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Poetry

Essay/Prose

Short Story

 

And it was Beautiful

There was a beautiful creature that walked into my room one day
And said It would stay with me forever
There was a beautiful creature that walked into my room one day
And said Itís name was Love

And Its hair was made of words of silk
And Its eyes were made of blue compassion
And Its skin was made of sweet caresses
And Its lips were made of gentle kisses
And Its mouth spoke of love and wisdom
And Its arms were made of a delicate embrace
And Its hands were made of tender cuddles
And Its feet were clean and smooth
They werenít callused or scarred like mine
And It was dressed with the colors of affection and passion
And It smelled pleasantly pure

And there was another creature that walked amongst others in my garden
There was another creature that never trusted Love
And It was a hideous creature that walked amongst others in my garden
And It said Its name was Jealousy

And Its hair was made of words of tough leather
And Its eyes were made of dark distrust
And Its skin was made of bruises and open wounds
And Its lips were made of deceitful intrigue
And Its mouth spoke words of ignorance and deception
And Its arms were made of a false hug 
And Its hands were made of violent thrusts
And Its feet were callused and scarred
Just like mine
And It was dressed in the colors of loathe and hate
And It reeked with the fumes of vague impurity
And Love stayed with me in my room
And kept me company, everywhere I went
And Jealousy walked amongst others in my garden
And followed us, everywhere we went

And Love was with me
Every time I lay with you in bed
And Love sang softly in my ear
Every time I looked into your eyes
And Love was with me
Every time you kissed me
And Love caressed my skin so softly
Every time I fell in love with you

But Jealousy still walked amongst others in my garden
They were hideous creatures whose names it hurts to think of
They were the sons of Hate
And they were the brothers of Deceit

But Love still whispered in my ear
Even after every time you hurt me
Love still wrapped around me
Even if my eyes were full of tears
Love still hugged me tightly
Even when you were with someone else
Love still kissed my aching lips
Even while you were gone

One day after noticing that Jealousy couldnít hurt Love
Hate sent another son to try and hurt us
It was Anger
And it stormed into my room as it always had

Anger took Love by the hair; the hair made of words of silk
And it sprayed those words with the stench of fury
Anger blinded those eyes of blue compassion
Anger whipped the skin of sweet caresses with the whip of rage
Anger violently struck the lips of gentle kisses
Anger made Loveís mouth scream out in words of torture and pain
Anger tied Loveís arms of delicate embrace with the ropes of insufferable agony
Anger cut Loveís hands of tender cuddles, and made them bleed the blood of anguish
Anger walked Love through hindered roads of thorns, and made Its feet rough and callused
Anger stained the clothes of passion and affection, with loathe and hate
Anger made Love reek the fumes of vague impurity
And Love returned into my room
Battered and bruised
Blinded and scarred
But Love was still beautiful

Every night Love cried
Even when I tried to remind It of all those beautiful moments
Every night Love cried
Even when I started telling It about our first time
Every night Love cried
It cried even more when I reminded it about my lover
Every night Love cried
And there was nothing that could comfort it

It took several months, before time could heal the wounds
And before the smooth hands of the clock could cure the pain
It took several months, before time could heal the wounds
But it did

And Hate looked from the garden, into my window
And saw that Love had survived
And Hate was furious as It saw Loveís recovery
And It had a meeting with his sons
Hate promised to recompense the one that would kill Love
But Jealousy volunteered again
Hate outburst in anger
You, Jealousy, have disappointed me
Anger has done a better job than you, and still, itís not enough
Jealousy begged and pleaded for one more chance
And Hate granted it, one more chance

As I walked through my garden
I saw my lover in the arms of another
I saw my lover kiss another
And what my eyes saw, ripped my heart open

Love whispered in my ear Its words of wisdom and compassion
While Jealousy yelled at me to do something
Love embraced me slightly, with its arms that reminded me of my lover
While Jealousy shoved me viciously, with its powerful arms of distrust
Love sang to me, the melodious sounds of beautiful memories
While Jealousy resonated all the stale memories, that hurt my ears
Love dried my tears
While Jealousy made me cry even more
Love kissed my cheeks
While Jealousy slapped cynicism into me
Love had almost won

But Jealousy took the dagger of fury and grief
And stabbed Love with it
Love lay there on the ground
Yelling as the threshold of pain consumed Its heart
Loveís wound bled in a tremendous hemorrhage
And Its wound lay open as I attempted to treat it
The yelling continued as I tried to mend the wound
But I needed help

But my lover never noticed
The wounds that our Love had borne  
But my lover never noticed
And my lover never tried to rescue It

Love lay sick in bed
As all the others in the garden had a sensational celebration
Love lay sick in bed
As all the others delighted in its failure

Hate invited all his sons and daughters
And his nephews and uncles
And all his closest relatives to join in the glorious feast
To celebrate the proximate death of Love
Melancholy, Anguish, and Pain; Depression, Grief, and Sorrow
Fury, Rage, and Vehemence;  Agony, Torture, and Distress
All gathered in the house of Hate and had a celebration
And they laughed and cheered

They danced through my garden
And made their way into my room
They danced around my bed
And they laughed as Love lay sick in bed

Love shed tears of blood
As It developed hemophilia
Love shed tears of blood
As the wounds lay open

Love stained my bed with blood
And then my lover walked into my room
Love lay there
Looking at my lover
And my lover walked over to my bed
And looked at Love in the eye
And said I have found another
My lover stabbed Love one last time, with the blade of truth
And Love cried one last time
And Love bled one last time
And Love then died

My lover left
As all the sons of Hate packed their bags and made their way into my room
My lover left
As Love took Its last breath

And today I still live with Melancholy, Anguish, and Pain
Depression looks me in the eye
Grief and Sorrow wrap around me
Agony whispers in my ear
Torture and Distress stain my walls
And Fury, Rage, and Vehemence all sleep in my bed
And the absence of Love has scarred my heart
And the absence of Love has possessed my mind and filled it with pain
And the absence of Love tortures me everyday
And the absence of Love chains me to the past
And the absence of Love tucks me into bed

And I donít think I remember who the murderer was
Whether it was my lover
Or whether it was Jealousy
Or both
And I donít think it matters
Because there is now something that keeps me alive in all this turmoil
Because today another beautiful creature walked into my room
Itís name is Memory, and Its immortal

Elias
9th grader
Texas
I am a fifteen year old author. I currently wrote a book and I am trying to get it published. If anyone knows about a respectable publishing company, please email me.
Inside

Twisting, turning
Drowning in the well
Boiling, burning
Dying in this hell
Clawing, clasping
Striving to breathe
Gasping, grasping
Aching to achieve
Crying, crawling
Wishing to be free
Breaking, bawling
Decomposing the whole of me
Kacie
12th grader
Connecticut
My name is Kacie, I'm a senior in high school.  I'm interested in writing and photography.  I plan to do something with those two when I get to college after my year off from school.  Well bye for now.
Thoughts of Creation

Did the deer create us? This race of beings known as humans. Sacred and divine, as we know ourselves to be. The masters of reason over instinct. Such foolishness. I cannot blame this on the King of Heaven and Earth, I created him. I must go back to the source. It was the deer, of this I am certain. The arrogance of humans, our brutality and shallowness, our sheer power makes us gods. Rehearsed for a billion years the result of prayers, judgment day came for the animal worshippers. Gods we are, and we were created, dreamt of by our servants whose plight has become our joy, more than Mount Olympus we have swallowed the earth and pronounced our doom. Monotheism will not flourish in the animal kingdom, there are too many humans, all demanding sacrifices of their own. Well perhaps monotheism will reign when all the humans save one are dead, the lone god, but by then the animals will have developed the ability to reason. Then who will have time for a god?
Patrick
11th grader
Alta Loma, California
About the author of 'THOUGHTS OF CREATION,' my name is Patrick, I would like to be a poet, and would appreciate any response to this.
Brittany

Do you have a halo
and glowing full lit wings?
Are you the most beautiful angel in all of heaven's things?
Are you walking streets of gold,
And bouncing on cloud nine?
Are you happier there with God than here on Earth with me?
Did you wait in a long line?
Are there gates and an elevator
That takes you to Heaven
And all evil to Hell?
Is it true that an angel gets it's wings
With every ring of a bell?
Do you see all that is holy?
Is it all that I have dreamed?
I pray that you are living large Brittany
Because you deserve it as all that it seems!
11/15/01
Kaycee
Kaycee
8th grader
Texas
My best friend Brittany passed away of a cancer tumor in the brain stem. Before that happened, I didn't know that writing was what I was meant to do. Since then, I have written many poems. I am the vice president of her namesake foundation called the Brittany Marie White Foundation in which James Avery designed sterling silver balloon pins and charms. We released hundreds of purple balloons at her funeral which is what she had planned for us to do. We are raising money to find the cure for Pediatric Brain Stem Cancer. If you would like to help us find the cure for cancer you can donate or read about us at www.purpleballoon.org! Thank you for reading my poem!
War

The girl huddled together with her mother. They wore only rags and the wind bit painfully into her fingers and nose, hunger gnawed at her stomach.
The girl glanced up. She saw her father trudging dejectedly toward them, his shoulders hunched against the bitter cold. The girl could see he had not found food. They would not eat today, just like yesterday and the day before that.
The girl heard the gut-wrenching sound they had all come to loathe and dread over the past months. Her father fell in a crumpled heap to the ground. She knelt beside the motionless body that had once held her father. Blood oozed from the single bullet wound in his chest. The expression on the enemy soldiers face showed brief horror before returning to cool indifference.
 The girl cradled the lifeless form to herself and awaited the sharp sting of death to extinguish the hopeless agony of war. She willed it, but it did not come. She supposed that a little girl wasn't enough of a threat to bother with. This was the biggest mistake the soldier had ever made and one he would not make again. The girl untangled the gun from her dead father. She took aim at the back of the retreating soldier. His body fell to the ground with a thud.
That was the way it had to be, a life for a life. All's fair in love and war.

