November 17

The Book and The Cup of Tea

Dear my little cup of tea,

You’re full of hot burning passion that stains my pages,

that keeps a little part of you with me

every single day.

A warm little kiss

that leaves me wanting more.

You make me hazy with your powerful aroma; a blissful state.

The only thought that crosses my pages

are words that I write but will never be read.

As I lie back, merely a first draft,

all the words that define me, soon to be scrapped.

Leaving me with nothing

but the simple idea of you.

Even if you leave me for the biscuit,

you can always fall back on me.

Let me be your spine.

As my plot continues on,

and your taste begins to fade

maybe, just maybe,

we can reach the conclusion

together… someday.

// A poem by Areeb, Arsal, Ayat, Faith, and Dania

 

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November 17

a love letter: from a paint palette to a crystal ball

i am so very in love with you

you are made of misty blues and

purples and hope for better times

 

i remain stained

with shades of forgotten pasts

and beautiful creations

that will remain unfinished

 

i am so very envious of you

warm hands that are so very thoughtful

press against you with curious palms

 

i remain untouched

except to be buried under

beautiful hues that will always

be more loved than i

 

i am so very in love with you

with your glowing future and my pigmented

past, baby, we could paint a masterpiece

 

i remain unnoticed

because you, my love, have become

entranced by these transluscent possibilities

and i long to be the future you see

 


 

Summaiya A., Claire B., Jade B., Katherine C., Mandeep S.

(picture credit)

 

 

 

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November 17

But TO PIMP A BUTTERFLY? That’s the American Dream… ~Arsal

to pimp a hyteerfly

“The caterpillar is a prisoner to the streets that conceived it.
Its only job is to eat or consume everything around it, in order to protect itself from this mad city.
While consuming its environment, the caterpillar begins to notice ways to survive.
One thing it noticed is how much the world shuns him, but praises the butterfly.
The butterfly represents the talent, the thoughtfulness, and the beauty within the caterpillar.
But having a harsh outlook on life, the caterpillar sees the butterfly as weak and figures out a way to pimp it to his own benefits.
Already surrounded by this mad city, the caterpillar goes to work on the cocoon which institutionalizes him.
He can no longer see past his own thoughts.
He’s trapped.
When trapped inside these walls, certain ideas start to take roots, such as going home, and bringing back new concepts to this mad city.

The result?

Wings begin to emerge, breaking the cycle of feeling stagnant.
Finally free, the butterfly sheds light on situations that the caterpillar never considered, ending the eternal struggle.
Although the butterfly and caterpillar are completely different, they are one and the same.”

Mortal Man

To Pimp a Butterfly 

 

To start off, this poem alone is part 1 of a larger idea that I plan to showcase on my blog. I do not think I have ever been as intrigued by something as beautiful and as eye opening as this piece. Words alone cannot piece together what this poem and the album itself mean to me and how my understanding of everyday life has changed because of it. The idea of “pimping” a butterfly was very interesting to me so I decided to do more research. After reading many descriptions about what “pimping” a butterfly meant, I came across this poem that was recited by Kendrick Lamar, the one who created the phrase “To Pimp a Butterfly”. Everything in the poem teaches us about our initial views on the world. When we enter this world we are trapped in a nightmare, consuming everything around us. We are nothing special. However once we see the upper class, the butterfly, we begin to feel resentment and jealousy. This resentment turns into energy. This energy fuels the passion to become the butterfly. To transform. Once this occurs we work hard, in other words we start working on the cocoon.

The cocoon represents school, media, or anything that contains the people, whatever institutionalizes them. The caterpillar is trapped in the cocoon. In other words the people are trapped by the system and any other struggle. Although you are caved in by the system’s demands, new ideas begin to form, inspired by the system. Inspired by the walls. These new ideas begin to expand and eventually become the seeds to a newfound life. To become something different. Because of this, wings begin to form and the caterpillar transforms into a more capable being. Without the system, without the struggles, without apartheid, police brutality, social inequality, there would be no new concepts and ideas to be explored. If there is no cocoon, there is no butterfly. The caterpillar,that was once an incompetent and futile existence, has been pimped to extraordinary new levels.

In other words, everyone has greatness within them. I feel this line exemplifies the fact that if every person positively used the system against itself, used the institutionalization as power for ideas and creativity, one could raise their consciousness to a level surpassing his/her environment. The fact that the caterpillar is the one being “pimped” instead of the butterfly, as the title of the album suggests, is intriguing. In my personal opinion I feel that the title: To Pimp a Butterfly is sarcastic in a way. Pimping a caterpillar represents being enlightened and to change for the better, To go from having nothing to having it all. Pimping a butterfly represents giving the rich/fortunate ones even more power and wisdom. I feel that Kendrick Lamar was poking fun at places that are run by a corrupt leader. Stealing from the poor and giving it to the rich, putting all financial pressure on the ones that do not deserve it are things that show how to pimp a butterfly. The content within the music and within the poem showcase the correct and moral way to handle society, while the title of the album displays the harsh reality. This harsh reality is compared to racial injustice and discrimination in the US which are the central themes within the album, as shown by the album cover. “Pimping” a butterfly is an idiom of the American Dream in the 30s.

