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High Tide, I and Thee

Waves crashing upon the sea
The tide rising over me
Once engulfed in waters hard and rough
I felt it all and it was enough

No more will I, this feeling cross
After this last turn and toss
We’ll part our ways, I whole and one
For what deep cuts left will be gone
No longer will the waves find me
Scared and taken to the sea

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Per Angusta Ad Augusta: My Search for a Mentor

In my very first year of high school, my English teacher told me something about life. He said that one day, whether in high school, or university, or somewhere completely different, you are going to find someone who will be a mentor to you. He doesn’t have to be a teacher, but he will be your friend.

Ever since then I have been searching for a mentor. Not one that I was assigned to pressure me to do my science fair project well, but someone more like a confidant. I have been searching for someone who can teach me all his tricks and push me to realize my potential and encourage me to still go above and beyond. In my young age I have tried to match teachers, old, new, and yet-to-be, to those specifications, but try as I might, I found no one who was right.

In only a few short days, I will be assigned a writing mentor for my Creative Writing class. I am excited; very excited, actually. I’m trying not to get my hopes of finding the perfect mentor too high up, but I can’t help it. I might find myself the person who will change how I perceive and do everything for the rest of my life.

The chances that I will find that one person are slim. After all, I am only in high school. Most people do not find a mentor while in high school. But I really do long for the days when I have someone who can answer my questions (both the dumb ones and the real questions), or assist me while solving something I can’t quite figure out on my own. Or to talk to. Having someone to just talk with when I don’t feel comfortable addressing my friends on random reflections of mine is a welcoming thought.

A mentor/student relationship is something I yearn for. As impatient as I am to finally have this sort of relationship, I will wait. The right one will come.

I now leave you with some questions. Are you lucky enough to have a mentor? Or are you the mentor? How great do you think this experience is treating you? If you have never had this relationship, is there anything specific you are looking for in a mentor? All these questions that I ask, and my curiousity still is not satisfied. So I say unto you, comment as you wish.

What Exactly is Writing?

During my very first Creative Writing class my teacher read us “What Writing Is” by Stephen King. In his essay, Stephen King compared writing to telepathy (if you’re unfamiliar with the idea, it’s basically wordless communication through the mind). He painted a picture with words, and brought to our attention how we all saw the same image, maybe with some superficial differences, but in essence, the same image.
Of course he doesn’t mean it literally; it is only a metaphor, but I do agree that there is some kind of connection made whenever someone is reading another’s written word. Then, my teacher asked us to write a metaphor on what writing is to us. Obviously I immediately blanked out because my imagination automatically runs out once a teacher asks anything of me. But I calmed down and asked myself, “What object or experience is the equivalent to words and writing?” The things I initially came up with were awful. Maybe I’m just beating myself up, but I think I’m correct in saying they were not good. In the end here is what I had on the page:

What Writing Is
Writing is magic. It teleports you to a world you would never know as quickly as if someone were to point a wand at you and scream “Abracadabra!” With wonderous words we become surrounded by ideas as lifelike as if it were a solid that we could touch, taste, feel, see, and hear.

I feel as though it is unfinished; I have this feeling within me that there’s more to write about this. If ever I do find the right words for my composition, I will probably publish it here.
I hope I won’t have to cite myself, though. I wouldn’t have to, would I? My English teacher pounded it into my head that using your own already submitted work is considered plagiarism. Hopefully I won’t submit it, though. It sounds weird but I don’t want someone who grades papers for a living judging this particular piece. Keep a lookout for an updated version, and tell me what writing is to you.

What Rhymes With Purple?!

Whilst on Wikipedia, I decided to search up and look through the history of the colour purple. Subsequently I learned there are very few words that rhyme with purple, which should have been obvious. After all how many words do you use on a day-to-day basis that sound remotely like purple? (Mika tried to rhyme purple with hurtful, but I don’t think it counts). Others before him have used curple, meaning the waist, or bum; and surple, a variation of the word syrup. I know that poets have often changed the pronunciation of certain words to fit the rhyming scheme in their works, but don’t you think “surple” is a bit of a reach? Oh well. If any of you have any real words that rhyme with purple let me know. Ciao, bella.

An Introduction: Poetry in My Life

Where I’m from I’m the Queen of Impromptu Poetry. That doesn’t mean I have any actual talent in the art, but I do love to dabble. An example: For one very special friend of mine, I have made a tradition of writing her a poem for her birthday for the past few years. Most of them were pretty awful, but I have been proud of a couple poems written for her. Besides the on-the-spot poetry that I do, I also work hard on less silly writings, too. Like every undiscovered bard I, too, have my collection of long forgotten poems and suffer from the same infuriating blocks. Heck, the last time I had writer’s block it lasted nearly a year!

With every poem that I write, I poke fun at myself, whether it be at my form, the subject, or how it fits into my life. Some might classify my actions as modesty; typical teenage angst; or atypical teenage angst. Whatever the diagnosis, my reactions don’t vary. I still cringe at the sight of what I write, my heart rate still picks up whenever I catch someone reading my work, and I still deny how much work I put into poetry. But how do I not? At the risk that someone should laugh at what part of myself I’ve left on the page? Thanks, but no thanks. That’s why I fashion limericks from the oddest moments in life, threading them together in my jester-like ways. It fits so perfectly with the persona that I’ve created for myself that it is completely believable that I make only crude, clowny poems. That’s fine. But I only hope with what people read in my silly little creations, they might be able to take what else I write seriously, should I ever share with them.

Every “serious” poem I still have has very little in the depth department when compared to the Greats. I’m not saying they’re not enjoyable, or good, just not great. With that said I hope you can appreciate the poems I am leaving below:

A poem for a dear friend:

Dear friend, you are a cat

A fierce yet lovely brat

Though you may hiss spray

And cause much dismay

Everybody loves you, twat.

One for a loved one’s birthday:

For you, my dear,

Are a true cherished friend.

So today I say we have beer,

A friendship with no end,

And may we have many a cheer.

And a sonnet that took me the longest time to write:

Separation at its best serves disdain,

Abandonment, contempt, and betrayal.

Feeling as though we will somehow uncoil

Others attempt to unlink us in vain

But we’ll overcome that, for they’re insane!

The negativity does leave me stale

For it leaves me sensitive, but not frail.

So I shall fight ’til their feelings are slain

But have them understand our affection.

We shall siphon off the dread that was brought

For our hearts will prove utter devotion.

Unweaved the threads be, unpulling lips taut,

Gently eyes be less sharp and so soften

As dream’s merriment no longer be naught.