Megan
9th grader
Melb, Vic, Australia
hey all! i hope u like my piece (sorry if i spelling is really bad).
Dead

I can't feel my limbs,
They feel like stone
I'm really cold,
Chilled to the bone
I cannot rest,
Cannot sleep
And I feel someone touch my hand and say "Rest in Peace"
I thought I was paralyzed,
but now I've realized
Instead
The reason I can't move is because I'm
Dead
Sara
8th grader
Michigan
Hey, I enjoy playing softball, volleyball, and basketball. I love animals alot, and I have 7 pets.
Babylon

Come with me to Babylon
and speak a thousand tongues
Dance with me upon the sands
to songs the ancients sung
None will mark our passage
in the secret of the night
Dawn will greet the border guards
when we are out of sight
Gardens grace the city walls
and fragrance fills the sky
Nectar of forbidden fruits
await my love and I
Deep inside the temple
of some foreign, angry god
Perceptions of reality
are primitive and flawed.

Beth
12th grader
Gibsonia, PA
Ghost Town

The road curves and bends,
It's the road that never ends,
Or so I used to say.


But I turn on to my old street,
I see the old swing where the gang would meet,
Creaking and moaning in the wind.


The street is empty,
As far as I can see,
Everyone is gone.


My house seems cold and black,
The sight takes me back,
and I recall those awful times.


Pulling into the driveway,
I remember how every day,
I played games here.


The wooden door is open,
This is where the men
Took us away.

It was surreal, I was only ten,
And I had hope then,
That I would survive.

The screaming haunts my thoughts
Then came the gunshots,
And my mother lay  crumpled and dead.

She was all I had known,
and with a shot and a moan,
My hope was gone.

We were all rounded up, and taken away,
Not knowing if we'd see the next day,
I was afraid.


I was thrust in a truck
And it was only pure luck,
That the soldiers didn't kill me right then.


Those men, wearing that sign,
Thought they were so divine
So they thought they could kill us.


We saw barbed wire and gas chambers,
We thought it could get no worse,
But we were wrong.


Shooting us off like little birds,
It all seemed so absurd,
That they hated us Jews.


The town was deserted, and frozen in time,
But the people who did this, thought it wasn't a crime.
But we survivors know better.


If only they knew
What horror they had put us through
Maybe this could have been stopped.


But my house still stands tall,
As a sign to all,
That we won't let this happen again.

We will be strong.
Celeste
8th grader
Tampa, Florida
About the author of "Ghost Town:"

I like to write and read, and I'm half Jewish half Catholic. I like to read and write poetry, and listen to music.
I love to dance, and I have been for eight years.  
Earthquakes

When I was five, my family and I were living in an apartment in West Jordan, Utah. The apartment complex was across the street form McDougal Funeral Home, where my parents both worked.
One particular day, my mom had to go into work, leaving my 8-year-old sister and me in the apartment alone. We were both wound up that day and decided to play a game called earthquake. The game is simple. You just run around shaking things pretending like you're in a real earthquake. So here we are fully energized, running around shaking things. And of course, I, thinking it would be a good idea, decided to shake an old lamp surrounded by a little glass sphere. But little did I know, the glass was unscrewed, making it quite loose. Vigorously shaking the lamp, the glass fell directly on my head, causing a rather large lump and cut to form.
"Oww....Alanna..!" I screamed.
"Hold on, I'll call mom.. Uh, just don't move," my sister said frantically.
Just moments after she hung up the phone, my mother and four other co-workers came rushing in.
"Are you all right? Do you feel dizzy? Does your head hurt? How many fingers am I holding up?" inquired my mother.
She interrogated me with so many questions, I felt like a criminal on trial for murder.
"No, I... I'm all right." I replied.
"Good. Now what happened here?" she asked.
Once we told her of the game we were playing and how the glass fell, I felt completely embarrassed. Even now, it's hard just recognizing that all those co-workers of mom's will remember me as the one who had this little accident. Next time I will definitely think twice before shaking any lamp.
Jennifer
9th grader
Brooklyn Park, MN
Rat Boy

        My name is John Kinkade and I am fourteen years old.  None of the children at my school ever call me by my real name, however.  They all refer to me as "Rat Boy" because they all believe that I look like a rat.  I'm only four feet and nine inches tall and I wear the same old ragged clothes all the time because I cannot afford any new, trendy clothes.  I also have crooked front teeth.  My parents are trying to save up to buy me braces, but I don't see that happening anytime soon.
Everyday I wake up at six in the morning to begin another treacherous day.  Half asleep I get ready for school, grab a dollar or two for lunch, then head out my door to catch my bus.  I usually don't eat breakfast because it takes up too much time and I do not enjoy the taste of anything that my parents have to offer for that particular meal. 
When my bus finally arrives and I step on, everyone chuckles at my appearance.  I always find an open seat on the half-full bus and occupy it.  By the time the bus arrives at the last stop it is usually filled so much that there are no open seats left except for the one next to me because nobody ever wants to sit with me.
When I arrive at my school and get out of my bus I try to converse with people that I know, but they always either ignore me or make fun of me.  They call me names, impersonate me, and sometimes even take my stuff and wreck it. 
Everyday during all of my classes people constantly mock me and throw paper at me.  I can't do anything about it except just sit there helplessly watching.  I had always tried to be nice to people.  I never did anything to hurt anyone, but yet they always tried their hardest to find some way to hurt me, mentally or physically.
Everyday at lunch I sit at my own table all alone.  I have no friends and everyone hates me for no reason.  Every time someone steps towards my table I get excited and my hopes rise up that someone would actually want to sit with me, and talk to me, and listen to me, but these hopes of mine are always shot down almost right away.  When they get close enough that they could touch the table they make a face at me as if I have a foot growing out of my forehead and take a chair from my table and move it to another. 
Once while I was walking through a hallway at the end of the school day I turned a corner and someone bumped into me because they were not paying any attention to where they were going.  I was holding a clay vase that I had made in an art class that I had been attending and was planning on bringing it home to give to my parents.  When this boy walked into me I dropped my vase, but it didn't brake.  Relieved that the vase was still intact, I told the boy that I was sorry and bent over to pick up my vase and move on. 
As I was bending over the boy shouted at me, "Watch where you're goin' you stupid little rat!"  He then pushed me out of the way, grabbed my vase and smashed it on the ground.  I couldn't help but to just stand there stunned with my eyes watering, staring at all the little pieces that meant so much to me destroyed by someone for no reason.
Everyday when I get home I run over to my tiny room and cry.  I cry because I have virtually nothing.  I have no money, no good looks, no friends, and almost no intelligence.  Sure there is the occasional person that feels bad for me and tries to talk to me, but they always get embarrassed anytime anyone else comes around and start ignoring me. I wish so much that I could just live a normal life where people would respect me.  I can't go on being neglected the same way every single day. I'm so lonely I just can't live like this anymore!
The only people that are kind to me and care about me are my parents and they are the only regret I have from what I'm about to do.  I tried my hardest to fit in, but this corrupt world that I live in would not accept me.  People just hate me because of the way I look, but I can't help that.  People only judge me by my outside and don't even stop a minute to think that my inside might not be ugly as well.
In a few minutes I will be ending my life because it is not worth living.  How, you do not need to know, but what you do need to know is that anytime you put down someone it really hurts him or her.  Any little nasty thing you say about someone that is meant to hurt their feelings usually does and eventually makes them brake down.
        I just want you to remember this one thing before I leave this world for good: it is not me that killed myself, it was all of the cruel words of others that did.
Ryan
9th grader
Attleboro, MA, USA
I think that this is a neat thing to get teens involved in writing.  Sorry if this piece deals with suicide, but it is not meant to be focused on that, but my goal with it is to try to make people think before they make fun of someone.
All I Need

Just to know how you touched my face,
Caressing it so softly, so gently.
To know that you wanted me right then and there,
You wanted me for thy own.
As you looked upon my face, and I upon yours,
I could feel how I was yours and yours alone.
I was thrilled by my sense of adventure
As your hands explored my body.
I was intrigued by a sense of the unknown
As your eyes pondered my thoughts.
My heart races for you as I felt how you loved me
And it sent a sweet chill down my spine.
A flood of warmth surpassed the chill within me
As your lips brushed silently against mine,
Speeding my heart's beat, slowing my mind's thoughts.
Just to know how our fingers were locked together
For a brief moment's time, sooths my soul.
To feel your desire for me and to know you cared,
Sends me perpetual bliss, floating away in ecstasy.
I know now how you feel, I knew then how you felt,
And no matter how long or how short the memory lasts,
I know that it is, was, and always will be,
All I need.
Siarra
9th grader
Kathleen, Georgia
Ana

A queen she was born
Surrounded by no emotions
Never allowed to cry
Or let the world see her inner smile
Fake smiles she gave out
To the handsome kings around her
No one she felt for
But married fro the sake of a heir
Who was to be brought up
The same way Ana was
Even a doll felt more than Ana.

As she was strolling in her country
The commoners aroused envy in her
They could feel
They loved they smiled
Their eyes twinkled
Showcasing their happiness.

Back in her room
Ana stripped and studied herself
Her dull blue eyes had no life
Her straight nose indicated her refinement
The body that stood straight
Was now tired
And her lips were bored of that thin straight line
She had read in books
About smiles that lit up people's life
Now, she was willing to give it
To the people who need it
She was one of them.

