This piece is a poem that I just started writing in calculus class one day. The idea came to me in english when we discussed if money can bing happiness, so I decided to write about money and it's dramatic effect on society. In the poem money is basically the symbol for someone's economic standard in soceity and if they don't strive to find more, they will fail. But if they strive too much and become ambitious, they will usually fail as well. It seems like a weird poem, and could probably flow much nicer, but I didn't have to want to change some of the key words I used.
Money: the epitome of society
The evil being hidden in the world
The weakness lingering in every human
Yet, it’s the spark to civilization
Money is the basis by what we live
Money brought society together
Like cement filling the cracks in a building
And it keeps the world moving forward
Just like the need for gasoline in a plane
But money is flawed
It leads to crime, greed, ambition, and
Countless negative qualities that humans often try to avoid
Yet again, money is the basis by what we live
It can’t be ignored
To live in this world as we know it,
Someone must go after money when the opportune time is there
Jail, death, or failure are the only other options
The capture of this green, thin paper is essential to move on
However sometimes, it only brings out the evil in all of us
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Independent Piece # 4
Shivers shot down Nick’s spin as he nervously made the 20-foot walk up to the plate. If you ever ask him, he’ll say it felt like 10 minutes before he finally dug in for the first pitch. Now nineteen, Nick had taken this walk from the on-deck circle to the plate thousands of times before, but this was different. This was Division one baseball for the Florida State Seminoles. The team had already won their first two away games of the season, and now Nick would finally get his first chance, in the home opener for that matter. Surprisingly, the thousands of fans that filled the roaring stadium didn’t bother Nick. It was the old man, his father; sitting quietly behind the dugout with that usual, stern look across his face.
Nick’s father, Richard, never approved of his son’s involvement in baseball, and actually, even despised the sport of baseball itself. Nick had been trying to impress the man his whole life, but high school records, a banner in the gym, and even a full scholarship to an excellent school were just not good enough. Continuously, Richard would boast on about becoming a doctor, a lawyer, and doing something with your life, but Nick never lost sight of his dream.
Finally, Nick stepped into the batter box, and began his usual routine. His stomach felt like a continuous drop on a roller coaster that was never going to end but Nick ignored it. His legs had been trembling for the past half hour, but now this was it. He looked in, and a second later, swung the wood bat as hard as he could. Another second later he was out of he batter so angry with himself he could have committed suicide by accident. Down one strike in the count, he again stared in. The words of wait for your pitch, wait for your pitch, ran through his head until the umpire ecstatically yelled, “STRIKE TWO”! Nick had just been completely fooled by the outside corner.“I had no idea that was coming…” Nick mumbled under his breath, but it didn’t matter. Nick tightened his batting gloves and dug his cleats even more into the dirt. He choked up on the bat, and began waving it behind his head until the pitcher was set. Then the pitch as Nick lifted up his left foot, swung forward, and bunted the ball down the first base line. Nick sprinted down that first base line, and for some reason, the memories of childhood wiffleball in his friends backyard was the only thing on his mind. He thought of the summer days filled with numerous hours of wiffleball that always ended in arguments, but it was still the greatest memory of baseball he contained. Instantly, his day dream was interrupted by the first base umpire. “Safe”, he enthusiastically yelled, and roars and cheers shot up around the stadium. Nick felt like a 12-year-old getting his first hit ever in little league who couldn’t wait to tell everyone about it, but everybody had seen it. As Nick looked around the stadium, even his father was up on his feet, applauding, with a huge grin across his face.
Nick’s father, Richard, never approved of his son’s involvement in baseball, and actually, even despised the sport of baseball itself. Nick had been trying to impress the man his whole life, but high school records, a banner in the gym, and even a full scholarship to an excellent school were just not good enough. Continuously, Richard would boast on about becoming a doctor, a lawyer, and doing something with your life, but Nick never lost sight of his dream.
Finally, Nick stepped into the batter box, and began his usual routine. His stomach felt like a continuous drop on a roller coaster that was never going to end but Nick ignored it. His legs had been trembling for the past half hour, but now this was it. He looked in, and a second later, swung the wood bat as hard as he could. Another second later he was out of he batter so angry with himself he could have committed suicide by accident. Down one strike in the count, he again stared in. The words of wait for your pitch, wait for your pitch, ran through his head until the umpire ecstatically yelled, “STRIKE TWO”! Nick had just been completely fooled by the outside corner.“I had no idea that was coming…” Nick mumbled under his breath, but it didn’t matter. Nick tightened his batting gloves and dug his cleats even more into the dirt. He choked up on the bat, and began waving it behind his head until the pitcher was set. Then the pitch as Nick lifted up his left foot, swung forward, and bunted the ball down the first base line. Nick sprinted down that first base line, and for some reason, the memories of childhood wiffleball in his friends backyard was the only thing on his mind. He thought of the summer days filled with numerous hours of wiffleball that always ended in arguments, but it was still the greatest memory of baseball he contained. Instantly, his day dream was interrupted by the first base umpire. “Safe”, he enthusiastically yelled, and roars and cheers shot up around the stadium. Nick felt like a 12-year-old getting his first hit ever in little league who couldn’t wait to tell everyone about it, but everybody had seen it. As Nick looked around the stadium, even his father was up on his feet, applauding, with a huge grin across his face.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Piece # 11 Haiku
a lunchroom
full of life
forever
packed school
testing week
tension
young boy
fighting to
get through
full of life
forever
packed school
testing week
tension
young boy
fighting to
get through
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Piece # 10 - Extended Metaphor
The pressure had escalated
He could no longer take it
The lunchroom,
full of noise and life,
But not this boy,
Who sat quietly by himself,
Wondering what could be
Another day of kids screaming,
Jumping, playing, but not with him
The jokes, the hatred, the loneliness,
Had finally seeped through his skin and
Made it’s way to his heart and soul
It, the pressure to meet the enormous standard, was too difficult
It had all at once risen up
And struck him like an anaconda
Quickly, powerfully, and with no sense of failure
He only saw one option, and
This time, it was easy to succeed
He could no longer take it
The lunchroom,
full of noise and life,
But not this boy,
Who sat quietly by himself,
Wondering what could be
Another day of kids screaming,
Jumping, playing, but not with him
The jokes, the hatred, the loneliness,
Had finally seeped through his skin and
Made it’s way to his heart and soul
It, the pressure to meet the enormous standard, was too difficult
It had all at once risen up
And struck him like an anaconda
Quickly, powerfully, and with no sense of failure
He only saw one option, and
This time, it was easy to succeed
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Piece # 9 Microfiction
It can’t get much worse then being grounded on vacation, but that’s what these Brandon and his closest friend, Toby, were facing. Vacationing in New Hampshire Brandon, a stubborn boy, stared gloomily out his window from his bedroom. He saw the huge lake shimmering in the sunlight and small waves flowing through it– yet it was so free of conflict.
“Toby, we need to get out of here. I got an idea.” Toby, merely half his size, wasn’t that enthused. Toby gave Brandon a look and with escalating confidence Brandon pointed at a window, “We’re getting out!”
He opened the window quickly. He couldn’t wait. He pushed the screen through and told Toby to go out first. Toby jumped through, landing perfectly safe in the outside world. Brandon took a deep breath and climbed out the portal hole, closing it behind him.
Brandon ran to catch up, but Toby was already in the water. Brandon began to walk along and skip rocks. Then suddenly, Brandon heard he crackle of the leaves behind him, quickly turned and saw his mother. Brandon called for Toby as he made his way back to the house, but he was nowhere to be found. “At least the dog gets to have some fun,” Brandon mumbled jealously.
“Toby, we need to get out of here. I got an idea.” Toby, merely half his size, wasn’t that enthused. Toby gave Brandon a look and with escalating confidence Brandon pointed at a window, “We’re getting out!”
He opened the window quickly. He couldn’t wait. He pushed the screen through and told Toby to go out first. Toby jumped through, landing perfectly safe in the outside world. Brandon took a deep breath and climbed out the portal hole, closing it behind him.
Brandon ran to catch up, but Toby was already in the water. Brandon began to walk along and skip rocks. Then suddenly, Brandon heard he crackle of the leaves behind him, quickly turned and saw his mother. Brandon called for Toby as he made his way back to the house, but he was nowhere to be found. “At least the dog gets to have some fun,” Brandon mumbled jealously.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Lives Piece
I gleamed as my Dad pulled into the “yellow park”, as I called it, with my bike in the trunk and a box of soon to be used band-aids. My mom, skeptical about the whole idea at my young age, stayed home. I could imagine my mom perfectly: nervous and anxious on the inside, but only illustrating signs of outrage, while she lingers around the kitchen, eating everything in sight.
Suddenly the car came to a screeching halt, rudely interrupting my daydream, but for something even. In seconds I was on top of a gradually sloping hill, my father next to me standing tall, while each of us clenched the bike. This was it. I sat down on the bike and my dad let it go and down the bike and I went, right to the pavement at my father’s feet. I shook it off, elbow and knee already scraped right off the bat, and gave it another try. I guess my dad realized there I wasn’t ready for the hill, so he picked up the bike, and turned it around. Now I faced a long, almost perfectly straight path, with not an inch of down or uphill. This time, I even got the pedals moving, but keeping the bike straight at the same time, no way. After a few seconds, I lay on the pavement; chin gushing blood and a gigantic, throbbing bruise on my right arm. My dad motioned toward he car, but I refused; it be just like giving into my mother. “One more try!” I yelled. Just as skeptical as my mom had been, he complied.
My father sets up the bike and I painfully, but full of determination, make my way over. “One, two, THREE,” and then I was pedaling with all the effort in the world. My mind was so clear as I round an impossible turn and fly up a tremendously difficult hill. After just two minutes, which felt like hours, of winding through the park with invigorating wind crashing in my face, I reached my father, and it was over. But it wasn’t over. The skill to ride a bike, that accomplishment, that fulfillment, would never escape me.
From that moment on, anything was possible.
I jumped back into the car, blood and bruises from my chin to my knees, but I had never felt better. The following weeks would be full of bigger goals, larger obstacles, and tons of injuries: there was never a limit.
Suddenly the car came to a screeching halt, rudely interrupting my daydream, but for something even. In seconds I was on top of a gradually sloping hill, my father next to me standing tall, while each of us clenched the bike. This was it. I sat down on the bike and my dad let it go and down the bike and I went, right to the pavement at my father’s feet. I shook it off, elbow and knee already scraped right off the bat, and gave it another try. I guess my dad realized there I wasn’t ready for the hill, so he picked up the bike, and turned it around. Now I faced a long, almost perfectly straight path, with not an inch of down or uphill. This time, I even got the pedals moving, but keeping the bike straight at the same time, no way. After a few seconds, I lay on the pavement; chin gushing blood and a gigantic, throbbing bruise on my right arm. My dad motioned toward he car, but I refused; it be just like giving into my mother. “One more try!” I yelled. Just as skeptical as my mom had been, he complied.
My father sets up the bike and I painfully, but full of determination, make my way over. “One, two, THREE,” and then I was pedaling with all the effort in the world. My mind was so clear as I round an impossible turn and fly up a tremendously difficult hill. After just two minutes, which felt like hours, of winding through the park with invigorating wind crashing in my face, I reached my father, and it was over. But it wasn’t over. The skill to ride a bike, that accomplishment, that fulfillment, would never escape me.
From that moment on, anything was possible.
I jumped back into the car, blood and bruises from my chin to my knees, but I had never felt better. The following weeks would be full of bigger goals, larger obstacles, and tons of injuries: there was never a limit.
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