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The Only Memory of My Fatheri.
Child's Name: Nicholas Aaron Swaner Sex: Male Date of Birth: Apr. 17, 1993 Time of Birth: 08:43A Place of Birth: Hospital Location of Birth: Urbana, IL
1.
Children have a strong need to feel important and worthwhile. Parents and caretakers should praise accomplishments and provide opportunities to experience freedom and independence.
a
My eyes are cloudburst grey. I knew this even at age four, when I was old enough to count the years I had lived and yet still young enough to do so with my fingers.
ii.
I certify that this child was born alive at the place
and time on the date stated. James L Shepherd
2.
Children begin to understand danger and even the concept of risk-taking at a young age and at times can become quite fearful.
b
I have always been afraid of open water where I cannot see past my father's lake-surface blue eyes.
iii.
I certify that the personal information provided on this certificate is corre
Heart SongHear the beat that goes out to the world,
Each one, a piece of the orchestra.
All conducted in a calming movement,
Rhythms of the earth,
Timed to the song of the universe.
Synchronize ballet,
On the universal stage.
Nurturing the souls of humanity,
Gifting the world with the song of the heart.
Mature Content
and the waves will make me beautiful againmy heart is sinking -
a sailed ship
wrecked on unwilling shorelines.
labyrinthian currents
pulled me below
and i lost my way to the surface.
stuck in this undertow,
an underling in this underworld
is all i'm destined for;
"you'll fall away,"
i heard them say,
"little by little you'll lose your grip
and slip through
with the rest of your sickly state."
and i cried -
more so for them than myself.
tonight, as i lay me down
in silt, i'll remember how
your flowers wilt when you whispered
secrets with your siren-eyes;
i am not a sailor,
i am kelp and broken seashells
and everything else you've never loved.
A Battle's Choice 1st revisionA rocket bursts into the sky, giving a split second of light to the ebony world. Gun shots can be heard, and so can the calls of war. A girl, in the middle of now empty battle field, looks down at the corpses that surround her, then at the young man standing not far from her. Each of them holds a staff, and is robed in a cloak corresponding to their Eternal Callings.
A groan is heard from the soldier, not anything but a mere boy, at her feet. His eyes flutter, and the young warrior looks up to the young woman now crouched above him, her eyes filled with sadness. "Are you an angel? Am I dead?" he murmurs, and she realizes he is French, for that is what he mumbles in. She gives him a grieving smile, and answers. "Not exactly, my friend –"She gestures for her companion to join her, "and I are here to see you further." The soldier hears the inflection in the final word, and recognizes who, or what, these two people are.
"La vie et la mort." The pair above him exchanges looks, havin
futile caveatsas i crack the shells
of the eggs i'm about to have for breakfast,
the sound replays in my
head for a little while;
i eat my breakfast and go
as i wait for the subway train
to come, the smell of newspapers around
just makes my stomach
acid spew and turns me to paleness;
i ride the train and go
as i cut myself and bleed
on the salad i'm in the
process of preparing,
i feel another stronger phantom pain;
i skip my dinner and go
as i walk the evening streets
trying to see anything other than
our memories in every avenue,
the moon stands witness of my sins;
i fight the night and go
Moors and MelancholyHeart aching,
Bit chaffing,
She rails at her foreign prison walls.
For,
Tortured longing,
Work calling,
He sacrificed his all to protect her.
But anger clouds her mind,
For only confusion can she find
In his words, undefined.
He'd told her to stay away
But her heart lurched in dismay,
Leaping to one word: betray.
Oh, but she doesn't know
That he's suffering so
From a sickness incurable… no.
The letter comes at last,
Tidings of grief oh so vast:
He's dead, of an illness unsurpassed.
Heart wailing,
Soul quailing,
She is numb at his absence.
For,
Chest heaving,
Life leaving,
He finally wrote her, confessing his love.
All that time spent restrained,
Loving, but nevertheless chained,
A love only thought-entertained.
For she was as an untamable bird,
And he a preacher of the Word:
A match ill-suited and absurd.
So he died and she endured,
Her grief and anguish uncured,
Her love unfulfilled and unsecured.
But from her sorrow came art,
And a fictional story got its start,
Touching many a reade
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