Last time I posted something on here, I believe my name was Girl on Fire 12. I have since changed it to Aislin Schreiber, as you can see, which is my pen name for the real world. I started a creative writing class in school and this spoken word poem is one project we had to do. Spoken word poems are actually rather amazing and unlike most poems I've encountered. You can look up examples on youtube if you wish, they can be quite amazing. Mine is certainly not professional and it's the first one I've ever written but I thought I would share it with you before I present it to the class. My plan is to have this lovely time lapse playing while I speak. I hope you enjoy the poem and please leave some comments.
I looked at my flower garden this morning and noticed the flowers that were wilting and observed those in decay. I have lost three flowers over the past two years and I could only bring myself to pick them up today. It was too hard before with the thoughts of the flower’s growth prior to its withering and eventual death swimming around in my head and then in my eyes. Of course, those thoughts still linger, but they don’t bring as many tears to my eyes as they used to. The pain as numbed and subsided with the passing of time, only coming in occasional waves that strike me by surprise and cause a flood. Now, I think more so of the sprouting and blossoming of the flowers than of their withering and death. Each flower in the past started out as a mere seed, small, buried under the earth, thirsty for life and experience. Overtime, they grew, bursting through the compacted dirt and welcoming the sun, their stems the greenest green one ever did see and constantly reaching for the sky, their sprouting leaves outstretched like the arms of a child reaching for its mother. And then, finally, they blossomed with their petals opening like they curious eyes of a newborn, revealing to the world what they were. Individuals. Beauties of nature. And still they grew, not as much and not as quickly, but grew all the same, all the while touching the stems, leaves, petals of other neighboring flowers, leaving their mark no matter how miniscule or unnoticeable. And each day when I would visit them, they waved a greeting in the gentle breeze and they kissed me with their soft petals every time I passed. Even when they were bugged by pestersome insects that bit at their leaves and petals in order to satisfy their own hunger, they persisted. Even when a strong gust of wind knocked them over and I or the other flowers had to help them stand again, they healed and grew some more. Only once they reached their peak of maturity did they stop and begin the cycle of death. But by then they had already spread their seeds, which would someday live as a memory of them, a sign that they existed and made a difference no matter how miniscule or unnoticeable. Those seeds would blossom as they had, showing off their beauty in a way that does not come off as vain. They would reveal to the world that they were individuals, even if they had a hundred siblings sprouting around them. They were different in a way that was their own, even if they possessed the same purple petals as their mother. So the passing of my flowers is not as sad as I originally thought it to be. They honored me with their quiet and elegant presence, blossomed with gratitude at each drop of water I provided them, pleased my eyes with their beauty, tickled my nose with their breath-taking aroma, stayed strong for me in moments of hardship. They loved me like I loved them; unconditionally. And in their wake will grow a new generation of delicate grace. I will see hints of them in their descendants. Though they may no longer grow in my garden, their spirits still linger, ghosts of them hide against the others. And when I too reach the peak of my maturity and begin to whither in my garden, I will be at peace because my own seeds will have been spread to grow in my place. I will have made my own mark on the earth as proof that I was here and existed and made a difference in one way or another.
I looked at my garden this morning and admired its undying beauty.
I looked at my flower garden this morning and noticed the flowers that were wilting and observed those in decay. I have lost three flowers over the past two years and I could only bring myself to pick them up today. It was too hard before with the thoughts of the flower’s growth prior to its withering and eventual death swimming around in my head and then in my eyes. Of course, those thoughts still linger, but they don’t bring as many tears to my eyes as they used to. The pain as numbed and subsided with the passing of time, only coming in occasional waves that strike me by surprise and cause a flood. Now, I think more so of the sprouting and blossoming of the flowers than of their withering and death. Each flower in the past started out as a mere seed, small, buried under the earth, thirsty for life and experience. Overtime, they grew, bursting through the compacted dirt and welcoming the sun, their stems the greenest green one ever did see and constantly reaching for the sky, their sprouting leaves outstretched like the arms of a child reaching for its mother. And then, finally, they blossomed with their petals opening like they curious eyes of a newborn, revealing to the world what they were. Individuals. Beauties of nature. And still they grew, not as much and not as quickly, but grew all the same, all the while touching the stems, leaves, petals of other neighboring flowers, leaving their mark no matter how miniscule or unnoticeable. And each day when I would visit them, they waved a greeting in the gentle breeze and they kissed me with their soft petals every time I passed. Even when they were bugged by pestersome insects that bit at their leaves and petals in order to satisfy their own hunger, they persisted. Even when a strong gust of wind knocked them over and I or the other flowers had to help them stand again, they healed and grew some more. Only once they reached their peak of maturity did they stop and begin the cycle of death. But by then they had already spread their seeds, which would someday live as a memory of them, a sign that they existed and made a difference no matter how miniscule or unnoticeable. Those seeds would blossom as they had, showing off their beauty in a way that does not come off as vain. They would reveal to the world that they were individuals, even if they had a hundred siblings sprouting around them. They were different in a way that was their own, even if they possessed the same purple petals as their mother. So the passing of my flowers is not as sad as I originally thought it to be. They honored me with their quiet and elegant presence, blossomed with gratitude at each drop of water I provided them, pleased my eyes with their beauty, tickled my nose with their breath-taking aroma, stayed strong for me in moments of hardship. They loved me like I loved them; unconditionally. And in their wake will grow a new generation of delicate grace. I will see hints of them in their descendants. Though they may no longer grow in my garden, their spirits still linger, ghosts of them hide against the others. And when I too reach the peak of my maturity and begin to whither in my garden, I will be at peace because my own seeds will have been spread to grow in my place. I will have made my own mark on the earth as proof that I was here and existed and made a difference in one way or another.
I looked at my garden this morning and admired its undying beauty.
