Since I decided to finish my degree in English (creative writing focus), I realize that I have to deal with poetry. And I have made many attempts to write vague poetry. It is supposed to be about raw emotion and things you can relate to experience. One of my to-be instructors has said that if I cannot openly share my experiences, for better or for worse, what's the point of sharing them? We are who we are, having been where we have gone. So here goes:
It all started with a spark
as it always did.
A passion in the heart
like a snare drum echoing emotion.
Red was the color of his eyes
as fire ignited his intensity.
Not paying attention to the band
he made them follow his own beat.
Red was the color of his face
as exhaustion soon set in.
So overcome with sweat and heat
nearly passing out but strong
Red was the color of his blood
as his aggression carried on.
Breaking the stick that empowered him
and punctured skin.
He no longer knew the song.
But traded old stick for new
and carried on.
Red was the color of his blindness
shifting the passion to his feet.
The double bass reverberated
unwilling, with protest,
but unable to escape.
Red was the color of the welts
left upon black bruised indentations of the head
of that snare drum that he beat on
and beat on and beat on
until there was no more red.
Red is the color of the memory
from all who attended that show.
They will never forget the passion in him
As in him red
was the only color they'd ever known.
(This is not about a drummer. But I use it because I love music and relate to a drummer's passion.)
Please note that if you get the symbolism, I am not asking for emotional charity. Just writing as a writer is supposed to do.