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John Keats was a poet of the early 17th Century he died at the age of 25 due to tuberculosis. He is my inspiration, my muse in a way. I look to his work when I find my self at a loss for words to write, or expression to be shown.

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John Keats was a poet of the early 17th Century he died at the age of 25 due to tuberculosis. He is my inspiration, my muse in a way. I look to his work when I find my self at a loss for words to write, or expression to be shown.

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“Beauty is truth-truth beauty-that is all ye know on earth and all ye need to know”

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Love gives people sorrow, sorrow disappears if you become heartless. In order to remove sorrow, one must experience it’s agony first. With it, one also relieves themselves of love and happiness. In order to have sorrow one must first feel life without joy. This removes the root of all sorrows, which is love. Once removed logic is no longer muddled by emotion. Rational situation based decisions can be made. Therefore, life itself can be lived rationally, properly.

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I feel I hide behind all these different faces I use to make myself who everyone wants me to be. My friends find things funny that I don't, they don't see the seriousness in some things I do. They find certain topics a call for being dramatic or upset that I can brush off, and vice versa. I have be a different person when interacting with teachers and my regular classmates whom I barely speak to as it is. I am different with my parents versus my siblings. I am all these things that cannot fit under one personality or voice. A friend, student, peer, daughter, and sister. I'm not saying these all aren't me, they are, but the me I hide from others is someone who is sensitive, and raw. I write poetry a lot, many people in my life know this, but only so many are allowed to read it. This is a large part of me that I make small, so others can't see and judge it.

"Our true selves aren't revealed in words, or actions. They are shown through our secrets, our desires and fears. We hide behind the curtain of our voices, we hide the truth from view. The deepest, darkest parts of our hearts hold our most selfish wishes and pains. It is in this truth, this is how the world comes to know the real you, the real me."

When I wrote this, I didn't realize how brutally real this was for so many people, I thought I only hid myself, and everyone else was normal, and honest. We hide because we are afraid to be judged, my writing is my most real way of staying myself in a world I want to hide in.

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GREED

4 people trapped together

On a deserted isle from stormy weather

Each has a Checkered past

The question is, who will last?

One hides behind a facade on a screen

Another pretending to be a silent lamb instead of the wolf they can be

The third is a quiet soul, much less likely to defend

The final is a liar in his own skin

The first looks for ways out, like anyone would do

The next hiding in the brush, better see who will turn on you

The third sits on the sand and wonders what’s next

The fourth reminds himself he’s better than the rest

They each possess the knowledge to survive

Though they must band together to stay alive

One can create a burning blaze to last the night

One can hunt which can be a bit of a fright

Another can craft wood to their liking

The other is profound at climbing

Which is which you may ask?

I'm afraid none of us will see beneath the mask.

Each take their skills and flee

the four corners of the island is the real tragedy

The isle so vast and empty

Roam enough for plenty

The bitter cold that burns inside

Leaving their souls frozen and dry

One does not last the night,

The wood crafter lost their light

They froze from the howling winds cold

For their corner had fine wood but no weapon to carve or so I was told

The other 3 lasted just fine

Though the climber certainly could wine

Food was found that is true

But the lack of fire was why this persons sorrow grew

The hunter did even one better and caught a boar for his feast

Though the fierce weather forced him to create a nice coat from the poor beast

The fire builder did alright

Caught a fish to last the night

The next night the waters stilled

For no wind caused another to be killed

The climber found treetop shelter

Before the heat began to swelter

The shade gave way to nice cool heaven

While the others sweat poured almost leaden

The hunter stayed cool in the shore

but forgot something rather important i must inform

The fresh water he did lack

Caused his life to leak from him like liquid from a wool sack

The fire builder was smarter and purified the water

To save from the heat that grew hotter

The night there after

is one for laughter

The one in the tree finally came down

Spotting fire from their safe and sound

When they found the heats source

The greeting was rather coarse

They argued and fought

leaving the likeliness to survive all for naught

The fire builder scorched sands

in pursuit of the monkey like man

The man scurried and hid

only to be burned alive with another's wit

The climber forgot to take note

That trees too burn like any boat

The fire builder did outlast

Only to find the lagoon empty of bass

Unable to hunt nor climb the fire builder was the final to pass this time.

The Greed of men made this tale so true

My only question is, could it have been you?

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The penalty of trust in decisions and in society.

When you entrust, you give. To trust someone is to allow them to be your fallback, your firm foundation. What is to happen when we trust, and that trust is torn? Shredded, broken, unrepairable. Giving your trust is something earned, a privilege. Not some right a person gets the second they shake your hand. No person is perfect, we all know that, or do we? Shouldn't we be aware that all parents are Flawed? Shouldn't we know that no lovers are perfect? Then why do we punish them? And then after why do we punish ourselves? We grow angry, frustrated, upset with others that make mistakes, how can we say we are human, if we grow to be so infuriated, even feeling hatred towards our kind for their lack of know how, their mistakes. However, we are the ones who put others in a position to have the ability to make these errors, aren't we? To be against another for the choices they make is a common emotion, but, if the choices they make are what can make them happy, and will not harm others, then how can we as human beings alike, make them regret, or hold that against them? Well, it's usually driven by selfish tendencies, fear, for lack of a better word. Fear of the consequences. Of what is, what was. We as a species, a society, make decisions that affect each other everyday, every second. Writing this right now, is the option to stay in my own chambers instead of mingling with my own family. You are making a choice to read this at this particular moment. For whatever the reason, you either elected to do this willingly, or some being as boring as I is making you read this for some random purpose, or reason. In that case, I apologize for my rather not so invigorating usage of speech. I am only trying to make a point. So, I guess I shall "cut to the chase" for my bored readers. My point being, is that we are human, and so we shall treat each other as such. But, what happens when we are primitive, savage, and downright neglecting to our own kind? We turn our backs on each other, and we degrade ourselves as well as others. So, how can we say we need others, when at the same exact time, we say we must get away?

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The empty house

Silence, a rather quiet room and the only dull sounds that penetrate the air is the somber tick of the clock upon the wall.

No voices, not even a footstep to be heard. The occasional Creek of the wood though, brought on by the uniquely aged estate. The rooms, filled with furniture covered in white sheets, gathering dust.

Not even a simple mouse would have taken the home for a welcoming abode. The house itself is quite the piece of history, practically out of a Sherlock Holmes novel indeed. Built in the English countryside. A home for once, a young man and his new bride. A home once for the elderly, and a home once for the young and unguided. Now, Alas, the house sits, gathers ivy, and dust. Abandoned, as many feel within this life.

Never filled with light and laughter. No music, no decor, the beauty has faded. No fireplace hung with stockings on the eve of Christmas, no kitchen filled with the scents of stuffing and pumpkin pie. No piano that once was played with joyous tune. Candles have yet to be lit for a night dark enough for lighting. The empty house is a memory, not a future thought, at least, not anymore.