Going through my own book asking who wrote this? I’m confused.
My feelings about it are minimal, I plead.
Intrigued goes myself as I continue to read.
I’m red, I bled in frustration with the confliction in my head.
Where is the focus? My lotus was the lack of my focal point.
A lack to devote this. A lack to promote which, whom, when, where, and why. I forgot what?
What is my book about? Are my feelings represented?
Is this author myself brave enough to act upon what he thinks comes next?
Let’s take a guess. For the best, is this author myself? I digress.
I revert off a tangent. My circle, my rectangle as cornered off as my sandwich that accompanied my writing with a glass of water. Silence.
My conception becomes a mantis. My misconception is less candid. Brandon!
That’s the author’s name. No, I should be reprimanded. That assumption was uncalled for.
Ring! Pick up the phone author. I want to know more about this book.
My feelings, I’m hooked.
My feelings, I’m shook.
I’m feeling so crooked.
My feelings, my nook
My feelings, my book.
My writing is mistimed. My writing’s no rhyme it’s a book not a poem. Whose book is this?
My life was to show them my strife with the low dim lights.
My slow shore of decisions rights my wrongs and rights my lefts. Writes my typed and cleft my bass my treble all of which survived the theft.
The s–t on the shelf. I quit on myself.
I should be living with no guidelines.
I’m quitting right now.
My feelings my book, why did this person write this?
My feelings I wrote and chose to spite this.
Oh, man my feelings are wild and new.
A re-institutionalized deadline to where my emotions are few. A chapter brand new, filled with laughter it’s due.
Therefore, after you choose, the cover you finalize this book.
It’s done.
You’ve answered all the questions the battle is won
-Derful
What about your feelings?
Do they share the same result?
Vincent, 16, is a sophomore at Westlake High School.
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Also, feel free to join us this weekend at our “Art Not Ego” poetry slam.
