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Peter 1 Shani Peter ENC1101 Katie Bridgman 17 July, 2012 Poetry Is My Way of Life I felt the water stream down my face as I recalled what happened today at school. The boy I liked flat out rejected me. Really, I felt stupid for even attempting to talk to him, nonetheless to ask him if he wants to be more than friends. I mean, I'm in third grade... what do I know about love? I sighed as I stepped out of the shower, drying myself with a towel at my dad's house. My parents are divorced, so I come here about two to three times a week. I always tell my dad about my "boy trouble", because he's easier to talk to rather than my mom. She would freak out and start saying things like 'You have to be careful young lady!’ After I put my pjs on I told my dad about what happened today with the boy I like. We were sitting on his olive-colored sofas in the living room, with the television on in the background, as he listened to my story. As I finished telling him how disappointed and sad I felt, he comforted me, got up from the sofa, gave me a kiss on the forehead, and went to make dinner. I just kept sitting there, staring at the sofa in front of me, but not really seeing it, as out of nowhere, I had this vision in my head of a girl sitting alone on a porch while it rains. I got up almost immediately and half walked- half ran to the computer room, found a piece of paper, a pen and began to write my first poem ever. If only I knew it would become like air to breathe. Fast forward to 2008, after I moved to the United States, at our new apartment in Boca Raton, Florida. My mom's new ‘friend’ came over to get to know my sister and me for the first time. I thought he was weird... I couldn't read his facial expressions, or body language, which made me even more defensive than I usually get when it comes to my mom's love life. Don't get


 

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me wrong, it's not like I don't want her to be happy, it's just that I know what she deserves, and I seriously believe that there is no one out there that is good enough for her, hence the defensiveness. A few days before he came to see us, she sat my sister and me on the couch, took a deep breath and said that there's someone she wants us to meet and that she invited him over for lunch on Friday. I didn't think much of it, because I didn't meet him yet. What I did make sure to clarify with my mom is that they are just friends right now. Of course I was happy about that, because as far as I go, I need to approve him. Now, my mom obviously wouldn't take a love advice from a thirteen year old, but I could care less. The fact that they were still just friends gave me some more time to evaluate the situation, and the guy himself. Soon enough, Friday came and my sister and I helped her organize the table, using our pretty white plates with flowery pattern, matching glasses, napkins, and the whole fancy deal. If a random person passed by and saw how my mom was stressing about the food being good enough and the table looking nice enough, he/she would think that the Queen is coming for a visit. Before I knew it, he arrived, had lunch, spoke to us, and left. My mom walked him to his car. I quickly ran to her room, to her window, knowing I'd be able to see them from there. The drapes were closed so I moved one of them to the side, ever so slightly, just to get a glimpse of them before he left. And they kissed. On the lips. I felt betrayed. Disappointed. Angry. Sad. I ran to my room, shut the door, climbed on my bed, shoved my face into my pillow, and cried for a good ten minutes. As I finally sat up, my eyes fell on my poetry diary. I got up from my bed, wiped my tear-stained cheeks, and grabbed the diary. I took the black pen that I always keep in there, opened a new page, and began writing my first poem in English: You made me believe but you lied, You made me breathe but I died,


Peter 3 You made me look but I couldn’t, I want to tell you but I shouldn’t… Fast forward to a regular day when I’m fifteen years old. I just got back from school, walked up in the swirly staircase at the entrance of our new house after my mom got remarried (to the same guy from the Friday lunch), and walked to my room to put away all my school stuff. I then remembered my English assignment, so wanting to get it done with, I grabbed a newspaper and laid on my bed as I began reading a random article to analyze. After I finished reading it, I went to sit by my desk, took out a sheet of paper and started analyzing the article. Funny enough, I ended up with a poem rather than analysis, but of course, I eventually I had to do it the correct way. As I was writing the poem I thought about the opening paragraph of the article, which was about world hunger, and what we can and can’t do about it. My poem began with the idea of world hunger, but as always, it took its own course: “The world is hungry for some more. More freedom. Freedom from judgment. Freedom from injustice. Freedom from evil. Freedom from themselves…” During that same year, one of the most awful events related to my family. My family is made up of many babies, knock on wood. I have about 23 cousins only from my mom’s side of the family, and the wonderful thing about my family is that even though there are so many of us, we are all so close to one another, and I consider almost every single one of them as my siblings. So when something happens in our family, we are all in on it. When it’s a wedding, none of us stops dancing till dawn, when it’s a birthday we are all there to celebrate. When it’s something


