A very rough draft
I am not a short story writer. I always have trouble ending a story and developing characters in a way that is not completely cliche. My attention span is not there when it comes to writing fiction, but when it comes to poetry, I could spend hours upon hours working on one line, one mere word, in a poem. My best writing has actually been the result of deadlines. I love poetry classes because I have to have something written. It is motivating to have a non-self-imposed deadline and it is inspiring to be around other writers. Until I find a class to go to locally, my goal is to focus on writing more and force myself to write and not be concerned if what I write is complete crap--this is an issue of mine...I need to just let go and tell myself that no one has to see what I write if I don't want them to. But I hesitate because what if what I write isn't good enough? Good enough for whom? Your guess is as good as mine! Anyway, I've been working on this poem. It is extremely "rough" and it doesn't have a title yet (it will soon though because I strongly believe that a poem should have a title). What do you think? Just so you know, I thrive off of constructive criticism. I am a true masochist when is comes to my writing because I know it will only make me better. Like I said, give this a read and know that it is not a finished product...
When I moved into my first house
I painted the bedroom aloe-vera
green and bright
to cover up the rich violet paint thick
from the girl who lived here before.
She begged her mother to paint
pulling on apron strings
until they came undone—
plum flesh walls
like summer fruit breaking, oozing
between new teeth.
Each stroke of my brush concealed
her foolish choices, smothering
chips of violet
until something she would have never chosen
and my own mother would have frowned upon
During the day sun enters
and warm color bounces about the room
But during sleepless night’s still hours
the girl returns, her hands
pressing out from behind the paint
like sweet pastry glaze
flaking in tiny fingers.
Her sticky-faced child demands
make me uneasy so I breathe into her
words of adult reason
suffocating false notions.
I whisper over and over
I am a woman— green
bright and happy
until she surrenders
Thanks for reading. Please comment. Also, let me know if you are a writer or poet! THANKS!