Slowly
She curved her lips
And stood there speechless
Never had she seen a finer piece of jewelry
That had such an amazing effect
To bring out the beauty in her
Transforming from a rigid and cold woman
To a young girl who knew how to love
She kept that smile since then
Exploring new emotions
Living life-for REAL
This time.
Carlyn
10th grader
Malaysia
Last-Minute Letter

"What were you thinking Laura!" she hollered.  "I can't believe you would do that to me!  I thought we were friends."  I snapped my head up from my desk and pulled the phone away from my ear. 
"God Liz," I replied, "You didn't have to yell! Its not like I meant to tell him!  It just slipped out ok?  I'm sorry!"  But she just kept yelling and screaming about how her life was over.  I knew she was mad at me, but I couldn't handle it right then.  I just sat there with my head in my hands and listened to her blame me for her miserable life. 
"Listen Liz," I finally said, "I wish I didn't even come to this stupid town because then I wouldn't have ruined your life and I wouldn't have to deal with this right now.  I know you do too, so at least that's one thing we can agree on!  But anyways, I hafta go," and with that, I heard a click and the phone was dead. 
I tossed the phone onto the leopard-print beanbag by the window and flung myself on my bed.  This year had been nothing but hell for me and it was only getting worse.  I was on a twisting roller coaster and couldn't get off.  First my parents divorced, then my boyfriend Josh broke up with me on Valentines day, I moved to a new State right before my birthday, and I spent my whole summer alone, abandoned, and friendless in my Aunts house in Nowheresville, Kansas.  I had to start a brand new school without any friends and when I finally had a chance of becoming popular, and being friends with Liz Robson, I blew it by opening my big mouth.  I told Rob, the guy she liked, that she was obsessed with him, and like usual she blew up at me.  It's not like he didn't notice her giggling and staring at him every time he passed by her.  Now I'm sitting here all alone in my room on winter break, 2 days before Christmas, with nothing to look forward to but endless hours of late-night TV a!
nd mountains of homework.  Why me?  Why do I deserve this life? 
I stared up at my ceiling searching for the answers among the glow-in-the-dark stars, but found nothing.  I wish I had someone to talk to.someone like Josh.  I thought I had truly found love with him.  I thought we would stay together forever and that we could survive through anything.  We did survive for 5 months, but I guess my heart didn't want to hear the truth. Nothing good lasts forever.  I should have known better.  At least now I know that all guys are the same: they're all players!
The loud pounding in my head brought me back to the painful reality of life, and I stumbled into the bathroom to get some medicine.  I rummaged through the cabinets and drawers looking for a painkiller until finally after ten minutes I found a small bottle of Aspirin.  I carried it back to my room and slumped down on the computer chair.  As I worked at trying to unscrew the cap, a thought crossed my mind.  I poured out the pills and just stared at them, remembering back to seventh grade health class.  I remembered our teacher going over suicide and how most girls overdose on pills.  Here in my hand was my escape from all my misery and problems.  As I tossed the idea over and over in my head it seemed to be exactly what I wanted.  No one would miss me, I was all alone, and it would be over with before my aunt and uncle got back.  Nothing could stop me.  And I wasn't even scared like I thought I would be. I just felt empty.  Then, it hit me: for the first time in months, I actually knew what I was doing and it felt good to be able to control my own fate.  Holding the small container of my freedom, I took a last, long look around my room, until my eyes rested upon my computer screen.  In the top left corner a little light was blinking, indicating I had mail.  Curiosity got the best of me and I clicked on the icon.  The heading read: PLEASE READ THIS LAURA!  And as I scrolled down I realized it was a letter.  It said:

Hey Laura, it's Josh.  I know you're mad at me and I completely understand but please just read what I have to say.  You have every right to be mad at me and I realize that I have been a terrible person to you.  But you never hurt anyone Laura, and that's part of why I liked you.  You are an amazing person, more amazing that you even realize.  The day I met you I was feeling at my worst and I was even thinking about suicide.  But you came along and made me whole again.  You changed me and made me a wonderful person.  You became a part of me and I think that scared me.  I was afraid that you would one day take your love away and I didn't want to have to go through that suffering, so I made you suffer instead.  I didn't realize exactly what I was doing until it was too late.  By then you were already gone.  So this is my last chance to make things right again, and I know if I don't do this, I'll regret it for the rest of my life.  So, if you never want to see me again, I under!
stand.  But if you can find it in your heart to forgive me somehow, all you have to do is open the door at 10:00p.m.

I glanced up at my clock through teary eyes and saw the numbers: 10:02.  Crazy with emotion, I forgot about my "perfect" solution and jumped out of my chair.  I flung on a robe, and raced down the stairs.  As I came to the front door I could barely hold my hand still enough to grab the doorknob.  Without a thought in my mind as to what I was doing, I swung open the door.  Standing there in the rain, like a dream, stood Josh, holding a bouquet of roses.  I flung my arms around his neck before he could utter a word.  We stood there in the rain holding each other and relishing the silence.  Maybe life was worth living after all.   
Jill
9th grader
Burke, Va
Authur's Cat

Harvey didn't sleep. A man of thirty-nine, medium build, thinning brown hair, and a penchant for brown polyester, he had come home every night to maddening insomnia for nearly eight years. He had tried sleeping pills, aromatherapy, a psychiatrist, a sleep specialist, acupuncture, feng shui, seratonin, prostitutes, and illegal drugs. He just didn't sleep.
He had worked in the engineering department of a major corporation for a little over eight years, though why he did was a mystery to everybody, including himself. After twenty suicidal years of accounting and insurance sales, he had decided to go to engineering school; and although he couldn't remember actually having learned anything about engineering, the Karma gods seemed to be repaying him for a lifetime of drudgery and at least enough will power to return to school. This was the only reason he could figure for why he continued to get paid. He was unaware of any kind of technical knowledge or engineering ability that he might have, or be getting paid for. His job consisted of making copies, paper airplanes, bad jokes, and passes at female co-workers, as well as an overall contribution to the CO2 level of the workplace.
He came home every evening with a feeling that he'd lost the entire day and hadn't gotten anything out of it. He would feed his pet hamster, Larry, and then would sit down with a newspaper. He didn't care much about the world or the country, and most of the news didn't interest him, nor did he ever absorb any of it, but he still read the paper devotedly. Every night he would take out his pencil and spend hours drawing all over the paper: graceful, nude figures, still lives, houses: doodles. The pages were covered with them by the time he discarded the paper. This was the only part of the day that he enjoyed.
Insomnia gives the diseased a unique experience. Perhaps the most unpleasant kind of unhappiness possible without pain; a unique mixture of frustration, sheer anger, hatred for oneself, boredom, and confusion, and all to be suffered alone, amongst the sleeping corpses of a world of enemies, mocking in their very peacefulness, in their ability to achieve what the insomniac cannot. It is as though the body rebels against its own needs and desires. All of these things had run through Harvey's mind as he lay awake in the early morning hours, salvaging his evening newspaper and finishing the sketches. He spent most of his evening on them, revisited them all night long, and deposited them in the trash when the sun came up. It did not occur to him that his wasn't much of a life.

