experiencing

much ado about nothing

in shakespeare's plays, there are often grotesque portrayals of people in love. overexaggerated nuances. it is quite disgusting. midsummer night's dream --> titania with bottom, the four lovers... much ado about nothing - claudio and hero... romeo and juliet those two morons...
my teacher said, "these guys don't know what love is. they are inexperienced. they've been reading too much poetry. they don't know how to feel other than what they have read."

and i realized, a lot of my poetry is like that. when i first showed someone four years older than me a poem, a love poem, he scoffed and said, "another one of these."
shall i compare thee to a summer's day?

that sonnet is original. it's not about conventional portrayals of love - he's refusing to describe a girl the way people expect him to: he won't give in.

and there was a poem that i forgot, but it was beautiful in my head. those poetry studs have gotten me again.

now i realize why my drum teacher always carried around his journal. i didnt understand then, but he was into slam poetry. WEIRD.

it licked my teeth
grabbed me sideways and hurled me long forward
gone until i swooned like thirsty thursdays hot afternoon
to break.

there is fire in the sun,
red, orange, the glowing sun
softly kisses green dark and bright
wonderful combinations we call life

there is fire in the homes
burning brown wood
giving black smoke;
elsewhere, a sign of hope

and there was one in her.
in her eyes
they burned proverbs
tested giants, white.

when everything burned to everything,
when i thought she was extinguished,
she came back to life
showed me what i couldn't finish

the fire she had in her mouth
burned me white.
settled deep into the crevices
of liver, old blood, and fingers
until sprang up came remembrances
of a childhood and imagiantion
once forgotten like blossoms
fire sunk into me,
i tried to stay calm
till flesh became stench,
and blood tickled and jumped
until i reached back for my roots
as they drew further away
came up
empty handed but blessed God anyways
because i couldn't hold my hand
i couldn't hold it still
it was moving and writing poems about love,
hope, rebirth, and free will.

the fire became a part of me
it was now a new root.
so that tomorrow when i struggled,
against the colors of this world
i could reach down and find
the white burned in me by that girl