My English class is reading Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried and we're talking about things that haunt us.
So in regards to ghosts, and in honor of Ellen Hopkins--NEW YORK TIMES BEST SELLING AUTHOR-- for commenting on my Monster post yesterday, I wrote a poem.
(Do you know how long it's been since I wrote a poem?)
I wrote it Ellen Hopkins style, but blogger doesn't support the format so let me explain it to you. The lines in between each stanza are supposed to be justified to the far right. Those lines must be read as part of the main poem, but they also make up their own poem when read alone.
I spent a whole day alone, wandering
the streets of Washington D.C.
Just me. And my ghosts. It was
lovely to see
them again--to give them my
undivided attention. We caught
up over Philly cheese steak on
then took a taxi to Georgetown
where we strolled arm in arm
past bloodshot windows,
neck and neck,
as if through a Coldplay song—
The Scientist, maybe,
Or Keane’s Somewhere
Only we know--
and feeling like a kid at Christmas,
flipping through mom’s Ideals
magazines and wondering
what it was like
to live inside snow-capped cottages with
roaring fireplaces and smells of nutmeg
and cinnamon sticks. How would it be
to have plenty
of hot apple cider, divinity and love?
Georgetown is like that when you
wander through it. It's almost enough,
but not quite . . .
and it strikes you that here you
will come together, but also separate.
You are in this world, yet it is not quite
in you. I love you, it whispers,
but I don’t know where to put you.
I wish I had the courage to ask it not
to put me away.
About my serious side
Not to break the spell or spoil the fun, but you've probably figured out my real name isn't Dummy.
The CTD Diaries is my playground. No one tells the truth in their diaries anyway so I figured I should find another place to get real, where the head lights aren't so bright. I originally thought this would be a good place to post my creative writing, but I think this is just a good place to tell the truth.