froze,  the world stopped,  and life stared you straight in the eye. Everyone has the photograph whether portrayed for the world to see, creased in your back pocket, or engraved in stone in your mind. Everyone has that moment that means the world to them. I know I did, and when it's snatched out of your very hands, the world doesn't stop-- it ends. I had the photograph that meant the world to me, because it was all that traced to my previous life, my backwards life, me.