Thursday- Edit the fonts
Add more to some poems
Change colors
Make a picture

Friday- performance

Saturday- edit more


A poet can survive everything but a misprint.
Oscar Wilde

Life As An Unwanted Teen
10 years 5 months
10 years 5 month 6 days
10 years 5 months 18 days
I'm sick of being here
I’m sick of the same routine all i do is sit here in this dark room while it slowly suffocates me.
Makes me sick to the stomach from the apprehension of living in this place under this roof top always wondering what horrid test i will fail to succeed in next.
I sit in here and panic from all the stress, every day everything goes through one million ways to make me feel worse.
Why am i still here, i feel like leaving here.
I wanna go away, fly away like a bird, spread my wings and never return. Sometimes i just feel so pressured, Like a car being crushed.
Leaving the ones you love just isnt enough so why even try its not worth my time. So ill give up for now and just cry until im old enough to know what it really means to leave and not die

Maddy- Really repetitive, rhymed well, and really emotional

I think i should add more emotion, i also think i should use more abstract words and less normal and simple language. My poem is already pretty short. I think my writing could be waayyy stronger.. i need to edit on that a lot

Ode To My Phone

Keeping me company when just the little people in life wont
When im mad you blast my favorite songs in my ear
goosh i just love you so much
When your ringtone goes off i just fall back into love with you
Your fast 4g internet is too good
It's just the best
I just don't know how to deal with you
your just too much for me
i always leave your screen so filthy, not my fault
your touch screen is amazing
Your so strong and durable
the perfection in the way you talk is nothing some one else can learn
your just complete
and just mines


Sometimes i feel that we don't need to be here just to be together
Living as one
I never want to minus you
Forget you from my memory
Take it as a i want you to be with me
Be my little clingy monster
I want you to harass me when i'm sad
Make me laugh when im crying and mad
But dont change the way you are
Stay the same
There's nothing i want to change because your amazing just the way you are
See your the opposite of me
Which makes us a perfect puzzle
Your the other side of me
Which makes you perfect

Its nice
It flows
I like the rhymes

Ô Metaphors
ÔSome onomatopoeia

I was Raised By... Poem

The beat boxing, rapping people
Stay on beat
Who knows, the rhythm
Who knows, the Dance
Who loves, to live
Feelings only forward to the trusted

First to accuse their family,
First to stand up for their family
The “I don’t care what you think“
“Say what you want”
“ Sticks and stones may break my bones, but you can never hurt me”
Type of people

The Hey that’s nice
Good for you
Good luck with that
Try if you can
Type of person

First to be up, last to be sleep
Up all night hiding from nothing
Nothing could harm them
With the strong willed feelings in there hearts

I was raised by my family


Which is the color of my choice you ask
The one that darkens the sky after nine
Finding this color is never a task
It always gives that special sort of shine

Most people would agree that it is dark
Personally i would think it isn’t
More like the middle and heart of a shark
Who ever disagrees should be imprison

I think my favorite color is given
Its like something no one could ever match up to
It’s a brand new car no one has driven
When people say its weird i just say so

Here is a hint it's like a cadillac
my favorite color is definitely black

When I write it usually starts with what I call a thinking period. When I do this it usually takes me days or maybe just hours thinking about things I want to write about thinking about how I want to write them and thinking about what and where I want things to look and sound like. My first poem life as an unwanted teen is mainly about things that every, well every normal teen, would think about. Its about a person getting out of their family their home and everything. This was my memory poem, I thought about that one time when I was just so done with my family and my house and just wanted to leave. Not all of your memories are exactly the best In the world. In this poem I used a lot of language that said that I was mad, I use personification, and at some parts I put myself in different bodies so I could leave. I made sure that I over exaggerated a lot of things especially how I felt.
In my next poem, which was Ode to My Phone, I made sure that I made my phone out to be this really great and untouchable thing. I used some language that showed that my phone is always with me. A lot of the time I used words that made it seem like I was in love with it, which is kind of weird once you think about it. I used words to over exaggerate things like how fast my phone is and how durable it is. I also put a line or two in there about how I’m unworthy of it and how I don’t treat it how it’s suppose to be treated.
My next poem was the poem that is just titled (:. I really went into the thoughts of love. This one is my riff poem. It was very warm hearted. It showed more of a love and easy poem to me. It showed my soft side in writing. I used a lot of language that like two people would say to each other if they went out , I used a lot of emotions too.
In all of my poetry I used a lot of emotion and I also used a lot of describing words. A lot of my poetry kind of has the same flow to it. I used all different types of poetry when I wrote all of these. I’m not use to rhyming every other line and worrying about the syllables. When I write it is usually just what sounds right. Most of my poems usually have a very pessimistic view of certain things like people and public and what people say. I usually do not write about things that would make people think that I like other or even make people think that I understand what is going on in the world or even if I like the fact or the things that are going on. In some of these poems it was the first time I wrote about those things, like I do not write about my family or where I was raised. I just don’t like writing about those types of things they aren’t my preferred topic. When I wrote my ode, I was totally lost on what to write about and what to say about that thing. Especially when it came to making this one thing seem like it’s a person and making it seem like it was the best thing in the world

