Cameron comes home tomorrow! Thank goodness. It has been a long weekend without him around. :-/
I started writing my first important college paper today. Holy crap it was hard. Having not had to write a serious piece of work in almost five months, I've completely forgotten how to structure an essay and construct a thesis statement. Ohh dear lord. I had to force myself to sit down and write, and after a while things got easier but still. I'm struggling to get used to this homework deal. Ahh, school.
I wrote a really cheesy poem about Greg today for my creative writing class because a) I'm obsessed with him and b) he fit perfectly into the prompt. The assignment was to write a poem about someone's hands, and then something that person is doing with their hands, to mention an exotic place, to ask that person a question about said exotic place (but have it do with what their hands were doing) and then to have them answer, but not to understand what you were asking. Phew, that was a long sentence. Anyway, here you go, my terribly forced poem that I love anyway:
Soft
Like baby skin after being washed and rubbed and loved
His hands
smooth porcelain knives
carved from flesh and tumbled stones
Street lamps play orange glow shadows over his
thin frame
glittering like diamonds over meticulously cut
fingernails as he
massages the guitar
like he massages my thighs my hands too
The music as gentle and sure and
acoustically pleasant
like water over falls it turns
and hums and dips
those porcelain knives coax the melody
I think it sounds like Africa
folksongs and firelight and purple velvet skies
glistening dimly
Its all feathers and animal skins and inspiration
a slice of something so exotic and fresh
that I can taste it like I know Ill taste his skin
Have you ever been to Africa?
and he looks up, startled
hands slowing to a stumbling fault at the intrusion
on his tribal dance
This is Massachusetts, suburbia, USA
unanswered I look down at my hands
rough and raw as the African plains
jagged mountains against an unforgiving sky
Then the melody creeps up again like
cellophane or scented candles
echoing softly of something
I cant quite understand
I started writing my first important college paper today. Holy crap it was hard. Having not had to write a serious piece of work in almost five months, I've completely forgotten how to structure an essay and construct a thesis statement. Ohh dear lord. I had to force myself to sit down and write, and after a while things got easier but still. I'm struggling to get used to this homework deal. Ahh, school.
I wrote a really cheesy poem about Greg today for my creative writing class because a) I'm obsessed with him and b) he fit perfectly into the prompt. The assignment was to write a poem about someone's hands, and then something that person is doing with their hands, to mention an exotic place, to ask that person a question about said exotic place (but have it do with what their hands were doing) and then to have them answer, but not to understand what you were asking. Phew, that was a long sentence. Anyway, here you go, my terribly forced poem that I love anyway:
Soft
Like baby skin after being washed and rubbed and loved
His hands
smooth porcelain knives
carved from flesh and tumbled stones
Street lamps play orange glow shadows over his
thin frame
glittering like diamonds over meticulously cut
fingernails as he
massages the guitar
like he massages my thighs my hands too
The music as gentle and sure and
acoustically pleasant
like water over falls it turns
and hums and dips
those porcelain knives coax the melody
I think it sounds like Africa
folksongs and firelight and purple velvet skies
glistening dimly
Its all feathers and animal skins and inspiration
a slice of something so exotic and fresh
that I can taste it like I know Ill taste his skin
Have you ever been to Africa?
and he looks up, startled
hands slowing to a stumbling fault at the intrusion
on his tribal dance
This is Massachusetts, suburbia, USA
unanswered I look down at my hands
rough and raw as the African plains
jagged mountains against an unforgiving sky
Then the melody creeps up again like
cellophane or scented candles
echoing softly of something
I cant quite understand
gorgeous writing. we should write together sometime...