poems
what happened to me. i remember my family used to call me a bookworm when i was little. they used to say that there were five things you could find me doing: sleeping, eating, singing, yelling, or reading.
give me a book now and you'll find me asleep an hour later.
also, i dug up some old grade school papers. it's amusing what a fourth grader can think up. good old mrs. smith days.
Everyday I sit in my small blue chair.
Tapping my pencil with constant drumming beats.
And I stare.
He sits with such ease.
Yes, I believe.
Chairs were made to mold his shape.
The way he places his hands.
Folded neatly upon a wooden desk.
Intelligence at its best.
He looks like the determined type.
His eyes seem to see what a naked eye cannot.
It intrigues me.
He looks.
There is an interruption to my schedule.
Something I'm not used to.
Enough.
HAHA anyway, enough of hopeless romantic fourth grader irene.
i wrote a poem today.
Times like these
It's at times like these that I think of you.
Like when the sound of morning hangs in the air.
Light evades a darkened room. Scents of new beginnings.
Spirited from sleep, souls are awakened.
Or when midday hits with no warning.
Nothing but heavy thoughts in a rising summer steam.
Blurred visions of old memories come.
I think of you when evening begins to unfold.
The peak of day. Sunsets breathe.
Crickets begin their first notes of a symphony.
And especially when mind takes on another form.
Tender kisses. Your hands caress mine.
Reality is no longer a problem.
It's at times like these that I think of you.
But only at times like these.
i don't think i have improved since fourth grade. abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz.
give me a book now and you'll find me asleep an hour later.
also, i dug up some old grade school papers. it's amusing what a fourth grader can think up. good old mrs. smith days.
Everyday I sit in my small blue chair.
Tapping my pencil with constant drumming beats.
And I stare.
He sits with such ease.
Yes, I believe.
Chairs were made to mold his shape.
The way he places his hands.
Folded neatly upon a wooden desk.
Intelligence at its best.
He looks like the determined type.
His eyes seem to see what a naked eye cannot.
It intrigues me.
He looks.
There is an interruption to my schedule.
Something I'm not used to.
Enough.
HAHA anyway, enough of hopeless romantic fourth grader irene.
i wrote a poem today.
Times like these
It's at times like these that I think of you.
Like when the sound of morning hangs in the air.
Light evades a darkened room. Scents of new beginnings.
Spirited from sleep, souls are awakened.
Or when midday hits with no warning.
Nothing but heavy thoughts in a rising summer steam.
Blurred visions of old memories come.
I think of you when evening begins to unfold.
The peak of day. Sunsets breathe.
Crickets begin their first notes of a symphony.
And especially when mind takes on another form.
Tender kisses. Your hands caress mine.
Reality is no longer a problem.
It's at times like these that I think of you.
But only at times like these.
i don't think i have improved since fourth grade. abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz.