This poem was written in response to an assignment prompt for MEDA101, and although it is lacking (I’ll admit, poetry is not my strong suit) it does hold certain sentimental value to me. I welcome criticism and feedback in the comments! xx
I am from the frosted dew
lining the morning grass,
from orchards and dogs
and raspberry bushes, sweet in the winter.
I’m from white picket fences.
I am from the back seat of the car
and the window of a plane.
From the old becoming new, and family
found far and wide.
I am from stone and timber and snow,
from hot soup and inebriated Saturday nights.
I’m from the mountains in winter,
finding comrades and competition
in the cold.
I am from tech, ink and coals.
From breaking the mould with worn hands guiding me.
I am from following my heart
and my passion, through the lights and sounds
of the future’s addiction.
I am from isolation and darkness, seeping through cracks
and into my room. I am from shattering glass.
The written word has anchored me,
and been my great escape.
I am from the sandy shores of suburbia,
yellow-leafed deciduous and the long grass,
catching at my ankles.
I am from film and home cooking,
endless bickering and endless affection.