For What, I Might Add?

They wake me early,
I'm not the only one.
They count us each day, two by two.
This is no fun.

They feel we may escape,
for what, I might add,
This livin' on you own thing?
It's just a fad.

Now we get dressed.
It's time for breakfast
They give us gruel.
They say it is our strength, it is our fuel.

Now it's time for our learnin',
I wish we were done.
Because I don't know what it feels like
to win or to have won.

It's playtime now.
The big kids pick on me.
I think to myself,
we are all in this together.
Why can't they let me be?

I feel like cryin'
I feel like I'm open.
It is the 1940s'
My parents are gone,
and I, am an orphan.

Commentary:
Written Sept/Oct 2009. This was about the 1940s' during WWll. I was thinking about how many kids became orphans because their parents were killed. i didn't mention how the parents were killed but I want people to know that this was about a boy who was in an orphange with other kids who have also lost their parents.

Autumn Wind

She wanders blankly through the dark, deserted path. Leaves sway around like a blanket of silent conversation. There are pillars of dark trees surrounding her. She hears nothing but the crunch of the dead leaves under her feet and the silent pleas of help in her head. She embraces herself as the night air becomes more crisp and cool. Endless mintues tick by. She hears woodland creatures as they become more nervous knowing she's there. Above, she hears the flapping of wings from a crow. She looks up as it caws. She knows she is unwelcome here. She stops walking. She just stands there, helpless as this trek becomes more and more spooky. She falls to her knees, and looks down at her worn-out demin jeans. As she glances up past the stone walkway covered in dry autumn leaves and notices a wide wooden door ahead. She knows beyond that door is happiness but she feels glued down to the ground. She tears for she knows she will never reach that door thought it's a mere few feet ahead. She sees only autumn colors as she dissolves into the air and becomes the dry wind itself.

 

About: Autumn Wind:

Written 3-31-10 I wrote this at a time when I felt hopeless and scared. It was night, in my room. This is one of my favorite pieces of mine. It was written at a sad time, yes. But one of the best. I was actually happy considering the circumstances.

A New Place

It's cold, dark and damp. I can't see but I know something's there. I hear muffled cries to the right and left of me. Above me I could hear muffled yells that were loud and strong like a foghorn. I can't move. Something's rotting, but what? I know there's many people around me. The only heat we have is the body heat from people surrounding me. I feel like screaming, but what's the point when no one can seem to hear me? People dying all around me. I feel no hope. What will the future bring? I've been taken away from my family and friends. I can't understand what these men are saying or where we are going. But there's nothing I can do about it. I'm making secret cries of help.

About: A New Place:
Written on 12-3-2008. I was in 8th grade. My Language Arts and Literature class. The teacher asked everyone to write a story. I used a tip from my 7th grade English teacher to "zoom" in on a moment. Using all the senses to describe the scene. Best. Tip. Ever.


You know the feeling you get when you know the teacher's going to call on you? Well I definitely got that feeling after I finished writing this piece. I knew she'd call on me, but some part of me actually wanted to read this to the class. After I read it, my whole class was in awe. The immature, prank pulling 8th graders didn't know what to say. Sure, I was the quiet kid but that day, they saw my potential. They all looked at me. Some kid named Josh Greene said something like... "damn." Best moment ever. Then my teacher said, well I found out something today.. you're a great writer.


So after that, I realized I loved to write. I want to make people speechless as I did that day.


I wrote this piece exactly as it was written back in 8th grade. Today, I would've written it differently, maybe better. Maybe not. But this piece is the founder of all other pieces that I've written.