Works Cited:

Language of Literature textbook,

http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/

http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/59

I wrote this one day when I was frustrated with all of the end-of-year testing, stress, trash, and such that I get at my school. It mostly is a joke, but sometimes I wonder. I really enjoy school, but it feels like it is 30 days too long. This results in a testy mind and lashing tongue, but summer is the cure-all.

Adulthood

I'm only 17, but I feel like I already know how adulthood feels. Throughout my life I have been through many difficult tests, many of which I failed. But in failing, I never truly lost. I believe with any failure in our lives, we gain new strengths and new wisdom to deal with the next test. And when you realize that, you can know the true feelings of adulthood.

TRIBE


My tribe can carry a tune
My tribe can play an instrument
My tribe laughs a lot
My tribe knows the "awkward flag"
My tribe is a princess
In my tribe, everyone has character shoes and Dinkles
My tribe travels everywhere together
My tribe smiles almost constantly
Everyone in my tribe has friends ranging from 8-18 years old
My tribe performs over 100 shows a year.

Fear is a midnight black bike, which constantly keeps cycling further and further away, or faces the truth.

THIS IS JUST TO SAY
I have used
the shirt
that was in
your drawer.

And which
you may have
worn.

I'm sorry, you
don't like it and
it looks better
on me.

Self In 1958
By: Anne Sexton
What is reality?
I am a plaster doll; I pose
With eyes that cut open without landfall or nightfall
Upon some shellacked and grinning person,
Eyes that open, blue, steel, and close.
Am I approximately an I. Magnum transplant?
I have hair, black angel,
Black-angel-stuffing to comb,
Nylon legs, luminous arms
And some advertised clothes.

I live in a doll’s house
With four chairs,
A counterfeit table, a flat roof
And a big front door.
Many have come to such a small crossroad.
There is an iron bed,
(Life enlarges, life takes aim)
A cardboard floor,
Windows that flash open on someone’s city,
And little more.

Someone plays with me,
Plants me in the all-electric kitchen,
Is this what Mrs. Rombauer said?
Someone pretends with me—
I am walled in solid by their noise—
Or puts me upon their straight bed.
They think I am me!
Their warmth? Their warmth is not a friend!
They pry my mouth for their cups of gin
And their stale bread.

What is reality
To this synthetic doll
Who should smile, who should shift gears,
Should spring the doors open in a wholesome disorder,
And have no evidence of ruin or fears?
But I would cry,
Rooted into the wall that
Was once my mother,
If I could remember how
And if I had the tears.