As you know, we are having a poetry contest this month for a chance to win a 25$ gift card. The poetry department has decided to publish a poem they received that exemplifies what we are looking for here at the literary magazine and is a great inspiration for you to write your own poem for the contest!
I Am, The Girl In The Writing
By Samantha Foote
There is the girl who stands lonely,
The girl who is dark,
The love,
The life.
Writing is all she has,
She whose eyes are emeralds of night,
She who is darkened,
She who will touch the hearts of everyone with kindness.
There the girl sits,
Sits in the window,
Sits in the Dark,
Sits with pencil and paper in hand.
Writing, the weeping of a woman’s soul,
The soul’s cry of loneliness,
The soul’s tender mercy of words,
The soul which none can understand.
There the writing says,
It says it all in words with meaning deep,
It speaks to all who will only listen,
It beats with passion fierce and wild.
Writing is the only thing she does,
Creation of beings supernatural,
Creation of death in fearful ways,
Creation of friends to hide from the world at hand.
There with the words,
In the darkness, the darkness of all,
In the room with only pencil and paper,
In the world entirely her own.
Writing her passion,
Her escape from all that haunts in truth,
Her only desire to say what needs be said,
Her fierceness of all things real.
There you see what the girl is about,
Everything connected one to another,
Everything full of the raw emotions of man,
Everything from life to death.
Writing the window closed every day,
She haunts from room to room with that ghastly smile,
She flows out her feelings,
She writes from the depression racking her soul.
There, and there again in all things literal,
The gesture, the gesture of death,
The secrecy of her eyes,
The open feelings of her writing.
Writing, oh writing is cried,
If only, if only one could open their eyes,
If they could see clearly,
If only their eyes could see what she’s trying to say.
There she opens,
No one can see it,
No one is noticing her feelings,
No one can see the death of her happiness.
Writing is the therapy,
The dream of the girl dying inside,
The hope of the girl reaching for something,
The girl who drowns in oblivion.
There she sits pencil in hand,
As she draws out a portrait of love so thick,
As she leads away thoughts of worlds beyond,
As she shows you the things she cannot say.
Writing the writing of all,
Her writing will always show you the way,
Her words drowned in books of thought,
Her desire to show the world who she really is.
There the girl sits with but one word left to say,
The pencil drops and she is done,
The girl with the wish,
The girl who is now free from her bonds.
Writing the last sentence,
It reads: “There she dropped, the girl dropped with death on her lips.”