Harvey came home one Tuesday, a Tuesday that started out like any other Tuesday, spent the entire day being like any other Tuesday, and looked as though it was going to end up like any other Tuesday, to find a subtle difference. A small, gray cat, little more than a kitten, was crouched on his doorstep, as though waiting. It didn't make a sound when he approached it, and didn't have any idea that it was blocking the door, nor any intention of moving.
"Whatcha doing here, little guy?" Harvey stooped down, and couldn't resist petting it a little. It was terribly skinny; he could feel its ribs through its drooping fur, and it seemed to be shivering in the winter air. At first, it didn't seem to respond to his caresses, but after a while, it looked up at him with wide, green eyes, and started to purr. "Alright, I'll give you some scraps, or something. But get out of my door." He picked it up with more difficulty than he expected. It mewed in dismay as he placed it beside the door, which he proceeded to unlock, open, and close behind him.
The first thing he saw upon entering was the cat. It was curled up on top of a stack of papers on his easy chair, and seemed to be sleeping already. Harvey looked at the key and then the door with a little surprise, to find the door half-open, and he realized that he must not have shut it properly. He did so, and then walked over to the animal, intending to remove it from his house, but as he looked at it closely, his heart softened a little. The cat was too skinny and cold for him to refuse it succor for a few short hours. He didn't realize it, but he enjoyed the prospect of company. "I'll just fix you some scraps," he said to the cat, who did not respond.
He returned from the kitchen with some bacon and the skeleton of a chicken wing to find the scrawny thing with its paw halfway into Larry's cage. Larry was crouched in the corner, convulsing with fear. Harvey dropped the scraps, and ran shouting to chase the thing off. The cat jumped down nonchalantly, groomed itself a little, and wandered over to the scraps. It took the time out to shoot a face of disgust at Harvey, who glared right back, before it dove into the bacon.
After eating, the cat made itself comfortable on the easy chair, and Harvey sat down to his evening newspaper. The cat was silent, curled up in a pleasantly compact little package, and completely immobile. Harvey, entertaining a strange feeling of mutual contentment between himself and the animal, took up his pencil and began to draw.
The cat sat up almost immediately, and let out a long, soft mew. Harvey turned around to see what might be troubling it, to find himself staring right into its lean face. Its eyes seemed to glow; looking into them gave Harvey an odd feeling, as though he was looking into his own heart. He shuddered and turned back to his drawings. The cat jumped off of the chair and over to Harvey. It rubbed up against his legs, jumped onto the desktop to bump heads with him, and then settled in his lap. Harvey petted it absently, noting how soft its fur was despite its manginess. Whenever he picked up the pencil the thing seemed to purr; noting its appreciation for his drawing, Harvey named it Art.
With a few sad looks and some rather painful mewling, the thing convinced Harvey not to put it out for the night. "Alright," he told it. "You can stay here for the night, but tomorrow you'll either leave or I'll take you to a shelter." Art looked at him pitifully. "And if you don't behave, you're going out tonight." The cat seemed to understand this; it lowered its head and curled up in the chair.
Something curious happened that night. Harvey fell sound asleep as soon as he hit the pillow, and slept solidly for ten-and-a-half hours. He was late to work because of it.
When he stepped out of his room at eight in the morning, he found Art curled peacefully in front of his door, purring softly. He quietly fixed it some scraps, and, noticing evidence that the cat had been trying to get into Larry's cage again, put several heavy books on top of it. Feeling heady from such a full night's sleep, he decided to let the cat stay until he came back after work.
Insomnia's effects on the diseased during the day are in fact more profound than those suffered at night. Everything seems to move too quickly; the insomniac finds himself moving and thinking at a much slower pace than the rest of the world. Having a tendency to hallucinate slightly, and as everything seems much more dreamlike in general to the perpetually tired, the diseased attaches less importance to regular occurrences; he doesn't take anything seriously, and it does not occur to him that he should.
Even more profound than this, however, is the shock to the diseased of a day taken on a good night's sleep after year upon year of hopeless insomnia. All of the boredom and listlessness which had characterized Harvey's work persona for as long as anyone could remember fell away, and were replaced by something new: nerve-wrenching fear. The world had sped up, and he was not prepared to cope with it. He suddenly became aware of all of the things that he was supposed to be doing, and was in fact being paid for; he noticed the annoyance, arrogance and actual hatred projected by his coworkers, which he had never noticed previously. They were almost tangible to him. Even the loud noises of the copy machine and the hum of his computer were enough to startle him.
Harvey came home to find that the cat had eaten Larry, and was staring greedily at the birds outside. When he stepped through the door, it came up to him immediately and rubbed up against his hand. He felt too startled to be angry at it, and merely sat down to his newspaper.
The words, which he usually skimmed right over without absorbing, suddenly jumped off the page at him, clear and understandable and impossible to ignore. He sat back, surprised at what he had been missing. He felt as though he had entered a new world, a world where everything was relevant; a new place where words and events and time really meant something.
He shook his head and tossed the paper aside, suddenly unsure of what to spend the next several hours doing. He looked at the cat and, having completely forgotten his previous conviction to remove it from his home, scooped it up in one arm and took it out the door with him, leaving behind his coat and hat.
Harvey took Art to a spot he knew from his childhood. It was a small park in the middle of the city, with a pond that froze and ducks that walked on the ice, begging for scraps. Most of the important events of his early life had been reviewed by him right there, looking at the ducks. Their absurd grace and pleasing shape gave him pause, helped him think.
Now he felt a need to come back here again; his head was so full he could hardly bear it, and he felt he had a perspective that he hadn't had for as long as he could remember. It struck him as odd that the one day when he felt the best he had in nearly eight years had been so dominated by a startling realization that his work (and by extension, his life) made him feel awful.
His taking the job had been a direct result of some of the things his father had told him as a young man. He had never been disillusioned by dreams of art, music, athletics, or science. His father had told him straight that all that mattered was money, that he would learn a trade-and, quite honestly, Harvey had never had much of an opinion on the matter. His interests had always been in avoiding responsibility, and they remained so when his father sent him to college, got him a job in this business, and then that; up until his current job, which he had gotten simply because he couldn't think of anything better to do. His return to school had been an attempt to stray from this path of least resistance-but ultimately he had decided that he was nothing more or less than supremely mediocre, and had applied for a job that reflected that fact.
He stayed at the park for most of the evening, thinking about his life-his job, his father, his house, and his wife, who did not stick in his mind as much as he had thought she would-until the sun went down over the willow trees, and his mind was silenced, struck by the beauty. He watched the last rays brush across the clouds like watercolor strokes; he had never realized before how the very last light washed upwards like a crashing wave before retreating into the softly darkening twilight hues. Harvey smiled, picked up Art, went home, and slept for eighteen hours.
When he woke up the next day, late again, he couldn't bear the idea of going to work. His mind was consumed with the thought of the sunset. The blazing colors burned streaks across his memory, vivid in his mind whenever he closed his eyes, as though taunting him, daring him to capture them with his own hand. Harvey skipped work and went shopping for art supplies.
When he finished the skyscape in watercolor and acrylic paint, he moved on to another of the fiery images stamped in his psyche, and after that, another. Canvas after canvas flew from his hands, filling up his apartment; whether they were good art was beyond him, and his judgment was not concerned with it. He felt obsessed with making them, with the ability and opportunity to fill canvases with sheer color.
He remembered people who had been important to him and their faces flashed though his balding head.  Crying at their inexpressible beauty, he captured their memories in vivid colors, throwing paint at the canvases like bullets at enemies, until the emotive motion exhausted him and he slept a dreamless reverie atop a pile of drying canvases. He awoke with a vision of the most profound portrait ever, to find the cat curled in a small ball in his line of sight. In a flash of inspiration and sheer creative desire, he knew he had to have the animal captured. He wanted to steal its very essence and plaster it against a canvas. Right then and there, covered in paints which matted his hair and stained his clothing, Harvey stood up and began the portrait.
He began the outline in pencil, but somehow found it lacking in expression, and began using a medley of colored pencils and pastels. He stood back and looked at his work, scowled, and threw it away. He needed more.
He started out this time with a basic outline: an oval. He put in the tail and the ears, the only parts that felt important to him just yet: the expressive parts. Colors flew as he attacked the canvas with paints, watercolors, pencils, pastels, food coloring; anything he could use.
After some time, he felt dissatisfied. He stopped for a minute and looked at the thing, the source of so much confusion and inspiration. The cat had been wandering around him for hours, staring at his work, as though with silent encouragement. He decided that a subject which held such a huge image in his mind deserved a proportionally large space for representation. He pulled all of the decorations, fixtures and miscellanea from his parlor wall, and washed it over with a cleaner. He didn't care how the paints looked on the wall: the important part was to paint, not to look. This was art as a form of self-release.
He attacked it with incredible gusto. First the ears: he could not decide on one position, so he put in all of them, superimposed in multimedia, to demonstrate their expressive power. Next came the tail, in a similar fashion: fist outlined in pencil, then each different tail retraced with a different color of paint, and finally, all of them filled with different collage material. Then the feet, which began as a series of ovular pencil marks, stippled in paint.
Before he worked on the rest of the body, he decided that the feet needed a context. He drew at first a line for a floor, which soon became a technicolor still-life; a psychedelic re-working of his own living room. The body, which came next, required a careful study of the cat, who had become lethargic over the past several hours, and was now sleeping in a ball on the floor. Harvey petted it carefully, to find all of the creases and bumps in its gentle body, and immediately went to his "canvas", where he outlined all of its features in striking color. The effect of fur was achieved by throwing laden paintbrushes at the wall, and completed with sections of carpeting removed from his dining room floor with scissors.
Nearly an entire day had passed when he completed the head and reworked the background. The only features left were the eyes. They plagued him; he knew that the eyes capture the soul, yet he could not think of an effective way to portray such a subject. This cat made him feel fire in his breath, lizards in his bowels, screaming tornadoes in his ears.
He took a break to pet the small animal, which hadn't seemed to move in hours. It was still curled in sleep, as though to tell him that it was content to be painted on a wall, and just the sight of it made Harvey happy. He fell asleep there, with his arm around the animal, and dreamt of wild oceans and flying and hurricanes of violent color, until he found himself lying in a field of lazy tulips, butterflies becoming peacock-colored stones falling from the sky until they became a pyre around him and were set aflame.
He awoke in a violent frenzy of inspiration, and ran to his backyard to collect rocks. He painted them and plastered them to the wall with epoxy glue. Hour after hour passed, and slowly the eyes filled, as with tears, until no space remained. Harvey then stepped back and rubbed his head, absentmindedly smearing paint in the remaining hairs on his head, and looked at the picture. It was perfect. He had never seen such perfect expression. He walked to the middle of the room, to get a better view, and sat down to pet the cat. It was dead.

Harvey was fired from his job within a week; he had effectively quit, as he hadn't been to the office in about as long. He got the call on a Friday afternoon; after he hung up, he stood silently next to the phone for a long time. He wasn't sure what to do. His life had lost direction. Notions of suicide floated in and out of his head, until he pulled himself out of the daze and thought long and hard.
Finally, for peace of mind, he went into his parlor. Memories flew by of all that had happened in this very room over so much of his life; but he knew that this was a different place, in look and in feel, than that one he had paid for years ago. This one was trashed, but it felt like a part of him. He stared at the giant Cat, into its eyes, which stared right back with poise and intelligence.
Harvey didn't know what to do. But he knew that he slept, and that his arms hurt from painting, and that he was poor, and that he was happy. He smiled at the cat, and the cat smiled back. Harvey felt peace.

Harvey's Cat

Harvey didn't sleep. A man of thirty-nine, medium build, thinning brown hair, and a penchant for brown polyester, he had come home every night to maddening insomnia for nearly eight years. He had tried sleeping pills, aromatherapy, a psychiatrist, a sleep specialist, acupuncture, feng shui, seratonin, prostitutes, and illegal drugs. He just didn't sleep.
He had worked in the engineering department of a major corporation for a little over eight years, though why he did was a mystery to everybody, including himself. After twenty suicidal years of accounting and insurance sales, he had decided to go to engineering school; and although he couldn't remember actually having learned anything about engineering, the Karma gods seemed to be repaying him for a lifetime of drudgery and at least enough will power to return to school. This was the only reason he could figure for why he continued to get paid. He was unaware of any kind of technical knowledge or engineering ability that he might have, or be getting paid for. His job consisted of making copies, paper airplanes, bad jokes, and passes at female co-workers, as well as an overall contribution to the CO2 level of the workplace.
He came home every evening with a feeling that he'd lost the entire day and hadn't gotten anything out of it. He would feed his pet hamster, Larry, and then would sit down with a newspaper. He didn't care much about the world or the country, and most of the news didn't interest him, nor did he ever absorb any of it, but he still read the paper devotedly. Every night he would take out his pencil and spend hours drawing all over the paper: graceful, nude figures, still lives, houses: doodles. The pages were covered with them by the time he discarded the paper. This was the only part of the day that he enjoyed.
Insomnia gives the diseased a unique experience. Perhaps the most unpleasant kind of unhappiness possible without pain; a unique mixture of frustration, sheer anger, hatred for oneself, boredom, and confusion, and all to be suffered alone, amongst the sleeping corpses of a world of enemies, mocking in their very peacefulness, in their ability to achieve what the insomniac cannot. It is as though the body rebels against its own needs and desires. All of these things had run through Harvey's mind as he lay awake in the early morning hours, salvaging his evening newspaper and finishing the sketches. He spent most of his evening on them, revisited them all night long, and deposited them in the trash when the sun came up. It did not occur to him that his wasn't much of a life.

