I know I am late but its due today and my English is not so good as i just moved here I would really appreciate any advices.
Thank you!
It is 4:00 a.m. and abruptly I open my eyes. All I see are colors, a mirage of a rainbow dancing around me in my room. There is no light on, neither from the television nor from my Christmas tree. I rise, stumble to switch the overhead bedroom light on, and reach for my diary because I suddenly feel like writing. But alas, the colors are gone? Being sad without a logical reason, I attack an orange juice box previously nestled on my desk, and go rush beneath the covers to engulf myself in my small created cave. As soon as I turn the lights off, the mirage of color again vibrantly fills the room, and leaves a mirror inside of me of encouragement and the greatest desire to write. The spontaneity of writing in the complete darkness seems absurd to me. Pushing through some unusual resistance, I grasp my diary, a daffodil colored pencil, and a spare pencil to fulfill my creative pastime passion: writing poems.
Using the width of the spare pencil to measure the space from line to line, I desperately hoped that I could understand what was written now in blindness, later in daylight. Just before I start writing, I brush off the blankets of my blanket-cave to assuage that the colors will not disappear from sight like a fickle feather in the wind. Feeling the uncomfortable chill from the room's air, I nevertheless relaxed as my sore eyes found those perfectly blended colors still in sight. Feeling more inspired than ever, I start writing.
********************************************************************** **
It's almost dawn at 4:57 a.m., but I didn't feel the time slip by me. Bright light seeped in from the outside, poisoning the rainbow mirage of color. My poem is not yet finished, so I try to resurrect my blanket-cave by tucking myself underneath my covers to protect my muse. However, I quietly admitted the futility of trying to save my mirage muse as the colors slowly faded away. I never finished my poem.
"I think of you once in a while
You angel smile, you guiltless song,
And still recall the nights I held
My head up high and watched them all..."
"They were so dazing, so full of light
They could illume the darkest skies
... ... ... ...
... ... ... ...
"You wouldn't recognize me now
For I would look so big and strong
For I am done reaching the stars,
Although with in it feels so wrong..."
The first stanza was immaculately completed, but it became obvious as I gradually read the poem in the bright light seeping into the room through my window the (gradual) acceleration of illegibility. The second stanza's last couplet was so poorly written; I had not a clue as to what alphabet I was writing. And, the last stanza definitely did not summarize my thought.
The significant experience lies not in the actual figurative and realistic message, because this has happened numerous times. The experiences are significant and meaningful because they illustrate my process of finding "colors in the dark."
"I think of you once in a while
You angel smile, you guiltless song,
You little girl I hold inside
And that I'll always bring along"
Thank you!
It is 4:00 a.m. and abruptly I open my eyes. All I see are colors, a mirage of a rainbow dancing around me in my room. There is no light on, neither from the television nor from my Christmas tree. I rise, stumble to switch the overhead bedroom light on, and reach for my diary because I suddenly feel like writing. But alas, the colors are gone? Being sad without a logical reason, I attack an orange juice box previously nestled on my desk, and go rush beneath the covers to engulf myself in my small created cave. As soon as I turn the lights off, the mirage of color again vibrantly fills the room, and leaves a mirror inside of me of encouragement and the greatest desire to write. The spontaneity of writing in the complete darkness seems absurd to me. Pushing through some unusual resistance, I grasp my diary, a daffodil colored pencil, and a spare pencil to fulfill my creative pastime passion: writing poems.
Using the width of the spare pencil to measure the space from line to line, I desperately hoped that I could understand what was written now in blindness, later in daylight. Just before I start writing, I brush off the blankets of my blanket-cave to assuage that the colors will not disappear from sight like a fickle feather in the wind. Feeling the uncomfortable chill from the room's air, I nevertheless relaxed as my sore eyes found those perfectly blended colors still in sight. Feeling more inspired than ever, I start writing.
********************************************************************** **
It's almost dawn at 4:57 a.m., but I didn't feel the time slip by me. Bright light seeped in from the outside, poisoning the rainbow mirage of color. My poem is not yet finished, so I try to resurrect my blanket-cave by tucking myself underneath my covers to protect my muse. However, I quietly admitted the futility of trying to save my mirage muse as the colors slowly faded away. I never finished my poem.
"I think of you once in a while
You angel smile, you guiltless song,
And still recall the nights I held
My head up high and watched them all..."
"They were so dazing, so full of light
They could illume the darkest skies
... ... ... ...
... ... ... ...
"You wouldn't recognize me now
For I would look so big and strong
For I am done reaching the stars,
Although with in it feels so wrong..."
The first stanza was immaculately completed, but it became obvious as I gradually read the poem in the bright light seeping into the room through my window the (gradual) acceleration of illegibility. The second stanza's last couplet was so poorly written; I had not a clue as to what alphabet I was writing. And, the last stanza definitely did not summarize my thought.
The significant experience lies not in the actual figurative and realistic message, because this has happened numerous times. The experiences are significant and meaningful because they illustrate my process of finding "colors in the dark."
"I think of you once in a while
You angel smile, you guiltless song,
You little girl I hold inside
And that I'll always bring along"
