from the archives

by sheshinesbright

In an effort to jump start my writing, I’ve decided to revisit the archives. In the past, I wrote almost obsessively. Journals, poems, stories, anything that came to mind was scribbled in notebooks or documented online. Presently, I spend most of my time thinking and talking about things I’d like to write about. I spend far less time actually writing.

As I take a look back through my own words, it’s interesting to find pieces that I can no longer relate to. This is one of them. Written during my sophomore year of high school, this was picked up by the student literary journal and probably qualifies as my first published work. I called it Egg, because I was a brilliant and misunderstood young writer.

Reading it now feels awkward and I have to resist the urge to edit (I did remove a couple of lines that really don’t make sense, but I didn’t add anything). This was, at one time, a perfect representation of how I felt. As uncomfortable as it is to revisit that, it’s sort of the point of this whole exercise. I believe the growth comes from discomfort, so I’ll take this as an indication that I’m doing something right.

 

Each day is an egg.
Unscathed, unblemished,
and pure white.
Today that egg has been dropped
on the kitchen floor –
and left to seep and ooze
into the cracks of the tile.
Careless Child.

Today the stars fell from my sky,
today the apocalypse occurred.
My world plunged into a void,
and left me hanging upside down
with blood rushing to my head.

Today it rained, it stormed,
the wind howled
and whipped tree branches against
my darkened bedroom window.
The weather man claims
it’s a sunny 65 outside.
But what does he know.

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