Harvey came home one Tuesday, a Tuesday that started out like any other Tuesday, spent the entire day being like any other Tuesday, and looked as though it was going to end up like any other Tuesday, to find a subtle difference. A small, gray cat, little more than a kitten, was crouched on his doorstep, as though waiting. It didn't make a sound when he approached it, and didn't have any idea that it was blocking the door, nor any intention of moving.
"Whatcha doing here, little guy?" Harvey stooped down, and couldn't resist petting it a little. It was terribly skinny; he could feel its ribs through its drooping fur, and it seemed to be shivering in the winter air. At first, it didn't seem to respond to his caresses, but after a while, it looked up at him with wide, green eyes, and started to purr. "Alright, I'll give you some scraps, or something. But get out of my door." He picked it up with more difficulty than he expected. It mewed in dismay as he placed it beside the door, which he proceeded to unlock, open, and close behind him.
The first thing he saw upon entering was the cat. It was curled up on top of a stack of papers on his easy chair, and seemed to be sleeping already. Harvey looked at the key and then the door with a little surprise, to find the door half-open, and he realized that he must not have shut it properly. He did so, and then walked over to the animal, intending to remove it from his house, but as he looked at it closely, his heart softened a little. The cat was too skinny and cold for him to refuse it succor for a few short hours. He didn't realize it, but he enjoyed the prospect of company. "I'll just fix you some scraps," he said to the cat, who did not respond.
He returned from the kitchen with some bacon and the skeleton of a chicken wing to find the scrawny thing with its paw halfway into Larry's cage. Larry was crouched in the corner, convulsing with fear. Harvey dropped the scraps, and ran shouting to chase the thing off. The cat jumped down nonchalantly, groomed itself a little, and wandered over to the scraps. It took the time out to shoot a face of disgust at Harvey, who glared right back, before it dove into the bacon.
After eating, the cat made itself comfortable on the easy chair, and Harvey sat down to his evening newspaper. The cat was silent, curled up in a pleasantly compact little package, and completely immobile. Harvey, entertaining a strange feeling of mutual contentment between himself and the animal, took up his pencil and began to draw.
The cat sat up almost immediately, and let out a long, soft mew. Harvey turned around to see what might be troubling it, to find himself staring right into its lean face. Its eyes seemed to glow; looking into them gave Harvey an odd feeling, as though he was looking into his own heart. He shuddered and turned back to his drawings. The cat jumped off of the chair and over to Harvey. It rubbed up against his legs, jumped onto the desktop to bump heads with him, and then settled in his lap. Harvey petted it absently, noting how soft its fur was despite its manginess. Whenever he picked up the pencil the thing seemed to purr; noting its appreciation for his drawing, Harvey named it Art.
With a few sad looks and some rather painful mewling, the thing convinced Harvey not to put it out for the night. "Alright," he told it. "You can stay here for the night, but tomorrow you'll either leave or I'll take you to a shelter." Art looked at him pitifully. "And if you don't behave, you're going out tonight." The cat seemed to understand this; it lowered its head and curled up in the chair.
Something curious happened that night. Harvey fell sound asleep as soon as he hit the pillow, and slept solidly for ten-and-a-half hours. He was late to work because of it.
When he stepped out of his room at eight in the morning, he found Art curled peacefully in front of his door, purring softly. He quietly fixed it some scraps, and, noticing evidence that the cat had been trying to get into Larry's cage again, put several heavy books on top of it. Feeling heady from such a full night's sleep, he decided to let the cat stay until he came back after work.
Insomnia's effects on the diseased during the day are in fact more profound than those suffered at night. Everything seems to move too quickly; the insomniac finds himself moving and thinking at a much slower pace than the rest of the world. Having a tendency to hallucinate slightly, and as everything seems much more dreamlike in general to the perpetually tired, the diseased attaches less importance to regular occurrences; he doesn't take anything seriously, and it does not occur to him that he should.
Even more profound than this, however, is the shock to the diseased of a day taken on a good night's sleep after year upon year of hopeless insomnia. All of the boredom and listlessness which had characterized Harvey's work persona for as long as anyone could remember fell away, and were replaced by something new: nerve-wrenching fear. The world had sped up, and he was not prepared to cope with it. He suddenly became aware of all of the things that he was supposed to be doing, and was in fact being paid for; he noticed the annoyance, arrogance and actual hatred projected by his coworkers, which he had never noticed previously. They were almost tangible to him. Even the loud noises of the copy machine and the hum of his computer were enough to startle him.
Harvey came home to find that the cat had eaten Larry, and was staring greedily at the birds outside. When he stepped through the door, it came up to him immediately and rubbed up against his hand. He felt too startled to be angry at it, and merely sat down to his newspaper.
The words, which he usually skimmed right over without absorbing, suddenly jumped off the page at him, clear and understandable and impossible to ignore. He sat back, surprised at what he had been missing. He felt as though he had entered a new world, a world where everything was relevant; a new place where words and events and time really meant something.
He shook his head and tossed the paper aside, suddenly unsure of what to spend the next several hours doing. He looked at the cat and, having completely forgotten his previous conviction to remove it from his home, scooped it up in one arm and took it out the door with him, leaving behind his coat and hat.
Harvey took Art to a spot he knew from his childhood. It was a small park in the middle of the city, with a pond that froze and ducks that walked on the ice, begging for scraps. Most of the important events of his early life had been reviewed by him right there, looking at the ducks. Their absurd grace and pleasing shape gave him pause, helped him think.
Now he felt a need to come back here again; his head was so full he could hardly bear it, and he felt he had a perspective that he hadn't had for as long as he could remember. It struck him as odd that the one day when he felt the best he had in nearly eight years had been so dominated by a startling realization that his work (and by extension, his life) made him feel awful.
His taking the job had been a direct result of some of the things his father had told him as a young man. He had never been disillusioned by dreams of art, music, athletics, or science. His father had told him straight that all that mattered was money, that he would learn a trade-and, quite honestly, Harvey had never had much of an opinion on the matter. His interests had always been in avoiding responsibility, and they remained so when his father sent him to college, got him a job in this business, and then that; up until his current job, which he had gotten simply because he couldn't think of anything better to do. His return to school had been an attempt to stray from this path of least resistance-but ultimately he had decided that he was nothing more or less than supremely mediocre, and had applied for a job that reflected that fact.
He stayed at the park for most of the evening, thinking about his life-his job, his father, his house, and his wife, who did not stick in his mind as much as he had thought she would-until the sun went down over the willow trees, and his mind was silenced, struck by the beauty. He watched the last rays brush across the clouds like watercolor strokes; he had never realized before how the very last light washed upwards like a crashing wave before retreating into the softly darkening twilight hues. Harvey smiled, picked up Art, went home, and slept for eighteen hours.
When he woke up the next day, late again, he couldn't bear the idea of going to work. His mind was consumed with the thought of the sunset. The blazing colors burned streaks across his memory, vivid in his mind whenever he closed his eyes, as though taunting him, daring him to capture them with his own hand. Harvey skipped work and went shopping for art supplies.
When he finished the skyscape in watercolor and acrylic paint, he moved on to another of the fiery images stamped in his psyche, and after that, another. Canvas after canvas flew from his hands, filling up his apartment; whether they were good art was beyond him, and his judgment was not concerned with it. He felt obsessed with making them, with the ability and opportunity to fill canvases with sheer color.
He remembered people who had been important to him and their faces flashed though his balding head.  Crying at their inexpressible beauty, he captured their memories in vivid colors, throwing paint at the canvases like bullets at enemies, until the emotive motion exhausted him and he slept a dreamless reverie atop a pile of drying canvases. He awoke with a vision of the most profound portrait ever, to find the cat curled in a small ball in his line of sight. In a flash of inspiration and sheer creative desire, he knew he had to have the animal captured. He wanted to steal its very essence and plaster it against a canvas. Right then and there, covered in paints which matted his hair and stained his clothing, Harvey stood up and began the portrait.
He began the outline in pencil, but somehow found it lacking in expression, and began using a medley of colored pencils and pastels. He stood back and looked at his work, scowled, and threw it away. He needed more.
He started out this time with a basic outline: an oval. He put in the tail and the ears, the only parts that felt important to him just yet: the expressive parts. Colors flew as he attacked the canvas with paints, watercolors, pencils, pastels, food coloring; anything he could use.
After some time, he felt dissatisfied. He stopped for a minute and looked at the thing, the source of so much confusion and inspiration. The cat had been wandering around him for hours, staring at his work, as though with silent encouragement. He decided that a subject which held such a huge image in his mind deserved a proportionally large space for representation. He pulled all of the decorations, fixtures and miscellanea from his parlor wall, and washed it over with a cleaner. He didn't care how the paints looked on the wall: the important part was to paint, not to look. This was art as a form of self-release.
He attacked it with incredible gusto. First the ears: he could not decide on one position, so he put in all of them, superimposed in multimedia, to demonstrate their expressive power. Next came the tail, in a similar fashion: fist outlined in pencil, then each different tail retraced with a different color of paint, and finally, all of them filled with different collage material. Then the feet, which began as a series of ovular pencil marks, stippled in paint.
Before he worked on the rest of the body, he decided that the feet needed a context. He drew at first a line for a floor, which soon became a technicolor still-life; a psychedelic re-working of his own living room. The body, which came next, required a careful study of the cat, who had become lethargic over the past several hours, and was now sleeping in a ball on the floor. Harvey petted it carefully, to find all of the creases and bumps in its gentle body, and immediately went to his "canvas", where he outlined all of its features in striking color. The effect of fur was achieved by throwing laden paintbrushes at the wall, and completed with sections of carpeting removed from his dining room floor with scissors.
Nearly an entire day had passed when he completed the head and reworked the background. The only features left were the eyes. They plagued him; he knew that the eyes capture the soul, yet he could not think of an effective way to portray such a subject. This cat made him feel fire in his breath, lizards in his bowels, screaming tornadoes in his ears.
He took a break to pet the small animal, which hadn't seemed to move in hours. It was still curled in sleep, as though to tell him that it was content to be painted on a wall, and just the sight of it made Harvey happy. He fell asleep there, with his arm around the animal, and dreamt of wild oceans and flying and hurricanes of violent color, until he found himself lying in a field of lazy tulips, butterflies becoming peacock-colored stones falling from the sky until they became a pyre around him and were set aflame.
He awoke in a violent frenzy of inspiration, and ran to his backyard to collect rocks. He painted them and plastered them to the wall with epoxy glue. Hour after hour passed, and slowly the eyes filled, as with tears, until no space remained. Harvey then stepped back and rubbed his head, absentmindedly smearing paint in the remaining hairs on his head, and looked at the picture. It was perfect. He had never seen such perfect expression. He walked to the middle of the room, to get a better view, and sat down to pet the cat. It was dead.

