To Poet or Not to Poet

After Langston Hughes My teacher said to me, "Go to your dorm room and write a poem tonight. Let the words flow out of you. Let them ring true." Is that the truth? Is it really that easy? I'm twenty-two, born and raised in Cedarhurst. I'm graduating in just a short while, from Yeshiva University in the middle of Midtown. (I'm pretty sure I'm the only twin in this poetry class) I cross Lexington, Park, possibly stop for an iced caramel macchiato from Starbucks on the corner, to the middle of 34th and Madison, where I trudge up the stairs to my messy bed, plop down and start to write. I'm never sure what is true, if this is between me and you. I see New York. I feel New York. But do I see myself in all these blinding lights? Can I find myself while lying here, wide awake, in the heart of Manhattan? Who am I? My love of coffee? My fear of falling in love? My attempt to find the meaning of life? (emphasis on attempt ) My love of

She begins to hear it. The voices. The rumbling that shakes from the kitchen to her bedroom. Her fogged mind from lack of sleep snaps awake.  Her satin pillow, once used for comfort, now becomes her shield. Her buffer between paradise and the trenches.  Her weapon to defend her from the screams.  Holding back the string of curses assaulting her walls. Will it ever stop? The sounds start getting louder. One decibel. Two decibels. Three decibels. The shield now can't block her from it. She runs to the bathroom and locks the door. Her makeshift bomb shelter. Nothing in her artillery but headphones and an iPod. Maybe this will set her free from the never-ending battle raging through her home. The opening chords start to play. Drums bang. Cymbals clash.  An escape from the war that is infringing on her home territory. But it only helps for a short while. A piercing noi

"Mirror, mirror on the wall Who's the fairest of them all?" I walk up to my fogged-up mirror Who is this person  staring back at me? Is she the conventional pretty? Do her eyes look lackluster, the sparkle within them dull and absent? What about her hair? Is it all knotted, mussed up with no sense of direction? Does her skin look speckled, like she doesn't know of her ailments? What about her smile? Do her teeth appear yellowed, as if something has stained them? As if something has stained her? That's how you all see me. I marvel at the woman before me. I look at my coal-colored eyes And see rings of fire within them. My hair that you think looks matted holds sparks of electricity, sparks of creativity. My speckled skin? Those are my battle scars. Years of love, years of hate, all reflected in my beautiful skin. And that yellowed smile? They're not stained at all. They're at phase two, predicting the next move of her lif

I try to walk along the open road                    Obscure, pitch black, afraid of what's ahead There is a fear I feel within my bones                    Emotions are swirling, eyes seeing red Igaze out to my left and to my right                    Attempting to read the blurry street signs I glance at my watch - it is past midnight                    I wonder if I ever cross his mind The tears start pouring down my hollowed face                    A storm is brewing, a true sense of the word It is the one reaction to this state                    Trying to be seen, trying to be heard So this is what it's like to walk alone Down the road, on the edge of unknown

I’m not a fan of feelings. I don’t like to talk about myself. I despise letting people in just enough to expose the real me. People are aware of the basics. I have a twin brother - the north to my south. My hair and eye color - dark brown,  like pools of melted dark chocolate.  I always wear a beanie. My love for coffee that anchors me to the tide that is the day. Some recognize the middle pieces. I adore anything apple-cinnamon scented. Julie Andrews is my role model.  If I could marry a man like Jack Pearson, I would. I live by the words of my zodiac - Scorpio. Passion.  Black or white.  A living and walking mystery. But no one knows the deep parts. I’ve suffered from moderate anxiety since the age of eleven. I’ve never been on a date. The older boy I loved in high school? He and I now yearn for the same guy. I’m terrified of falling in love. I fear that parts of me  will misinterpret other aspects.  Maybe the opening lines