Only my mom, dad, sister, and little brother have read these. Critique the hell out of them, please. A Soft Landing The snow glitters, An untouched, beautiful, Majestic creation. I hop off the lift, Slicing the first of many, Many sloped arcs, Sweeping across the mountain, Leaving a neat trail. Wind whistles by the vents in my helmet It alone separates me, From the world which is flying by, Flying by in a blur so fast. A mere half-inch thick board Separating me from the snow, The millions of passing crystals, Each individual crystal, Like masses of people Gathered at a concert A concert played by thousands of trees, Whispering in the wind, Whistling helmet vents, Flying down the mountain And the rushing roar, Of the snowboard sliding against the snow Added to it, The greatest light show of all time The sky, an expansive, Amazing curve of blue, A spot of yellow, intense yellow The sparkling sun. White, billowing fluffy clouds, Mimic the texture of the fresh powder, Making nightmares of falling Into happy dreams, Peaceful dreams. Dreams of soft landings. Henry Romp And poem two: I feel sad. Deep within me, it radiates strongly, Persistently. Always there, Sometimes hidden by momentary gleams of happiness, Sometimes thought to be gone forever. Other times, it seems it will never go away. Always, when I am low, I think of you, and a rush of joy flows through me. Tonight, I think of you I picture you in my head I focus on your image, your persona, On you And yet, the sadness remains. Your image, once the key to happiness, The thought that fights off all depression, All self-disgust, Now only leads me to the thoughts: She never loved me She never will She pities me, And I have blinded myself. Your love is all I need, All I want. A want so desperate, So deeply ingrained, That I have convinced myself, Time and time again That you, without a doubt, Must truly love me. That in the end, you will see You will understand, that I am the one for you. But I see now, I am wrong, And so the sadness returns. And poem 3: Why this burst of creativity, Now, when I’m feeling down? Why must it come at the moments When I feel grim, When all that will come of this creativity, Will carry messages of anger, Of sadness, of frustration? Why can I not write, As I do now, When I am thinking happy thoughts? When the page will fill with joy, with wonderful things, I sit down, and draw a blank. But then, when life seems to be a drag, And I feel I’m in a rut, This creative feeling flows to my fingers And out of it comes a multitude of words Forming themselves, one after another, Into poems and stories, Each portraying better the negative, The horrible feelings, And never touching upon the happiness, The joy inherent in life? Why? And poem 4: As I jolt awake, The beginnings of it jump They leap, Throwing themselves out of reach. Tossed into a sliver of subconscious, Some dark dusty corner, Full of cobwebs. Never to be seen again. The most of it remains, Large pieces remain, still in memory. They are useless without the beginning The background. I lay, thinking of these nonsensical pieces Chunks of dream, No longer understood. As I strain to remember more, Other pieces jump away, Hiding in the closet of subconscious. Soon the dream is lost. I cannot think of it. However, next I fall asleep, The subconscious is unlocked, and I wander in. Always, straight to the dusty corner I go, Pulling out the same dream. Often, I awake, and it does not seem familiar. My conscious self does not recognize it. But then I begin to notice, The conscious part of me does, That these pieces of dream Which often remain Have no dust or cobwebs, as most dreams do This dream is not just one, One of the unlimited number of dreams, It has been handled before. It has the feeling of familiarity, The feeling only achieved by long repetition. If only the lock on the subconscious, Could somehow be removed, And I could read the dream like a book. And then, I would be satisfied. Please, give me any critiques you can think of.... I don't blame you if you couldn't make it through all them, they are long.
I'm heartbroken... I finally reveal my greatest works of art, and nobody even takes the time to rip them to shreds with critiques, let alone drop a word of praise!! they're too long, I know... but read the second one...
I read them all, but the first was my favorite. Snowboarding rules, and you described it better than I could imagine it. The way you ended the poem was sweetly appropriate. I thought of marshmellows. "Into happy dreams, Peaceful dreams. Dreams of soft landings." peace&<3
