Keep your eyes on the prize, but it is the journey that matters.
We are all unique, and were not so different you and I.
Poignant contradictions in today’s confused philosophy;
Support the troops and Push for peace.
F I G H T I N G harder for peace.
It’s this world of yelling missionaries, trying to win people over to their causes and to their common ideologies.
“They” say that every Thing and every Where is Art.
But that lone green stripe on a piece of white canvas hanging there in that questionably renowned museum, that is just a lone green stripe on a piece of white canvas hanging there in that questionably renowned museum.
Quality and Qualities have been defined and progressed, making a lifetime of the past bow down to twenty years of the so called “here and now”.
We all are suffocating on our own Confused Philosophy.
Organize my Agony into Ice Trays.
add orange juice (2 cups)
add pineapple juice (2 cups)
add Ice (3-5 cubes).
serve with napkin.
Happiness’s menacing revenge on poets
Screaming, this smiling driver, heading to wherever and ever.
Rouge normality on M86 buses, dropkicking dangerous poetic nonsense.
“Creative identity” distracting purpose, and holding mystifying ecstatic power.
I own the power to confuse, and be confused. Contracting contradicting control.
Happiness’s menacing revenge on poets.
What isn’t natural?
He starts the poem with a question, how deep.
I clap my hands in the woods, and the woods hear my hands.
Wow, personification, that’s high-level stuff.
I have trouble clapping, have trouble making noise with my natural hands that now appear to be an artificial compass.
Now we see some vagueness, really uncommon in high-school poetry. Wait, I bet there’s a line about how alone and unique he feels.
I am but a daisy petal, resting restlessly on the third rail. The train intending to split and send splits in all directions.
Ohh! So original and hard to predict. Let me guess: now comes the bad and obvious attempt at a good vocabulary.
The petal’s Idiosyncratic, and unencumbered waverings ebulliently ameliorate it’s own parsimonious tendencies.
I wished farewell to the noble and baffled daisy petal that passed by my window. As the moonlight scratches at his face, he falls asleep never to wake again.
I don’t get it, but it sounds dramatic, is he a petal of a flower or a lost boy in the woods? And did the moonlight kill him? Is that even possible?
What isn’t Natural?
He ends the poem in the same way he started; I’ve never seen that before.
Their eyes kissed. Well, tried to “kiss”.
It was nothing sexual, just the naïve curiosity; gazing into someone’s eyes and having them send you something back.
They “kissed” like a trading of apprehensive “thank-you” notes. Without lips, and without words. No Punchlines or unnecessary fluidity.
No need to melt their current conversation with their next, because, they had never had a conversation.
And they never would.
She could’ve been a girl or a boy, or a woman or a man,
or just a pair of eyes.
He could’ve been any stranger, anything that deserved her stare.
Josh Sondock, Age 16, Grade 11, Trevor Day School, Silver Key