The Memory Keepers Daughter

Author's Note- In this book, a man has twins. The son is normal although the daughter has down syndrome and he gives her away as though she is nothing. 

What if you were one of two

But in the mind of another

Only half

A half which doesn’t matter

Although it does

Because a half plus another

Equals one

A half though

Somewhere else

or here

Could be someone else's

two

This Long Road

Author's Note- One day we did a journal entry as a class starting out with this long road. I took this long road as the road of life with no ending, but writing in literal terms of a road. When you read it don't think of an actual road though, think of your life. Please give me some feedback to make it better, thanks.

Staring ahead

Eyes looking down into darkness,

darkness of the pavement.

Then looking

an inch away from the tip of your toes,

to the bright yellow dashes of happiness and glory.

Although only coming in dashes,

Broken up in the eternity of black

Still surrounded on both sides by a white pureness, keeping you in line,

so you don’t get off track.

 There is no end to this road.

Going on in both directions, for forever.

Not remembering the absolute beginning,

Not knowing an end

Not seeing the end of the path ahead,

If there even is an end.

We have gotten this far already, its not like you can just veer off to the side, over the edge,

as the adventure is almost over,

or possibly just begun.

The sun smiling down over head,

but could turn into a frown at any moment,

But seeming as though that is impossible,

as though the only thing left for this days walk, is the blue sky, and puffy white clouds.

But maybe that is just what I see;

although all that matters, is how I perceive it,

 to get

 where I am going.

When where I am going is no place at all,

 just a race, with no finish line

now I am just at a pit stop, for this moment

along this long road

Truman Show

We are all the same. To some extent, by which we all are programmed the same. We each think everything is just for us at times but then we each think that we are part of some other master plan, which technically we are. Each of us are just a little part of something bigger, but still each of us are that something bigger.

The only way to win is to make it all the way to the top, but that’s not even winning because all of the fun is in getting there. It doesn’t even matter where you end up because you are there, and that’s where you are, and it can change, because your life is always changing unlike in his world. When life isn't moving anymore it really isn't life. Its like its on the path of death, because life is being alive, and the world changing creating something new from moment to moment. Sometimes there is routine but nothing ever is exactly the same, and if something is too perfect it isn't real. Although that is now what our lives are. They aren't real.

The end is only a new beginning, a completely new beginning in this case. Although a new beginning isn't always better. A new beginning contradicts everything from before and you don’t know what is real or not. Also a new beginning is reaching the top, even though there is always a higher point which you can reach, but you might just not be able to see, like the wall of clouds. Things sometimes seem different from where you are and you cant always see the whole picture, but when you do all you see is a picture and you aren't in it anymore. 

Dreams/Odysseus

Author's Note- My poet is W.S. Merwin who wrote Odysseus. Odysseus is about history repeating itself over time, tricks, hope, loyalty, traitors and becoming one. I wrote about dreams. Dreams being dreams, of what you can become or being stories you have thought of, with "What if?" beginnings and endings. Dreams from long ago that are forgotten and later rediscovered and remembered. I tried to use the same line patterns as W.S Merwin, so please let me know how I did. Thanks for reading.

Dreams

Never having any limits to break,

No restrictions, no story dreamed unwritten

As it had never been thought of before.

Later forgotten over time

Then remembered, by something

That triggers a memory, and keeps living

Recreating the fantasy. There were the people

Each important in their way through your story

To be created, and one to be "real"

Everything that could have happened

Imagined into being real

Or not. Although its not. But sometimes thinking

That it is life forgotten

Which is really just a story actualized

Adventures that will never happen,

And considered, alive, reality, and lies,

Is there ever an awakening?

Odysseus

Always the setting forth was the same,

Same sea, same dangers waiting for him

As though he had got nowhere but older.

Behind him on the receding shore

The identical reproaches, and somewhere

Out before him, the unraveling patience

He was wedded to.  There were the islands

Each with its woman and twining welcome

To be navigated, and one to call ``home.''

The knowledge of all that he betrayed

Grew till it was the same whether he stayed

Or went.  Therefore he went.  And what wonder

If sometimes he could not remember

Which was the one who wished on his departure

Perils that he could never sail through,

And which, improbable, remote, and true,

Was the one he kept sailing home to?

Same

Author's Note- I was just thinking about how life doesn't ever seem to change, but then you realize everything has changed but it is all still the same, so I decided to write about it. It is more of a journal entry in a way, but here it is.

How come we always want something else that we don’t have? Once we finally realize we have something amazing its gone, it disappears and you can’t always get back, or find it again. Even if it might still be in our reach we miss it, we miss what it could be, we miss what it was, while knowing we messed up and just stopped.

We always look to have control in our life, to control our lives from day to day. Once we have control we realize that we really aren't living life anymore, we are living control. Some days we don't want anything to change from the day before, and say that we will figure it out that new day but we don’t. Each day that we live independently, in our own selves, a new opportunity or a new adventure to explore presents itself.

As we live the same day over and over nothing changes and everything wears down. There is no new story to tell tomorrow, just the same story from a day ago, a week ago, a month ago.  As over time it changes. Into something new that never really happened. Over time we create new ideas to believe, to make it seem ok and tell ourselves we will go back to where we were in yesterday or to somewhere better tomorrow, but not now. We can still create tomorrow, but only based on what we had yesterday and what we have today.

My City

Author's Note- In class we did a journal entry, it was a Stream of Consciousness, and the word was "City." When I first think of a city, I think of a place like Chicago, at night. I think of how it is always living and something is always happening. This would be where the poem would take place. I didn't mean for it to go darker at the end, but that's where it went. Also, we are reading Fahrenheit 451 right now, and I think this poem could connect to the book in different ways. Please leave your opinion on how it sounded as it got darker, and if I should have kept it happier, and lighter or if the way it went  was ok.

Walking through the streets,
Set in a perfect grid.
Everything moving around,
Buzzing through the town.

Looking up to the sky,
The lights of life shining down bright.
Upon me

Rushing to get from here to there,
Not yet knowing
Where there is,
But just wanting to get there.

Whistle down a taxi.
As you wave goodbye,
For now, to a friend,
Knowing you will see them again.

Running out into the heart
Of my city
Weaving through the craziness, the life

The siren sounds,
Lights flashing,
Everything goes out.

The lights of life from above,
Burnt out, turning off.
My lights
Apparently, this is that “there”,
Where I wanted to be.

This isn't where I wanted to be,
At all.
Cemented down into the road,
Stiff and cold, unable to move

Strangers trying to help me,
To save me.
They don’t know what help I need.
How would they?

They don’t know what on me hurts,
They didn’t ask,
As I can’t answer

They think it’s my head, but it’s really my heart.
I’m failing, breaking off, from me.
Is that even possible? To drown inside of myself

Now in this white room,
New lights from above,
Peering down,
Supposedly to wake me up back to life.

But not my life,
My shining lights
Are from the my city,
Where I live, not from this ceiling,

These are lights of someone else's life.
I need my lights
From my city,
To wake me back up.

Until I see my lights,
I’ll stay resting here
In nothingness, in darkness

Never wandering through my streets again,
Never saying hello to that friend I said goodbye to for now,
Never looking up at the sky scrapers of life, reaching to the sky,
But now looking down upon this all.