Only A Shop and The Words


what-is-poetry-wordle

As you all know I am very interested in getting into a Creative Writing Masters. But I have needed some inspiration and some pushing to create the way I want to create; the way I need to create. These poems are a beginning. I always used to write my feelings out in poetry such as this when I was a teenager and I haven’t for awhile. So please enjoy, comment if you like, it really does help me edit and refine my work. I am taking a couple Creative Writing classes, now, and in the next year to build a portfolio for my Master’s. These poems I will hopefully submit for class when we get to poetry. Currently, we have just started fiction. I wrote my first fiction story ever, which I will fix up a bit and submit to you at a later date. It has been awhile since I posted, sorry I have been so busy finishing up Architectural Design and my boyfriend was down from up North last week 🙂 I am taking Google Sketch Up after or while this course finishes off so will be quite busy with that but I hope to have some Flurt articles for you all soon as the magazine has undergone some editorial staffing changes lately.

Take care,

Amanda

Only a Shop 2013-02-13

It’s only a shop, only a store;
But these are the places from which I buy,
more, and more, and more.
C’est le maison, c’est le magasine
but even in Quebec I’d find something,
that I would need to own.
It’s just some compulsion, some want from within,
that makes me buy jackets, skirts, jewelry, and design.
And if I had it my way I could buy as much as my credit card would clear.
But debt is a load that’s hard to bear.
And I’ve a closet that’s full, with nothing to wear.
Full of fashion, what’s chic, that which only fits.
But there’s not enough room in there,
and the clothes they are pouring right out the door
And I want to look stylish I want to look hip.
I want to wear what I want, I want to wear it well.
But my closet is built on the guilt of no savings account.
On money tightly saved, spent once to clear the debt away.
Spent twice, now I’m trapped until I can clear some room,
In closet and on card.
I love the purchases I made in there,
I’d love them more if I had somewhere to wear that swank.
Not just some evening out, once a month.
Not just to a class one evening or two.
I’d love to wear and wear proudly to somewhere it mattered,
to look good, where people cared,
and they out-lawed old sweats and pajama pants’
to nights you had your clothes to wash at home.
My closet is a beast, it reflects the need within;
because what I wear is never enough,
I’m not 155 lbs slim anymore.
And even though I’ve grown a bit,
though I never had the money to dress myself slim back then,
today I’ll buy and buy online and in store.
I love it when I gets that feeling,
It feels like nothing else but…
endorphins from hard workouts in the gym, and dancing, late nights out…
I couldn’t do that for along time you see;
still can’t make my blood pump without passing out.
So I buy and buy myself some happiness,
filling a hole that’s been dug so deep,
like a bandage uncovering a wound,
Heals the shopping, if only brief;
the wounds of disease, the wounds that gape,
every time I get that feeling to just buy a little more.
And I’m so tired of buying, to fill in holes,
to be reprimanded by my conscience’s defiance.
It’s the only place I’m ever free, the place that I most need.
What I’d give for an empty bill and a drug that healed the soul

The Words 2013-03-20

I watched the words snap into place,
An epiphany that I’d never seen.
The words were formless fading things;
she said, redo it, I liked it how it was.
The letters they formed into words once more,
adding new thoughts to paper and rollerball pen.
I was not sure, if the new words fit,
pieces of glass in an open wound,
a story once told and soon replaced.
Do it again, or here I’ll just change it,
alter the words until my voice is unclear.
As you read it to yourself,
you won’t hear me anymore.
I am the voice silenced by anger.
Don’t change my story, isn’t it the same?
You just said it differently,
my clarity, those words aren’t mine anymore.
I watched and I waited, painted the world with emotion.
Anger, disloyalty, loathing – those words are mine.
Stop cutting, stop characterizing, stop changing.
But then I’d never learn if you didn’t comment once or twice.
I’ll never get back to the place where I know it all,
because I don’t know it anymore.
So I allow you to print half the story,
you don’t like how I say it, but this is my voice.
How dare you change my story!
Everyone wonders what the writer meant,
they see what they see, I see what I see.
Look it over and leave it,
your so young you have yet to see,
you like me know nothing.
It’s the curse of this world, there is no control,
you fight for control when you say it your way,
But neither of us knows it
And few people older know; we are small in this world.
We can dream big, but eventually we need come down to earth.
Control is an illusion, so don’t alter the words,
that splash and soak into my paper.
Leave the peace be, and leave my piece alone.
But the words once more came crashing down.
Who knows if their mine, or if they are yours.

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