Harvey was fired from his job within a week; he had effectively quit, as he hadn't been to the office in about as long. He got the call on a Friday afternoon; after he hung up, he stood silently next to the phone for a long time. He wasn't sure what to do. His life had lost direction. Notions of suicide floated in and out of his head, until he pulled himself out of the daze and thought long and hard.
Finally, for peace of mind, he went into his parlor. Memories flew by of all that had happened in this very room over so much of his life; but he knew that this was a different place, in look and in feel, than that one he had paid for years ago. This one was trashed, but it felt like a part of him. He stared at the giant Cat, into its eyes, which stared right back with poise and intelligence.
Harvey didn't know what to do. But he knew that he slept, and that his arms hurt from painting, and that he was poor, and that he was happy. He smiled at the cat, and the cat smiled back. Harvey felt peace.

Ceci
11th grader
Chicago, IL
Hi, my name is Ceci. I'm a high school junior from Chicago, Illinois. I write a lot, but this is the first thing I've published.
Mirror

As I look in the mirror, I'll tell you what I see. I see a different reflection staring back at me. I see someone I do not want to be. I see somebody with an act to please everyone around me. I think I'm in quicksand getting sucked into the ground. I wish more than anything my father was around. Down, deep down in darkness I go. Why I feel this way I really don't know. I look at everyone acting all the same. The only way to tell apart is by name. When I hear my name it doesn't seem to belong there. I think of a girl being who people think she should be. Does anyone really know me? So I wake up and put on the act. For all of he boys I may attract. I want to be wild. I want to be free. But according to everyone that's what I shouldn't be. What is more stressing to be me or another?. It's a very sorry world the way we judge each other.

Hillary
9th grader
Amherst, NH, U.S.A
Hey! My names Hillary and I'm from Amherst. Shout out to my best friends...Taylor, Tony, Kristi, Candy, Amanda. To Matt.. your soo sweet to me Matt...and your mad fine, u look like Josh Hartnett 2. To Brian Doheny...I will continue to make your life a living hell for what you did to me an my friends. Just wait till the last day of school.......
Untitled

I can feel myself tapping my feet
I do that when I'm nervous.
I can taste the sticky sour of a dry mouth.
I can see the issues running through my head-
What will happen?  Will I be ok?
I can smell breakfast cooking downstairs,
but I'm not there. 
I can hear silence,
 a silence that is so deafening that I want to scream. 
Anxiety is pin, a color so innocent,
yet sometimes it's loud and wild. 
And that's just before I get out of bed. 
Emily
8th grader
Park City
Daddy

Did you forget my number?
Did you forget to call?
Do you not have a phone?
Or did you even try at all?

Did you forget I'm here?
Forget that I exist?
Forget your Supposed to love me?
Forget I need your kiss?

You make me so upset,
and I feel so dead inside.
Because your never here,
and when you are you always lie.

Everyday I fear you'll leave me,
on this earth all alone.
Although you'll be happy,
up in your new home.

I'll have no dad my special day,
to walk me down the aisle.
I refuse to believe it,
My friends say I'm in denial.

Can't you see I love you,
I need you here with me.
And the days I miss the most
are those when I called you
DADDY.

Nicki
8th grader
Columbia, Mo
imperfect

I am imperfection;
sullen from the media,
so un-Britney Spears.

I am pale.
gauky.
brown.
thick.
spotted.
crooked.
long.
soft.

"Imperfect,"
says MTV.
"Imperfect,"
says the boy in math class.
So now I say,
"Imperfect."

Here I am.
No choice in the face,
no way to change.
I have what I've got,
no change.

So imperfect,
so ugly,
so soft,
so...
so un-Britney Spears.

I buy foundation,
lipstick, blush.
I buy padded push-up bras,
faux tans, eye liner,
and razor blades.

Try and try and try and try.

Powder, hair dye.
Eye shadow, hair spray,
braces, blow dryer,
mascara, panty hose.

Try and try and try and try.

Still,
so imperfect,
so un-Britney Spears.

"Imperfect,"
says MTV.
"Imperfect,"
says the boy in math class.

But I say,
"Imperfect?"
"Screw you."

Put a space right there,
between that 'M' and that 'P'.

I'm perfect.
So un-Britney Spears.
Rhiannon
9th grader
Destin, Florida
I'm fifteen years old, I aspire to be a writer and/or an artist. I have strong opinions and a desire to learn. I try to read lots and lots so that my own writing might benefit. I like to write about the emotions I'm goin through; either in poetry or short stories. It's very theraputic at times.
Catharsis of the Soul

Lying on the hospital bed
Struck with a pounding rhythm in my head
Feeling as if everything moves around me in slow motion
But, I don't seem to care; I am an outsider of all this commotion

I feel like I'm in a different place
I feel like I'm in a different world
I doubt that after all that's happened I'll embrace
The cruelty of life I've come to know and scold

The IV flows into my vein
As I drift off to sleep
I know I must be strong to face the pain
But then again, how could I? My wound is cut too deep

Internal hurt and sorrows just draws forth
As it fills up into my chest
The feeling is too strong to conquer now
The night is here but I can't seem to rest

The dizziness absorbs me
As my subconscious self calls from within
From all the things that have been happening around me
I feel my body is worn out thin

I'm on the verge of fainting
I cannot move, I can't get up
I pray for someone to come and save me
Help me through and lift my spirit up

My pulse is rushing, racing
My heart just skips a beat
And, as my eyes continue to see double
I feel like I should just concede

I thought that I was strong, that I can take it
I thought that I could tolerate the pain
But, really I am on the verge of breaking
And, just keep wondering if I have turned insane?

Truly Life is so ironic---One minute I'm happy I'm alive
The next I'm on a stretcher, rushing to the hospital for help
Wow! Can't it get more stranger?
I wonder as the ambulance unstraps my stretcher's belt

Life can be so cruel at times
I can't seem to fathom why
Why can't it just be simple?
Why can't it be full of happiness all time?

I guess I'll never understand
I guess I'm just too dumb
Or maybe it's just not time yet to understand
Maybe sometime later it will come

But, until then, while I keep learning how to deal
I'll try my hardest to keep it real
And, maybe in the end it will turn out all right
Maybe I made it too dramatic out of fright

In any case, I am just glad
I had the strength to pull it through
And, hopefully the courage I hold inside me
Will have the power to keep guiding me through

Marianna
Graduate
Staten Island, New York, USA
Marianna, Staten Island, New York, USA, is a published author and poet, who has been published on over eight Internet sites including: Stories.com, About.com, PlainInk Online Magazine, TeenInk, Izza's Haven and more... as well as in TeenInk Magazine. She was also featured in a recently issued out, nationwide seller-Teen Girlfriends written by Julia DeVillers. She is currently a staff writer for a New York city magazine called New Youth Connections, and just finished writing for a newsletter written by the Board of Education Home Instruction Program in Queens, NY.
     Marianna has wanted to write since she was six. She has experience in reporting and being a newspaper editor and chief. She writes short stories, poems, articles, and essays. She hopes to achieve her goal of becoming a successful journalist and a flourishing writer
Point of No Return

As the clouds grow darker, I lay a single rose across the neatly made bed. This dreary night would be my last. The weather outside even fit the mood that seemed to suck every drop of life from the suffocating room. Thunder clashed, lightning flashed. I wasn't going to wimp out now. I had already gone to far. I'd already reach the point and my mind, and body, screamed out to me that it was the point of no return. I ran a finger across the silver blade before allowing my eyes to travel to the other weapon laying across my desk, aside the knife. Both could be quick, and hopefully, painless. I couldn't decide which to use. All I knew, though, that no longer would I feel pain nor suffering. And for once, I let myself drift off to the times I was teased and joked about.. suddenly, I was in a school, drifting alone through the halls, books in hand. Staring at the ground, their laughter became clear suddenly. Clear as crystal. I couldn't bare it. Blindly, I ran towards the bat!
hroom, hoping it'd create somewhat of a comfort. But no, I was wrong. I entered the bathroom and they turned, the better ones then I. They pointed and whispered ; I knew what they were saying. Again, I whirled around and brushed past everyone without a second glance. Everything around me was collapsing, becoming nothing but a black hole. I ran along the halls, stumbling once or twice, but regaining my balance and continuing my journey. Alas, I had reached the doors! I burst through the doors, allowing the suns warmth wash over me, hoping to relieve me of the unbearable pain, but no help did it offer. As the bell rang, I hurried off to my bus and slunk into my seat in which I fell into a suicidal sleep. Another crack of thunder disturbed me from my thoughts. Noticing my hand was tightly gripping the edge of my desk, I pulled it away and snarled. No longer was I going to continue to play their pathetic games. I'd put it end to it real fast. Slipping a folded piece of paper fro!
m my pocket, I stared at it. Nobody would miss me, I was sure. They'd all forgotten about me already. They'd moved onto bigger and better things. All they worried about anymore were guys, parties, and their cliques. I was an outsider, outcast, a loner. I was nothing to them, nothing but trash. Glancing down at my favorite outfit, I shrugged, and unfolded the crinkled paper. This would be the last letter I'd ever write. Placing it beneath the rose, I smoothed out the bedspread once more. My room was in tip-top shape. And I'd even left a few notes, diaries, and other personal belongs scattered in hidden places about the room. They'd find them, eventually, and read my past. The letter was meant to help them, to guide them to find my personal belongings. Suddenly, the world came crashing down on my shoulders ; a weight I could not bare. I turned to give myself one last look in the mirror, and then, I heard it loud and clear- BANG! Startled, I sat up straight in my bed staring of!
f into the darkness. I rubbed my eyes thoughtfully. It had only been a dream.

