Poetry

Jake French
L. Krouse
Creative Writing 201015
Poetry Workshop
5 February 2018

Black spot, white spot.

Eyes open, what do you see? He sees a black spot.
How big is it? From his perspective small, from another perspective vast.
Where is the spot? It is near yet far.
Everyone touches the black spot. Most hold it now. Others run away. But some reach for it.
He reaches for the black spot. It remains out of his grasp, for now. But he does hold the white spot.
What is the white spot? It is a gift for everyone. Everyone has held a white spot before.
How big is it? From his perspective enormous, from another perspective eternal. But in reality, it is minute, like a minute. A minimal, minuscule moment of majesty and madness molded together in matrimony.
The white spot eventually leaves and the black spot returns to hand. It is possible that the return of the black spot is like a reunion of close friends. We held the black spot before we were given the white spot.
The white spot can be lost, it can be taken, it can be given for another. It can even be wasted, ruined, or dropped. One thing is certain, you may only have it once.
Some people cling to their white spots like they have a say in the matter. The white spot may leave prematurely, but it always will leave at the end. Some hold the white spot for so long they grow old and weak. Others do not hold the white spot for very long at all.
To some people, the white spot is painful. He has not held the white spot for long, but already he feels the burn from it. Why does it have to hurt? He asks. It was a gift, it brings me nothing but sorrow. I can't hold this white spot any longer. He cries. He looks down. The black spot is at his feet. It is so close he can almost feel it. His knees begin to shake, his stomach begins to churn, his eyes begin to leak, his brow begins to heat. What is in the black spot? An eternity of peace or pain? The possible present of a different white spot? Is it seven minutes of silence?
What should he do? He is faced with the unknown. Should he wait and see what the white spot has to offer? Will the pain go away with time? Maybe the white spot is better than the black spot. Maybe he should make the most out of the white spot while he has it. Maybe he will, maybe not. One thing is certain, you only get one of each. You should treasure your white spot, or you'll miss it.

The Freedom of a Prisoner. (Waveshaper, A Monster)

I walk towards my destiny; the voice has guided me this far. I was trapped in a world not my own. Every step brings me further from my captivity and into something real.
This is not real; this world is an illusion to me. I will not be judged by the shadows who block my path. I've made my way past them to my final warden.
I will not apologize; I am held against my will. They would not move, and I will not bow. This is my only chance at absolution. It comes into shape now as I pass my final trial.
You are the end; the final stop on my endless walk. If I do not fall here my freedom is secure. I am tired. Tired of waiting, of these blocks, of these obstacles, of my anger.
You're mine; you've made an enemy of me and it will cost you. "The Jailer is the key, kill them, and you'll be free." The voice continues to guide me.
Make this right; why must you persist? This can only go one way. You may not move, but I will not stop. You call me monster, I call you fool.
The Beat; stands before me blocking my path. They know I can't be ended. I can only be caged, and not for long. Yet they persist, they believe I'll be beaten.
I'll not be beaten; I won't allow it. The Voice freed me first. We were trapped together. We've made our way down here through every test.
Time to wake up; I hear thunder. The Chain that held me down was the first to be crushed. He tortured me for too long. The Strap screamed at me as I departed.
A picture in motion; it could not be torn. The Line had run his course. He did not find the wisdom behind my rage. The Scale was trapped with me. It could not hope to set me free.
What we fight for; is our future. The Hand saw no future for me. His doom was my triumph. The Song wanted peace for me. The Song thought I could be content in my prison, I want freedom.
Love and madness; guide my feet. The Burst of light that would drive me down. I did not want to play. The Edge would create something memorable. I had reached the end.
I must end this; I've been a prisoner for too long. I can't doubt my quest. This is what I want. I do this for me and me alone. No more tricks, no more tests, I am at The Door.
I am free; I am free at last. A juggernaut of power destroyed the unshakeable object. I gaze upon my empty world. The Voice has left me. I return to the Stranger.
The Stranger I am; no longer the prisoner. I have a job to do. Now that I'm free, I must decide what that means. I must determine if it was indeed worth it. Everything I've done.
The Star sits above me; and demands an answer. Have I traded one prison for another? Freedom does not truly exist. I am no longer held by my physical prison. I created a new one.

A Sonnet for Tom Brady

Oh Tom Brady, can you not see?
That we do not want you here.
And when I say we, I mean we're
most rather tired of thee.
Again and again, wins does he
As we submit to our great fear
he will win for another year.
Oh God! Not again I plea!
But wait, has my prayer been heard?
We have reached the end of the game,
do deals with the devil have cost?
Rejoice! He'll not have the last word.
As if God had cursed his bad name
Tom Brady the Great has now lost!