Epitaph

I wrote this about a year ago in my English class.

I thought the sky would be gray
And overcast with thick clouds.
I assumed the rain would pour down continually
And drench my soul to the ground.
I figured my heart would drip my life
To the very core of the earth.
I just knew that I would be punished
For every wrongdoing I'd ever committed.
But I was mistaken.
The sky is a brilliant blue
With white cotton ball clouds.
The rain comes and goes as it pleases,
But it is a warm spring sprinkling of love.
My soul and my heart have never felt lighter.
My wrongdoings are forever forgotten.
My life plays before my eyes
As a slideshow of magnificent colors and memories.
I see the golden pony I had when I was younger.
I see the camping trip my father took me on when I was a teen.
Flashing before me now are the days when I fell in love;
The days that I spent with my husband and my children.
There are no bad memories in this slideshow of my long life,
And I realize that maybe, just maybe, this new home of mine
Is worth every tear that every person will ever cry for me.

Our Journey

 I wrote this about a year ago.

Our Journey

I must confess, the love was strong.
It captured your heart and mine.
But you know I felt that I didn’t belong.
This sweet love was too divine.

Though you were better than I myself,
The world grew to accept us.
The birds sang their songs of sweet surrender.
The wind’s lullaby caressed us.

The clouds changed shapes for us to see.
Leaves danced along the sidewalk.
Hand-in-hand we strolled along,
Took our time; didn’t think, didn’t talk.

Yours was mine and mine was yours.
Adventure was ours for the taking.
A simple kiss, a sweet touch from your lips,
And our love was in the making.

I cared for you more than I cared for myself,
Wanted your happiness more than my own.
But the world claimed its grip on your life,
And now I’m left here all alone.

Though “alone” is not the word I’d use
To describe how I feel today.
I still smell you, hear you, see you, dear,
In every thing, every place, every way.

You’re there in the way the trees sway their branches,
The way the dust kicks up in the breeze.
When a child laughs or cries or simply plays.
I just want one more day with you, please…

But I have to accept that you’re gone and move on.
I have to force my heart to let you go.
I still love you but our time has passed,
But I’ll never forget you, you know.

Extended Metaphor

I wrote this a year ago :)

American Literature is an Extended Metaphor

American literature is a rich, luscious orchard.

The authors are the laden trees.

The works are the delicious fruits,

Waiting for someone to come

Pluck them from their branches

And choose to admire them.

The books are the different varieties of fruits,

Waiting to be cut into and explored.

Some fruits are sweet.

Some are bitter.

Some are harsh and overripe.

Yet the taste of the fruit cannot be perceived

Until a bite has been taken.

The taste of a book cannot be determined

Lovely or disgraceful

Until one has opened it and let the words flow into the brain.

Judgment cannot be expressed

Until one has strolled through the orchard

And enjoyed the fruits of literature.