Writing? Yep, I've been seriously pursuing it for a bit of time now; poetry. . . not so much. Honestly, I hate the stuff, but some of my female friends love it, so I kind of do as well.
Look, you'd be amazed to see what a beautiful young woman is willing to do if you write some clever proposition on a piece of paper, fold it into an origami object (spike ico and the crane are my personal favs), and put, 'for your eyes only' on top.
That sums up my love for poetry. I like the stories though; it makes the generic bore [imho] of poetry seem less. . .horrible.
*makes notes for future reference*
Here's a more recent one I did--it is based on a real instance, so if you say it sucks, please say so constructively.
The Front Yard
When I was only a small child,
My mom would always say,
"You and your friend can play
In the house and in the back,
But never, ever, go play in the front yard."
I could never understand why.
It's all hard soil with grass growing from it,
The only difference is where they are,
Why can't I play in the front yard?
"It's just too dangerous," she said,
And then I'd go next door to play.
One day I was with Ronny at his house,
Even though Mom said never to go there,
Playing Power Rangers in his back yard,
Bumping and crashing into my enemies
The Puddy Fighters and Lord Zed and rogue toy trucks.
"Come on, man, let's play in the front yard," Ronny said.
Nah, I'm cool here.
"We'll have more room for the Zord battle!"
We shouldn't go in the front yard.
"Why not?"
'Cause...'cause--
"'Cause what?"
'Cause...my mom said it was dangerous.
He laughed and snorted, while slapping me on the back.
"Come on, man, nothing can go wrong in the front yard.
My older brother sits on the porch all the time and he'll protect us.
I've seen him and his friends and they're just like the Power Rangers,
Fighting together against other Power Rangers.
They're clothes are...kinda different, and they don't know karate, but they're so cool, man.
You have nothing to worry about."
We go into the Front Yard,
Wide open space, nothing but the fence keeping the outside world away.
We imagine that we're thousands of feet tall,
Me, five robot dinosaurs combined into a single fighting force,
Him, a gruesome monster with tentacles and claws.
We grapple and fight, imagining the shots of spark whenever we connect.
Mom jumps out of the house and screams out my name,
"Dinner's ready! Get the he--get off that front yard!"
I groaned, inches away from slaying my enemy, and leaped over the fence.
I stopped at the curb, looked to my left and my right and crossed the street,
Walking faster when I saw the rusty convertible turn the corner.
I didn't really hear it, but felt it:
A thunderous pop, like a firecracker.
Another pop.
And another.
And another.
Mom grabbed me and dragged me away.
I looked to see it was aimed for Ronny's house.
Mom pushes me through the door before I can see.
Mom nearly shoved her spaghetti into my mouth to get me to eat,
Trying to distract me from the policemen all over the streets.
Distract me from the screaming mother.
Distract me from the small body put into a gray bag.
The next day, my teacher told the class that Ronny was dead.
She couldn't explain how.
Whether it was to keep us innocent
Or because she didn't want to think of it herself,
I still don't know.
After school, I waited for Mom to pick me up,
And when she pulled up and I jumped into her Jeep,
I looked into her tired, bloodshot eyes and ask,
"Why? Why did Ronny die?"
Mom, deciding it would hurt more to lie,
Told me the truth,
That Ronny's brother wasn't a Power Ranger, but something else,
And that was why I should have never been there.
She drove all the way home and walked inside and started crying,
For the child that died and her child that lived,
And I finally understood the difference
Between the back yard and the Front Yard.
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