I could go on and on all day about what this poem means to me and just how significant “pimping” a butterfly really is. Although I am really tempted to write a 2000 word essay on the statement “To Pimp a Butterfly” I feel I have exhausted my ideas for now. The main point I want to get across is that this poem really speaks out on racial inequalities and the injustices that are happening in the modern world. This poem shows us how we should be learning from the past. The problems we face nowadays are due to society being trapped in a cocoon and not wanting to become greater. Because of these things, I am scared of the reality I live in. A reality where we pimp a butterfly.

 

http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/61aHQJ-tR%2BL._SY300_.jpg

November 17

The Winter Soldier

Dedicated to my favorite Marvel Character, James ‘Buchanan’ Barnes, The Winter Soldier. 

The Winter Soldier

We were once best friends

running down the streets of young Manhattan.

We were once wild

getting into impractical fights.

We were once soldiers

fighting for our country.

We were once brawling

in the war that claimed the lives

of millions of our own

and would soon take yours.

We were once hanging

on by a thin thread

that would break

and send you sprawling into

the blanket of winters snow.

I was once grieving

for the man who promised,

until the end of the line.

I was once alone

several decades later

wondering where the world

had gone.

We were once united

under improbable conditions.

You were once human

but you’re now part machine.

You were once my friend

but now you are the enemy

fighting for the wrong side of the war.

You were once a person

now you’re a ghost

that doesn’t want to be found.

You were once able to recollect

all our memories

all our adventures.

but now you forgot everything

including myself.

We were once best friends,

now I’m your mission.

tumblr_n3sihqvP8V1r0jfmao2_500

November 17

Inanimate Love Poem – a mirror to a shoe

I see myself in you,

Yet is it true?

Your reflection is perfection,

But I’m scared of your rejection,

My sole is filled with love,

Your shine on me from above,

Twisted admiration, are my laces,

And yet I don’t think you’ve seen all my faces,

Although it breaks my heart to say goodbye,

I have to let my feelings die.

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November 10

Potestatem

The thick, carved desk stands hard and proud in the middle of the room. Piles of paper lay spread across the soft and thick surface of the wood. His chair is a dark, rich maroon, lays between the opening of the desk. The splendor room is deep red in color, with white oak wood tracing the edged near the dark hard wood. The room is represents every part of him, every part of his masculinity.

Thoughts are severed when the wind rattles from several sheets of rain battering against the seemingly fragile glass. The two Alpha men in the room bristle in apprehension. They are very powerful, strong and perfectly capable of rendering each other helpless. They talk among themselves, ignoring all the other souls in this room as if they are nonexistent. Tension builds heavily in the room, so heavy a knife would be able to cut through it as if it was softened butter. The powerful men snap at us when we look their way, making us throw our heads down, being submissive.

A prisoner must feel like this, locked up and having the key thrown away. We couldn’t leave and we couldn’t speak. The men continue to argue, looking at us for help suddenly, which is ridiculous since they were glaring at us before for even looking their way. Despair and anger begins to build up at their ridiculous behavior, why should we remain here if we aren’t needed.

Horror seeps out of my skin when he gives us a deep sideways glance, seemingly gauging for my reaction. I am so close to screaming, so close to hitting something. Why can’t they come to an agreement, if not a simple negotiation. I am so close to losing my composure if this matter is not settled soon. The men are both powerful company bosses, having some sort of control over us. I am simply an assistant, merely an ant compared to a boot. Suddenly, my worker stands up and gestures for me to follow. Curious enough, I concede.

He leads me out the door, and outside where the rain has stopped. He is quiet. He has quite the bipolar attitude. The area he takes me to is heavenly. The sky may be dark and the ground wet, but it adds to its aesthetics. Autumn leaves litter the floor with hues of orange, yellow, and reds, creating a kaleidoscope of colors. Some of the trees are barren while some have old limbs that are reaching upward, trying to touch the heavens above. The trees feel untamed, it’s feral, untamed by man. Its tranquil here, not a drop of rain falling, not a cold breeze to chill our bones. It’s completely peaceful.

I feel his presence behind me. His strong front is almost touching mine. My breath catches in my throat as he leans forward and whispers softly, his breath fanning my neck. “So, do you think we should take the deal?”

4d715c820277ef12_1369-w500-h400-b0-p0--contemporary-home-office

 

 “Maroon Walls Home Design Photos.” Houzz. E/L Studio, n.d. Web. 27 Oct. 2015. <http://www.houzz.com/maroon-walls>.

 

November 10

Illumination

I wrote the following piece for my ELA class. It was inspired by a student’s photo. If you are interested in viewing this photo, please go to the to this link I have inserted at the bottom of this post.

 


Illumination.

You fickle thing. You lost thing. Where have you been these frigid, winter months? Incognito, you have hidden from me. Concealed from my sight, somewhere beyond the grey.

The grey.