Samantha
8th grader
Albion, Pennsylvania
About the author of "Point of No Return".
Though I am inexperienced in the world of writing, I hope to someday graduate from high school, get a Bachelors Degree, and become an author of many books. Despite the fact that I am young, I believe my writing is the best that I can offer for a girl my age, and a person like myself. Others have their own ways of writing, and as I have only been writing but a year or two, mine are far less as good as theirs. I had no specific point to be made in this story; it was just an idea that popped into my head one late eve, and it seemed a good idea. I 'spose it goes to show how horrible some dreams can be. ;]
It's My Life

Prologue

Early; just plain early; every day, school seems to start earlier and earlier. And it doesnít get any more exciting than the last day. Until you realize that thereís only 4 more years of it in your life. But then thereís about 4 years of college, and then your careerÖoh the pain!

                      Introduction

Sorry, I think I should have introduced myself. My name is Makayla. Iím 14 years of age, and I go to a school. I donít want to tell you which one; coz thereís lots. So you can figure it out. Anyways, do you want to know more about me? Want me to create a chart? How about for everyone I introduce into the story? I think I can do that. I mean, why not? So, here I am, lying on my bed, writing this story. Iím writing it about my life. Iím sure you can rate this story as Realistic Fiction. Whether you like it or not, itís up to you. Iím writing this story from 1st Persons point of view. My point of view, no one elseís, but mine.
So here, Iíll introduce myself with a chart. Youíll then get all your statistics there:

(My Name: Makayla Lucas
Nick Name: Maki, Kayla, Kay)

There, thatís all the info Iím giving the people I introduce in the story, except- no, I wonít tell you. Itíll be too personal. Ok, on with the story:


      As I was saying, if you think about it, there are still quite a bit of school in your life. Itís what? 2/3 of your lifeÖ If you really think about it, thatís a lot of years of your life, and you donít use all the knowledge, only about half, if that! Well, you have kindergarten to grade twelve, which adds up to 13 years of school. Then you add 4 or 5 more years to that, for college/university, which comes out to about 18 years of school. Now if your 40 years old, and you got a job as soon as you left college/university. Hereís your life:
You were born. You played with your family until you were 5 years old, technically 3. You went to preschool when you were 3-5 (or 4). Then you went off to your VERY first day of school when you were 5. You went to school until you were 18 years old. Then you went to college. You then were there for about 5 years. You got a job, and worked until now. So technically, youíve went to school for half your life, and work for your other half. Donít you think us humans need a break after awhile? I mean, not just retirement.
But letís get on a positive note, shall we? Ok, Iím sitting in class, going through all of this in my head, staring into space, when my teacher gives me this dirty look. Itís not my fault that I have other things on my mind; Iím only human. You see, I was in Science class. And yes. I dropped, big time! So of course Iíll raise my grade. Even when Iím done my work, itís not like Iím going to go out and request extra homework. I have other subjects to work on as well. Except Math, that subjectís pretty easy, my best actually. But anyways, I come out of my ďspace touringĒ and start back on my work. My friends all sitting around me, laughing, while Iím just counting the days Ďtil summer, or even the days Ďtil Sunday. Sundayís are fun, and yeah, I go to church. Iím a Christian. I love it too. People think being a Christian is boring, but itís not. It gives you a purpose in life. So itís fun.
At school, I have my crowd I hang around with. Thereís Julie, Amber, Kim, Lisa, Karen, and Susan. Theyíre good people; if you want to say that I guess. I believe the only good person out of those 6, is Karen. She agrees with me on all the stuff our other friends do that really arenít our favourite things in the world. You see, in grade 7, life was sort of good to me. I had trouble finding out who I really was. I had just moved from a small town, into a big city. And it was hard for me. I had a new school, new friends, a new church. For my first day of school in grade 7, I came home and cried for hours. And Iím not exaggerating. Itís true. I felt I was lost. My parents helped me out. They were very good to me. My brother was in grade 9. He loved it. Then I became friends with the people I am friends with now. My brother lost his friend, they turned weird on him, so he forgot about those people and made new friends. My parents pushed us to go to a Youth Group for our church, n!
ow I absolutely love it.
I had THOUGHT my life was great. But I was wrong. In grade 7, my friends Julie, Amber and Kim thought drinking and doing drugs was the worst thing to ever do in your life.
Then at a Christmas dance in grade 8, Amber became bulimic- for a short time, but it was still bad. She went from a size 5 to a size 1 in two weeks. Julie and I told her mom, and she got it all worked out. Then a few months after that, Julie, Amber and Kim started drinking. And no, I didnít. I absolutely hated them doing it. They knew I did. Theyíd invited me for sleepovers, Iíd tell them no, because I didnít agree on them drinking. So they wouldnít do it while I was there. Then they started leaving me, and my friends Lisa, Karen and Susan out of their group. They went to hang out with the cheerleaders. I couldnít figure out what their problem was. I guess Iím not ultra thin like them, so I wouldnít fit into their group.
After a while my mom, dad, brother and I heard the news that my grandpa was in the hospital, with pancreatic cancer. Of course that had to come. And make everything more complicated. He died, and all we thought was that he wasnít suffering anymore; he was in heaven with God.
Three weeks or so after that happened, my friend Lisa tells me she was on her computer for 2 weeks having Cyber Sex with some older guy on the internet. Then my friend Susan goes and says she was doing it with her. I felt really out of it. I was on the verge of breakdown. All I thought I had left to do was go to church more often than I had been going. I thought I would grow my faith in God. And love him more and more each day.
Speaking of Church, I have someone else that I never added into the story before. His name is John. I met him at the start of grade 8, at this Youth Retreat at a Christian camp. Our whole youth went; Senior High and Junior High. Johnís a football player. Heís probably really good at it too. Iíve never seen him play, so I wouldnít know. He looked like he would be grumpy and mean, but now he says he was just tired. Believe it or not, heís a really shy guy; like me, Iím shy. Anyways, we really didnít know each other, except for the fact that I liked one of his friends; Mark. Then he sent me this email one day telling me I shouldnít like Mark anymore, because heís too old for me; 4 years. So after awhile I did stop liking Mark. And donít like anyone for that matter. But John has helped me out with a lot of this. When I feel down, he cheers me up. Since I have a best friend back in my old town; and sheíll always be my best friend. Heís my best GUY-friend. We talk ALL the time. Ev!
en email each other.
He made me realize how deep my faith in God can really be. I know have a stronger faith in God that I never realized I could have. I went to YC 2002 with my youth group, and I believe that God really touched me there. I believe he reached down, and took my heart, and soul, and told me that when he comes to take all his children, Iím coming home. That made me realize exactly how much I have in life. Sure this is a short book or story, or whatever youíd like to call it. And donít think Iím making you believe in God. Iím just saying that if you really want a happy life. If you really want to feel secure in life, believe in God, because heíll always be there.
When youíre on the verge of breakdown, because you feel no one on this earth loves you. Maybe youíre right. But thereíre people on earth, Christians who DO love you. And if you think they donít, then you will know this: even if no one loves you on earth. God loves you in Heaven. Heís watching you, and waiting for you to bring him into your life, so that you can go home, and rejoice with him. And be happy forever, with him. If you think youíre not loved physically, you should know, that God loves you spiritually. He doesnít care if youíre the ugliest person on earth, he still loves you. And heíll NEVER give up on you. So you should NEVER give up on him. Heíll be there for you, whenever you need him. Call his name, and heíll be there before you call it out.

God loves whatís inside, not outside.

I hope you liked my words I spoke. And I hope you remember that no matter how hard life gets for you, turn to God, and heíll help you out. J

Sarah
8th grader
Edmonton/ Alberta
I'm not exactly saying whether or not this story is true. It's up to you to believe if the story is true. I hope you like it. I also wrote The Important Night. I hope you like that one too. There's really not much to say about myself. thank-you...
Untitled 2

I can feel myself tapping my feet
I do that when Iím nervous.
I can taste the sticky sour of a dry mouth.
I can see the issues running through my head-
What will happen?  Will I be ok?
I can smell breakfast cooking downstairs,
but Iím not there. 
I can hear silence,
 a silence that is so deafening that I want to scream. 
Anxiety is pin, a color so innocent,
yet sometimes itís loud and wild. 
And thatís just before I get out of bed. 

Emily
8th grader
Park City
Little Puppet

Little puppet,
She was the big actress,
Strings,
The clouds,
Cold and rainy,
A bit crisper,
The performance,
Perfected,
Another day,
Just our shell,
Lessons to learn,
Little puppet,
And she never knew,
A classroom,
This laboratory,
She was the experiment,
Little puppet,
What you said,
And how you said it,
A patch in time,
The weight of it,
And we burst,
In love,
With the little puppet,
Never the big actress.

