Hello...Anyone?

Hello Creative Writing student?s I am alive. But I am wondering if I am still linked on to Ms. S page.

Let's Go Fly....

Tiny fingers hold on to the threads of color, sound, and motion. With steady hands, he has grasped the concept that others only dare reach for. They negotiate with the surrounding air, communicating with small tugs and gentle pulls. Ecstatic, it goes higher and higher, past the height of his friends and parents, past the city horizon, soaring above the clouds themselves until it can no longer be seen. The only traces of it remain intertwined between his fingers, and the expression in his smile.
As his teacher calls his name in the dim lighting of the classroom, he loses his hold and the magnificent kite, with streamers trailing, flies out of his mind, and into the sky behind the window.

Ahura Mazda

Ahura Mazda
I was just too caught up trying to be happy, even if it was selfish and synthetic forms of it. Selfish because my physical body did not know how to handle this virus overload of happiness, and synthetic because although my computer was crashing, my monitor shined all the same. But now I can honestly say that my tear drop is the realest thing I have seen my body produce; there is no copy & paste for it and I am finally okay with that.
But things happened so suddenly, and when the continuous flow of memories of you and me were cut off and I found myself forcing to spit you out, I could no longer differentiate between tastes. Those were the scary moments. My senses left me with a parched mouth and bleached world. I was scared that the salt in my tears would only dry up my blank pallet, rather than nourish it. When I meet my former self through dreams or pictures it makes me realize how ugly a numbed mind can be; I found the beauty in crying and hopefully I can come close to doing it as gracefully as you did.
I can now see a writer, philosopher, and comedian, and I will willingly cry for brittle bones, empty pages, and silent rooms.
I currently cry for happiness, blonde hair and jazz hands.
I see music and movement and I will weep for her too. And I will sob with a sour lemon in my mouth for the joy of taste it brings me.
I smile because we smiled and I cry because we cried. I now know that I need both sides to pay respectable homage to you. My tears alone will not give your memory justice, but rather the smile I show when your name is mentioned. And now that I am able to embrace both sides I have the feeling that I found you again inside of me.
I live the dual life of Ying and Yang. Angra Mainyu and Spenta Mainyu collided together inside of my body and I have never felt so alive. I have entered an endless circle of where gray is the dominant color, but all are present if we wish to see them. I contently accept that I will forever spin on this axis knowing that my tears are wound around the happiest moments of my life.

2-4-08

2-4-08
By Hope VandenAkker

The beats of our hearts were once the same.

Our palms carried thin silence.
We held our hands up together,
And our heart beats were the same.

Sound absorbed us and cradled us,
We nestled within the comforting womb;
Measures and music and melody,
And our heart beats were the same.

The waves crashed;
Although sandy beaches recorded our footsteps.
We felt invisible to everything,
Except a midnight sky and ocean air.
And on the verge of disappearing through a veil of reality,
Our heart beats were still the same.

Our hearts would beat faster as we would climb
The climatic height of metal tracks
Coming down we swore our hearts would leave us
And fly as high as our arms were stretched up
And as wide as our smiles lengthened,
Falling below pavement and people,
But still beating all the same.

And our hearts would slow,
With the discussion that 3 A.M. brought to us,
Easing down our bodies from the excitement of the day,
But never,
Coming
To a
Stop.

Women's Liberation: Movement

Women’s Liberation: Movement
By Hope VandenAkker

My feet are Barbie feet,
And although they do wander through a magical garden at times,
They do so without the aide of a tiara and stilettos.
Maybe they do slip into short dresses for bedtime,
And even shorter ones for the morning,
But they will not be found waltzing in a synthetic dream,
Through rooms of molded plastic.
Unlike Barbie, my feet can hold me up;
They can move without someone else’s permission.

FireFlie

By Hope VandenAkker


She is part of my open arms,
The circle of non-genetic faces
With different roots from a different tree.
We are not bound by DNA,
But rather by our spiritual composition
Consisting of the twisted strands of soul.

The soil we are planted in does not
Define the term “family,”
But rather how close our branches blossom
Through the nourishing of
Sun, stars, and rain.

Her name cups the blue of her eyes,
And the gold of her hair.
A lucid dream is not even as free
As her thoughts,Floating in breathing oxygen,
Waiting for you to inhale.

She is a holder of my memories;
Present in a scattered red graveyard
To give respect to those who fall underneath
Our feet’s’ current.

She captures exploding campfires in her jar,
And shelves them next to
The dangerous floorboards of an abanded house,
And the muddy adventures of a neighborhood trail.

Happiness is taped on her walls,
Held together with recycled stickies
And a snow day.

And if one day,
You find yourself ever looking up,
You just might be able
To see her face in the sky.

I have nothing to blog about. Which is kinda weird because I have not been able to find my journal for the past 3 months. I have been using scrap pieces of printer paper, which definitly does not have the same effect and are easily lost (more easily lost than my already lost journal.) I have been getting frantic bouts of panic when I have something in my head I need to write down and then realize that I don't know were my journal is. I never really thought I could write it on the computer until about now.


So I am kinda excited about this midterm stuff. I have a few good ideas, but I am not sure which one I will physically maniefest yet.