You left me when you were the only thing that could truly protect me. You left me. Until now.

~

Beams of pale light sift their way down through the clouds. They touch me, and I begin to cry. But I am not despaired; I am alleviated. My limbs, rigid and pained, begin to thaw. My face, ashen and shadowed, begins to warm. And I think can say that I feel okay. That I don’t feel so terrible today. Because something has changed, like it does every spring.

It happens to me every time. Each September. That’s always when I start to get bad. When summer sunshine is replaced by that of early autumn’s—dull. Come September 1, and the illumination begins to fade. It’s quite depressing, though I’m not sure why. And so I become quite depressed, even though there really isn’t a reason to be. And that’s what bothers me the most about it. Not having a reason.

Not having a reason for acting, feeling so strange those six months. From the early days of autumn to the late days of spring, I suffer. And I find myself sad to the point in which my cheeks become marred by my constant deluge of tears. Or monotonous, devoid of feeling, until I find myself wishing for the sadness and the tears again.

And so the grey settles in.

No energy. Lethargy. And it’s hard to get out of bed in the mornings. And It’s not that I don’t want to get up, it’s that I can’t get up. As if something has pinned me to the mattress. Something sinister, malevolent.

She wishes to kill me.

I know it’s a she, because sometimes she talks to me. And she sounds like me. And, well, I guess she is me.

And some mornings she tells me to go and kill myself. And she makes me think of how I could do it too. Like hanging myself from the ceiling fan. Or slitting my wrists and letting myself bleed out. Or drinking Liquid-Draino.

I don’t know why I would want to die. Because I don’t know why I feel and act so strange sometimes. And that is the worst part.

But I’m feeling okay today. I don’t feel so terrible.

No. Today I woke up, and I found that I could move. And I didn’t feel so lethargic. And she wasn’t there to pin me down to the mattress. Or to tell me to go kill myself. Because she can only ever feed on the grey. And I think maybe she is afraid of the illumination, of the light that was peeking its way through my curtains.

And today when I was brushing my teeth, I didn’t feel so sad. Or monotonous. And perhaps I wasn’t overcome with joy, but I was complacent. And I even smiled a little when I looked in the mirror this morning, because my hair was messy and askew from my previous night’s sleep.

And I smile now too, as I stand beneath the illumination. Because I don’t feel so terrible today.

~

Illumination

You fickle thing. Lost but now found.  Where have you been these frigid, winter months? Incognito, you have hidden from me. Concealed from my sight, somewhere beyond the grey.

The grey.

You left me when you were the only thing that could truly protect me. You left me. Until now.

Illumination.

You are my escape. My escape from the grey. And I am relieved. But I know that I won’t have you forever. I know I can only escape for so long.

Escape. But only temporary. Only until the grey begins to settle in again. For now it waits, patiently, until it can trap me when the time is right.

The illumination never lasts.

Please don’t leave me alone again, or I think I might really lose myself this time. Please don’t leave like you do every September. Please stay this time.

Please.


For more information on Seasonal Affective Disorder please visit http://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/seasonal-affective-disorder/basics/definition/con-20021047

Inspiration: http://ctsphotos2b.edublogs.org/2015/04/10/breath-of-fresh-air/

Image source: http://theodysseyonline.com/suffolk-uni/freshmen-15-turned-30/171181

November 10

The Fire and the Fridge

I know my doors are never open

And when they are they give you chills

You may never find what you are looking for in me

For my insides guard cold secrets

 

But when your doors open, I see a sudden light in your eyes

In your midst, I may diminish,

But my passion burns on.

A passion of warmth for the cold of your embrace.

 

I may be plain on the outside

A frigid, blank exterior to repel those who might hurt me

But your pain I welcome

You sear a hole through my cold, hard walls

 

Don’t pass me over with your icy gaze.

I know I am erratic, but I will burn until you take my breath away

I may leave my mark on you, but you bite where I burn.

You give me fever, and I give you frostbite.

 

Will you stay will me until my purpose wastes away from what was once glorious?

Will you stay with me until my embers are all that is reminiscent of what was once resplendent?

 

We are polar opposites, yet we destroy the pain that the other is cursed to bear.

You cool the fire that hurts my heart. You break the ice inside my soul.

 

By Ziyana, Cayleigh, Lucas, Ryan, Masooma, and Rajneet

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November 10

Inanimate Object Poem

The Pocket and Safe

We may  be polar opposites.

As I the safe am cold and dark, forever in one place.

I am to be trusted holding your secrets within, always locking the promises you tell me.

I the pocket am cozy and forever by your side, providing a warming sensation.

Maybe one day I will come upon your weakness to explore all your corners and finally open the lock to your world.

Although your shut me out, while I try to pry in. I will still find a way to decode the path to your heart.

To crack the last barrier keeping your from me.

For I don’t hide many things, but I will keep this once secret just for you.

safe

Manvir, Alisha, Gavin, Andrew, Ziyanna

 

Photo Source:

  • http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-2280536/The-safe-man-cigars-safe-wind-watches.html
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