In The South 1852 (School Project)

From the viewpoint of a white girl...
The dark girls call my house ''The Big House". They tell me I'm lucky to live here. I have dolls and baby carriages. I have plenty of food and water and sweet treats when I ask politely, but I have no friends. Mommy won't let me play with the dark girls, she gets mad when I even talk to them. She tells me they're uncivilized, then makes me sit and cross-stitch or play the piano, then sends me up to me room to play dolls by myself. I've seen them outside my window: running and laughing together with their friends, and yet, they call me lucky.


From the viewpoint of a slave...
All day and sometimes part of the night, we toil in the fields working, plowing, and picking, endlessly. Everyday we rise before the sun to be met by the whip, each forced to work harder than 2 white folk could possibly manage, punished harshly if we cannot. Scars write the story across my back. My story of tears, of pain, of wickedness and prejudice, my story of imprisonment, of back-breaking labor, of hard times and troubles. My scars tell the story of slavery.

Stop the Sun (School Project)

Nothing but blackness,
Darkness surrounding me.
My eyes portraying the world as empty,
My ears painfully assuring otherwise
When the sounds of gunfire shatters the silence.
Screams break free as mortars strike;
Chaos increases to a point of climax,
Then dies down to lifeless, fatal silence.

They're coming for me;
When the night vanishes, surely they will arrive.
The sun must not rise;
The sun must not come up;
I must keep dawn from coming
Only then will I be safe, only then will I survive

But as always, it came,
Beginning with a faint gray,
Turning to a gentle glow of despair
They were there
And although they didn't harm my body,
I died all the same...
We couldn't do it,
We failed to stop the sun.

(This is a poem about the Veitnam war. I got the idea from a story called Stop the Sun that we read at school, and so I wrote it for extra credit because I liked the details in the story and it made me feel like writing about it)

Here In This Place (School Project)

I'm here in this place,
Alienated and alone,
Forced to forget my life I once cherished
It was them,
The white people took me here, they took us all here.
They don't care about us.
They beat us, humiliate us, and then watch us cry.
Our tears don't concern them;
They have hearts made of ice.

I'm here in this place,
I've been misused and mistreated.
I've seen people runaway and pass away.
There's illness and cruelty.
I've seen a lot,
But the one thing I haven't seen is love.

We're here in this place,
But we cry out for another;
Our souls long for ny place but here.
Where can we go where we will not remember?
Is there a place that we will not be haunted?
No, these scars will never fade away
Nor the memories wane
We shall be chased by this place forever


(This is a poem I wrote on the cruelty in Indian boarding schools since we read about it in class)

Thanksgiving 1943 (School Project)

Thanksgiving was always a bitter reminder of how little she actually had to be thankful for. It'd been five years to the day since her husband had been killed in the war. All she had left to remember him by was his old tattered coat. All the pictures, his old clothes, and the precious memories of the little time they'd had together burned with the house, all ashes now.

Like the last four thanksgivings, she spent this one sitting alone in the rubble of the house they once shared. On her plate she had a single roll, which was to be the best meal she'd tasted in a long time, so for her meal, she is thankful. She bows her head and folds her hands to pray.

"Dear God, Thanks for the meal which I am about to recieve, and for keeping me safe, healthy, and alive. Lord, I know haven't much, but thanks for all Your blessing You have bestowed upon me today and in past severalyears. I know You have reasons for everything we go through, help me to see Your reasoning and praise You for it. In Your name I pray, Amen!"

Falling

Falling, falling

Over and over again
Trapped in this plummeting motion

Just to quickly, fatally hit rock bottom,

Then to just start falling again

Before I even stand back up

Before my wounds even heal.

It's like I hope they'll heal faster

If i don't have to lie on the ground calling out in pain

How I wish I could stay in mid air,
Or fall without crashing into Earth.

Or even if I could just use a parachute,

To soften my landing just a little.

Or, just to stay grounded,

Even if I never got to fly again in my life,

It would be better than taking another fall, just to realize there's no one to help me up this time.