Patrick
11th grader
California
About the author of 'Little Puppet'  I enjoy writing poems concerning theology, death, and morality.  Many of them have historical themes.  'Little Puppet' is about reincarnation, and the struggle between the material and spiritual worlds.
Mid-October

I felt the breeze coming over me
With the sound of shuffling leaves
It was the day I found myself
My heart racing faster and faster
As my angel reached out for my hand
Feeling her hand in mine
Walking slowly by your side
To the shoreline and beyond
She took that and also my soul
She was reaching for affection
A winter full of liasing with passion
But with the cold strain of deceit
It extinguished my fire of loneliness
And replaced it with nothing but warmth
I looked into a cold deep blue sea of fear
But then saw the warmth and red, a fire of love
Together we looked beyond our world
Together we were trapped
Not quite knowing how to leave it all behind
Together we must let go
Together we have to divide
Not only tearing our hands apart
Tearing our hearts in two
You donít find yourself
Until you find love
Ella
York
The Ant In the Middle of the Line

I follow the ant in the middle of the line.
I am at the very end,
Afraid of getting stepped on.
Tripping over every pebble,
While watching out for my safety
And wanting to watch out for the safety of,
That one special ant in the middle.
I am the one following,
And she, the one leading.
Wanting to make sure that no one steps on us.

I care about that one ant,
And only a few others.
I donít even think,
Or care about the many others between us.

To most of the other ants,
That ant in the middle of the line,
Knows who she is,
Where sheís going,
And why.
Only she,
A couple others,
And I,
Know the real truth.
We are all following the ant at the beginning of the line,
And None of us know who we are,
Where we are going,
Or Why.
Occasionally,
We will split up into two groups,
I follow the ant in the middle.

All I know is that,
I look up to the one special ant in the middle of the line.
Whether she looks up to an ant is a mystery,
And so is the identity of the ant at the beginning.

But,
I still wish I could be
That one special ant in the middle of the line.
Even if sheís not perfect.

Katherine
8th grader
Dunn Loring, Virginia
A Place of My Own

There is a place in the world
Which I fly to at night
Where the darkened night
Is illuminated with light
And the sudden brightly lit sky
Is in my mind, in this place that I go

There are sliver-lined wings
On which the angels fly
Yellowish pink light illuminates the sky
As I fly further into the moonlight on wings of gold,
Outstretched to my souls content.

They let off a bright shimmering soft glowing light,
As I become one with the night a dancer wobbles back and forth
On a crooked base, she spins faster each time her chain is pulled,
 Whispering as they pull her back, unafraid as she dives, spinning into the night.
Blades of wood and softer still foam adorn her shattered wings.
The lights are still, darkened now.

The house sags like a mourning mother on the death of her child
Holding him in her arms, she is a constant reminder of the darkness
That surrounds us. Her silent screams are a never-ending memoir
Of the words left unspoken.
Soiled light, coated in soot from the fire devouring everything,
It moved slowly on, an unwelcome visitor.
Precious memories, stolen from their minds.
The innocence that once reigned is gone from this town.
Tears of the Gods rain down upon the destroyed village.
 The sound echoís from the tin roof like the cry from a forgotten child,
Unsilenced by his mother, he is alone, we are all alone.

Brittany
11th grader
Biloxi, MS
About the author of A Place Of My Own.
 I love to read and write, that is what I do in most my free time. Yes, I realize my poem(s) are a little out there, but people get tired of reading poems and storyies with the same themes.
Hatred

Like a wave of blood
My hatred for myself
Engulfs my life
And
Crashes down on me,
Sweeps me away
My own doing
Self-destruction is
My way out
Of this hell
Where
Angels burn
And love
Cries for help
My own disturbing world
I canít let anyone in
I canít go out
For I feel numb today
Every day
All the time.

Chelsea
10th grader
Chatham, NY, USA
Subject of Article: Book Review
Title of Book: ďThe WatcherĒ
Author of Book: James Howe


Someone is watchingÖ Lurking from the steep steps of the beach. Silently observing their every move. ComprehendingÖ UnderstandingÖ

And they call herÖ ďThe Watcher.Ē

This incredible, uniquely challenged girl has the ability to see things that no one else can. Meanwhile, she imagines the rest. Torn between reality and fantasy, nothing seems to make sense to the Watcher.

UntilÖ She spots an ideal family, and a handsome lifeguard, in which she begins to record details about in her tiny notebook.

Through the lives of three troubled teens, (including The Watcher), we see that perfection is not what we perceive, but rather what we want it to be. The most amazing example of this is when Evanís (one of the main characters in this novel) mom picks up a broken seashell and says she wants it because itís not perfect. She says, ďWe all start out thinking that there is such a thing as perfection and that thereís something wrong with us if we settle for less. First we wonít eat the food with the brown spots. Then we hate ourselves because we have our own brown spots - pimples or ears that are too big or legs that are too skinny.Ē This line, and others of such, teaches us such valuable life lessons that we often just dismiss or underestimate. This book is full of wisdom. Itís a challenge to the mind. It questions real life issues and things that really are going on in the world. Such as, when Evan says, ďIím never going to get married. Marriage is supposed to be forever, and no!
thing is forever, so why bother?Ē This made my heart skip a beat because this thirteen year old had a point and I couldnít help but ponder upon his words of wisdom.

This novel is truly touching, and at the same time, itís mind-boggling. While reading ďThe Watcher,Ē you will undergo an experience that will astonish both your mind and your senses, leaving you to ponder Ďtill the very last pageÖ
Shireen
12th grader
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
I am in grade 13. Your submission form did not give me that option since your website takes place in the United States where there is no grade 13. (You guys only go up to grade 12). Therefore, I clicked grade 12.
The Waitress and a Boy Ordering Lunch

may I take your order?
we make eye contact
my outer skin is just going through the motions
as my inner senses try to read you
frantically searching for a sign
that you still remember how things used to be
do you ever think about when I was yours
back when we were still together
it has to sometimes cross your mind
doesn't it?
I can't take it anymore
I avert my eyes
pay too much attention to that insignificant slip of paper
on which I write what you desire
I turn and walk away without looking back
I take in a deep breath of air
please slow my beating heart
God has a sick sense of humor in creating this situation
I am again your servant
although now a slightly different kind
nevertheless I still run at your beck and call
to fulfill your every need without question

Zoey
11th grader
Mt. Carmel, IL USA
About the author of "the waitress and a boy ordering lunch."
My name is Zoey and I'm sixteen (almost seventeen) years old.  I'm a junior in high school, and have been writing poetry most of my high school career. 
Reflection

Who is that girl
In the mirror I see
See her, Can't you see her
I know that's not me
She's pretty and perfect
Is that all a lie?
Most is an image
That will quickly die
I see her at night
The tears on her face
All I hear her say
"My life's such a disgrace"
Why don't they understand
They can't see the real me
All they can see
Is what they want to believe
They think that's the truth
But it is such a lie
She is only a child
Now I know why she cries

Kristina
9th grader
Nanaimo, BC, Canada
About the author of Reflection.... I am a grade 9 student at JBSS... I always write to get out my emotions and what I am thinking, because I have never been good at talking about them
Eden

As I remember it before,
It appeared in my mind as paradise.
With no single frail thing in its content,
It was both welcoming and safe.
A huge maple tree marked its entrance,
With a scent of heaven adoring its interior.
It was an arctic escape in July,
As well as a peaceful retreat
>From snowy skies in the season of giving.
When I ponder about this magical place,
My mind takes me far away from where I am,
And suddenly the clock turns back.
I find myself remembering the days
When my life was simple and not unpleasant,
Days when I received joy just from being
Within its walls and sitting by the fire.
But now it is a dreadful place
And I dare not to go back home.
For walking through the entry way
Is now a walk into the wilderness.

Jonathan
9th grader
Broken Arrow, Okla., United States
This poem was something I wrote when I allowed my mind to
explore different places. Sometimes I write from personal experience. But
sometimes my writing comes from my head. I allow myself to be placed in
someone else's shoes, or I wonder what life would be like if I were in a
different situation. A lot of my poetry reflects the times that I've thought
about things like this. "Eden" is meant to be a reflection of a hurting
person's mind, whether there is a positive message implanted or not.
Captain Kid

Captain Kidd was a pirate with a clue,
Armed with his gang of cut-throats,
He sailed the oceans blue.

On the 'Adventure Galley' they conquered all,
Kidd was the ruthless ruler of the seas,
Some even say that he was a bit like Caesar.

No coast too far,
Nor ship too large
For Kidd to "Plundargh"

Boarding the British 'Quedah' merchant ship, as if for leisure,
A scabbard in one hand and a grappling hook in the other,
Captain William Kidd quickly secured his treasure.

He set sail for New York without reason,
Planning to fool the people into thinking his treasure was French,
Then Kidd was sentenced for treason.

He was captured and sent to England at once,
Hung thrice (the rope broke twice),
The British displayed his body as the 'great pirate dunce.'
Eric
Home Schooled
Las Vegas, Nevada, USA

2002 - 04 - 02

Hi ladies and gentlemen!
Eric is my name and the poetry is my game.

Untitled 3

When you look at me,
All you can see
Is the girl,
With the nice hair,
With the rosy cheeks,
With the perfect body, short and skinny,
You see my big smile.
What you see is the girl you think I am,
The girl I used to be,
However, I changed,
And now
You'll never be able to truly know me,
If all you can see is the outside
I want to be different,
I'm sick of being the same,
Everyday I find out more about myself,
And everyday it surprises me more,
Because I am no longer the little girl in the pink dresses
Or the pre-teen wanting so much to fit in,
I'm not the girl in the jeans and sweatshirt either,
I'm the girl who's inside of me

Sarah
8th grader
Newbury
 
         
 

Last Updated
11/30/03

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