William Carlos Williams

The poet that I studied his work on was William Carlos Williams. A lot of his poetry is pretty simple. Once you look at it you would just assume one thing he likes to put down his emotions and his feelings a lot. Then if you really took the time to read through it and try to understand and get where he was coming from you would understand why I believe that William Carlos Williams really took poetry to a level which he detailed every aspect of his life even the simple things that people would not pay much attention to and he took those things to heart to make himself the item or the weather and explain how he felt towards that certain thing or how he felt when he put himself in that situation. In his poem A Coronal, he made poetry a person. He took her and he made her feel what it felt when she is being written and multiplied. When he describes how poetry is written he uses phrases that show that poetry will continue to be written no matter what would happen or no matter what goes on in peoples lives it would still be written. Anemones sprang where she pressed and cresses stood green in the slender source-- And new books of poetry will be written, leather-colored oak leaves many and many a time, this is the last few lines in the poem. See how he uses things like the surroundings just to show how poetry will stay in the minds of almost everyone even nature will appreciate poetry in its purest form. Another thing about William Carlos Williams is that he is really big on nature. He always takes in the nature and the beautiful side of nature in all of his poetry. He also describes a lot of things about the nature its never one thing he likes or one thing he describes more then others he always give plenty of description for everything. Masses of flowers load the cherry branches and color some bushes yellow and some red but the grief in my heart, as I explained before he takes nature and he puts human characteristics in the item that he focused on. He gives something as simple as a bush a heart; he explains all of his feelings through other items except for explaining them through things like high emotional poems, but don’t get me wrong he has plenty of emotional poems but you would not know they were deep emotional poems because a lot of his poetry he never directly says anything about his self most of the poetry he writes Is kind of like some of the poetry I write. I wrote this poem about clouds before it was more of a high descriptive poem, one of the main lines is today the clouds let out all of their hope and dreams and drifted them out in the cold rain that had effected them way too long, then those dreary clouds cried, and they cried for hours. A line like this I can picture William Carlos Williams reading or writing something exactly like this.

EW books of poetry will be written

New books and unheard of manuscripts
will come wrapped in brown paper
and many and many a time
the postman will bow
and sidle down the leaf-plastered steps
thumbing over other men's business.

But we ran ahead of it all.
One coming after
could have seen her footprints
in the wet and followed us
among the stark chestnuts.

Anemones sprang where she pressed
and cresses
stood green in the slender source--
And new books of poetry
will be written, leather-colored oakleaves
many and many a time.

ORROW is my own yard

where the new grass
flames as it has flamed
often before but not
with the cold fire
that closes round me this year.
Thirtyfive years
I lived with my husband.
The plumtree is white today
with masses of flowers.
Masses of flowers
load the cherry branches
and color some bushes
yellow and some red
but the grief in my heart
is stronger than they
for though they were my joy
formerly, today I notice them
and turned away forgetting.
Today my son told me
that in the meadows,
at the edge of the heavy woods
in the distance, he saw
trees of white flowers.
I feel that I would like
to go there
and fall into those flowers
and sink into the marsh near them.

Dedication For A Plot Of Ground
This plot of ground
facing the waters of this inlet
is dedicated to the living presence of
Emily Dickinson Wellcome
who was born in England; married;
lost her husband and with
her five year old son
sailed for New York in a two-master;
was driven to the Azores;
ran adrift on Fire Island shoal,
met her second husband
in a Brooklyn boarding house,
went with him to Puerto Rico
bore three more children, lost
her second husband, lived hard
for eight years in St. Thomas,
Puerto Rico, San Domingo, followed
the oldest son to New York,
lost her daughter, lost her "baby,"
seized the two boys of
the oldest son by the second marriage
mothered them—they being
motherless—fought for them
against the other grandmother
and the aunts, brought them here
summer after summer, defended
herself here against thieves,
storms, sun, fire,
against flies, against girls
that came smelling about, against
drought, against weeds, storm-tides,
neighbors, weasels that stole her chickens,
against the weakness of her own hands,
against the growing strength of
the boys, against wind, against
the stones, against trespassers,
against rents, against her own mind.
She grubbed this earth with her own hands,
domineered over this grass plot,
blackguarded her oldest son
into buying it, lived here fifteen years,
attained a final loneliness and—

If you can bring nothing to this place
but your carcass, keep out.

Between Walls

the back wings
of the

hospital where

will grow lie

In which shine
the broken

pieces of a green


Why do I write today?

The beauty of
the terrible faces
of our nonentites
stirs me to it:

colored women
day workers—
old and experienced—
returning home at dusk
in cast off clothing
faces like
old Florentine oak.


the set pieces
of your faces stir me—
leading citizens—
but not
in the same way


And yet one arrives somehow,
finds himself loosening the hooks of
her dress
in a strange bedroom--
feels the autumn
dropping its silk and linen leaves
about her ankles.
The tawdry veined body emerges
twisted upon itself
like a winter wind . . . !

The Gentle Man

I feel the caress of my own fingers
on my own neck as I place my collar
and think pityingly
of the kind women I have known