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not so good however… we all feel the pain. In 2009 my cousin had another baby. In the beginning everything was fine, perfect! But then, instead of keep on walking like a growing baby would do, he suddenly couldn’t take a single step. And then he couldn’t sit down properly. And then he stopped talking overall. Even the best doctors don’t know what it is, or what caused it. One day I got back from school and I saw my mom sitting in our dining area, on a chair, with a look of grief on her face. I immediately assumed the worst. I dropped my bag on the floor, not caring it’s not in its proper place. I walked almost numbly towards my mom, and sat in the chair next to her. She finally looked up at me and said, “I spoke to them today. To know how things are going.” Her face was completely blank now. I took a deep breath preparing myself for the worst. She copied my action, looked down at her hands on her lap, and whispered, “It’s getting worse. Now, he can’t move his neck. They are afraid it’s getting to his brain and then…” she left the rest of the sentence hanging in the air, not being able to complete the thought. At first I sighed in relief, because he didn’t leave us. But then I realized how he must have been suffering. Still numb, I got up and walked to my room without saying anything to my mom. I closed my door, and took out my poetry diary. I didn’t cry until I was half way through the poem, when I finally got my mind wrapped around it: I was with you as you first smiled, As you took your first step, As you said your first word. Please don’t go, not yet, Keep holding on, And resist this horrible threat. I look at your smiling self,


Peter 5 With tears streaming down my face You’re so little, so tiny, so innocent… You don’t deserve any of this, But please! Don’t let go of the small thread that’s Keeping you here with me… Jump to 2010, when I finally had my first serious crush on a boy ever since I moved here. Every morning, when I would decide what to wear, I’d have him in the back of my mind. Whenever he spoke a word and a half to me, I’d blush like crazy and probably look like a tomato. He was much taller than me, with green eyes, and a nice smile, so at the time he looked dreamy. We seemed like we had many things in common, we were both in the same English class; both of us were in the same science class back in eighth grade, and we both loved hip-hop music. One day during class, as I was sitting listening to the teacher, I saw him whisper something to the girl next to him. I’m not going to lie, she was very pretty, so I obviously got jealous. She giggled at whatever he said to her, and then I heard something painful. He asked her out. To say my heart was broken is an obvious exaggeration, but that’s what it felt like. My heart was shattered to little pieces. To say I was in a “down mood” for the rest of the day is an understatement. I did give myself props for not crying though! When I got home I didn’t feel like doing my homework, or even watching TV. I laid in bed for a good thirty minutes, letting my mind wonder, when I had the urge to say something, or rather, write something. As usual, I opened a blank page in my fluffy pink poetry diary, took a red pen, and poured my heart out with ink: Feeling at loss without your heart In rhythm with mine.


Peter 6 Feeling confused, because it feels like My heart has been abused. By your love, by your hate, By fate… Move on to 2011, when my teenage hormones decided to have a full attack on me. I

thought I was really going mental, one day being happy and peppy, and the next day, with no reason whatsoever, I lose my appetite, feeling extremely down, not wanting to talk to anybody, and if one did, I’d get mad within a second and throw a tantrum. Well, in one of those days my sister decided that she hates seeing me like this, but she didn’t try and get to me the right way. In fact, she just got mad at me. So naturally, I was flaming mad, we were yelling back and forth, and it got to the point where I ran up to the room, shut my door as hard as I could, and screamed into my pillow. Then I calmed down the fire in me with tears and sobs. I felt so out of control, so depressed, so alone, I felt helpless. As my breathing slowed to a slower pace, I eventually fell asleep. When I woke up, my face was still red, and my eyes, nose, and lips were swollen from all the sobbing. I got up from my bed, grabbed my poetry diary, and exploded my emotions with ink onto the paper: Why are you doing this to me? Do you want to cause me pain? Or kill me? Do you want me to get away from your life so fast? What have I done, that such fate is coming for me? I always took care of you, was there for you… I loved you. That’s it you have done it. I’m out of your life.


Peter 7 I’m dead. Poetry is my way of life, it’s how I let things go and make sure my mind is always clear of unhealthy thoughts and feelings. It helps me relieve sadness, disappointment, anger, guilt, and even hate. It’s my everyday use and something that records the events of my life and helps me cope and pass any obstacle I run into. Usually all these emotions will be converted to heart breaking, depressing poems that seem a lot more dramatic than my life actually is. In order for me to write poetry I need to be inspired by an event that either happened to me personally, or is simply around me. Poetry eases my pain, It’s like air to breathe, it’s my freedom, my savior, my life.


Paper One- Poetry Is My Way of LIfe