DD is taking creative writing this semester and they just finished the introduction to poetry. Now, I'll caveat with the typical Dis parent's statement that DD loves to write, and she is honestly really good at it...
So, we're talking about how it's going, and she relates this story to me about her class. She said there's 3 types of kids in the class, the ones who like to write, the ones who think it's going to be an easy A, and the emo kids you'd see at a Starbucks poetry slam (I know they don't exist, but mental picture here). After they've finished going over the introduction, there's about half the class time left, so the teach tells them to take 10 minutes and write a quick poem, about writing as the subject. Then, after the 10 minutes are up the kids who wanted to could share their poems. So, after 10 minutes, the teacher asks for volunteers to share, and of course the emo kid's hands all go up like Horshack calling to Mr. Kotter. The poems are all about the same, a boy/girl staring angstily at their paper trying to write angsty stuff. She could only take about 3 of these before DD decides to hold up her hand. The teacher calls on her, and she reads her poem. After she's done, the teacher literally looks at her with her jaw dropped and says "What the hell?! You just wrote that? You didn't have it from before?!" DD says nope, just made it up and the teacher is thrilled. Apparently you could hear emo egos crashing against the floor all over the room. Rather than writing about someone trying to write, she decided to write about words, and the power they have. So, for your reading pleasure, here is her poem... Yeah, I'm kind of proud.
Words writhe and twist on paper, death throes for scribbles with deep heartbeats
Meaning floods each page,
While color spins helter-skelter in black and white scratches
Artistry in articulation, power in being purposeless, creativity in commentary
Subtle twitches forcing new connotations in the shackles of definition
Words erupt with pen strokes,
Lines of scrawl in no longer copy paste rows of hazy lines,
But hazy sentiment that warms a being back to weakly glowing mornings and soft kisses,
Reminiscing about times that have never existed
And glassy havens outside the confines of reality and entropy
Artistry
Volumes and volumes of convoluted screeching rants
Digging away chunks of the mind and psyche for deep-seated authorial intent
A proverbial treasure that can prove ultimately meaningless, indecipherable frantic screams
Or soft caresses with gentle description that pull one’s eyes closed like shutters,
Sliding curtains down on the quiet landscape of story and morality,
Anger tucked under the babbles of a brook in a soft satin blanket
Power
Feathers of colors that have never existed,
Logical fractals of words on the primaries, spurts of spontaneity on the secondaries,
Ideas being shed like soft down in molting season
Poisonous promise and promises drip from every crook in the words
Or shining power dribbling from the chin of the creator
Fit into one word, one line, one sentence, stanza or epic,
Creativity