Rivera,+Mandaaaaaa

 "Immature poets //imitate//; mature poets //steal//." - **T.S. Eliot** = = = =

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Me On My Own Poetry When I write poetry for school and at my own leisure, the difference is obvious. I put more heart into what I’m writing when it is not for school. I used to write a lot on my own. Now I only do it from time to time. When I write poems for school, it’s blatant that I am just trying to get it over with for the most part. I have to be in the mood when I write things. And usually when your in school trying to only focus on getting the task at hand done, you can’t get in that “poetry mood”. Or at least I can’t. I like writing things that I have not yet wrote about. I know when I go look at poetry and everything is the same it bores me, so I try to not bore anyone and show them something they’ve seen before. So I just shake it up. There is too many love and hate poems out there. I’ve had my share of them but they grow tired. When I look at my poetry I don’t usually see inspiration most of the time, a lot of times it’s just a spark thing and I write. Which is a sort of curse because if I don’t get down what I’m thinking at that moment then I forget, and get upset because I know that what I was thinking was pretty good, it’s just it’ll never come to me again. Which does sucks. My style of poetry is very much freewrite. I love to make rhymes because to me if it makes sense, and its good, it’s like clever. I like metaphors that mean something, sometimes it might take a bit to figure out what they mean, but a lot of the times they are deep and also clever, and gets you thinking. Sometimes I will write poems and they start to be short stories, which are also great but I guess what I’m getting at is when I write, it’s unexpected. //Things happen// //that I don’t plan, and things that I plan just don’t happen.// Kind of like life.
 * Poetry = Life.**

M.M.M.

=**Ode** =  I have never been more dedicated to getting one thing Just about everyday you come to me in the night You give me everything I ask for and more The best things and ideas come to me when I’m with you You fulfill me in every way needed You have been giving yourself to me since I was a young lad in the womb When I come from being with you my body can not feel better You accept me no matter how I look you never turn me down You take me at my worst and my best I hate when I am unable to get to you I lay upon my bed tossing and turning wanting you You’re the only thing on my mind I think maybe if I just close my eyes you will come to me And I would feel better with you and only you When it doesn’t work I get upset Frustrated that I can’t have you I still lay awake longing for you Waiting for the moment when I can grasp you And have you all to myself Oh my wonderful, **Sleep**.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =**Sonnet** = =**(It’s wrong but hey, //to each his own//.)** =  //Helped given by Kitab T. Moore. Co-Written by Him.//  Got to write a poem for English class I know it’s corny but I have to pass So then I walked passed the trash can, hello And I sall some boy throw out his cello He was pretty good for he is a fool Only say this cuz boul dropped out of school I enjoy school because of the collards That they give at lunch, I be like “holler!” I felt a little weird from this guys brow So I said dude u must shave that, like now. He gazed back and glared with the other one So he’d jus be walkin around all dumb. Imma wrap up this poem now real quick I’m Amanda and this was hard to do. //I’d like to thank God for this one. For giving me the creativity to come up with such lyrics from the soul. And to have a boyfriend who basically steered me through the whole thing with his clear messaged ideas, and strong willed poetry goodness. Oh, yes... Thanks Lord.// 

<span style="font-family: 'Arial Black',Gadget,sans-serif; color: rgb(239, 11, 149); text-align: center; display: block;">My Poet : **<span style="font-size: 195%; font-family: Symbol; color: rgb(14, 228, 7); text-align: center; display: block;">//Sandra Cisneros// **<span style="font-size: 130%; font-family: Webdings; color: rgb(14, 228, 7); text-align: center; display: block;">

=<span style="display: block; font-size: 150%; font-family: 'Arial Black',Gadget,sans-serif; color: rgb(247, 247, 29); text-align: center;">A few Poems by Sandra Cisneros =

<span style="font-size: 150%; font-family: 'Arial Black',Gadget,sans-serif; color: rgb(5, 204, 204); text-align: center; display: block;">"His Story" <span style="font-family: Georgia,serif; text-align: center; display: block;">I was born under a crooked star. So says my father. And this perhaps explains his sorrow. An only daughter whom no one came for and no one chased away. It is an ancient fate. A family trait we trace back to a great aunt no one mentions. Her sin was beauty. She lived mistress. Died solitary. There is a well the cousin with the famous how shall I put it? profession. She ran off with the colonel. And soon after, the army payroll. And, of course, grandmother's mother who died a death of voodoo. There are others. For instance, my father explains, in the Mexican papers a girl with both my names was arrested for audacious crimes that began by disobeying fathers. Also, and here he pauses, the Cubano who sells him shoes says he too knew a Sandra Cisneros who was three times cursed a widow. You see. An unlucky fate is mine to be born woman in a family of men. Six sons, my father groans, all home. And one female, gone.

<span style="font-size: 150%; font-family: 'Arial Black',Gadget,sans-serif; color: rgb(5, 204, 204); text-align: center; display: block;">"Old Maids" <span style="font-family: Georgia,serif; text-align: center; display: block;">My cousins and I, we don't marry. We're too old by Mexican standards. And the relatives have long suspected we can't anymore in white. My cousins and I, we're all old maids at thirty. Who won't dress children, and never saints-- though we undress them. The aunts, they've given up on us. No longer nudge--You're next. Instead-- What happened in your childhood? What left you all mean teens? Who hurt you, honey? But we've studied marriages too long-- Aunt Ariadne, Tia Vashti, Comadre Penelope, querida Malintzin, Senora Pumpkin Shell-- lessons that served us well.

<span style="font-size: 150%; font-family: 'Arial Black',Gadget,sans-serif; color: rgb(5, 204, 204); text-align: center; display: block;">"My Wicked Wicked Ways" <span style="font-family: Georgia,serif; text-align: center; display: block;">This is my father. See? He is young. He looks like Errol Flynn. He is wearing a hat that tips over one eye, a suit that fits him good, and baggy pants. He is also wearing those awful shoes, the two-toned ones my mother hates. Here is my mother. She is not crying. She cannot look into the lens because the sun is bright. The woman, the one my father knows, is not here. She does not come till later. My mother will get very mad. Her face will turn red and she will throw one shoe. My father will say nothing. After a while everyone will forget it. Years and years will pass. My mother will stop mentioning it. This is me she is carrying. I am a baby. She does not know I will turn out bad.

=<span style="display: block; font-size: 150%; font-family: 'Arial Black',Gadget,sans-serif; color: rgb(247, 247, 29); text-align: center;">My Analysis on The Previous Three Poems =

<span style="text-align: center; display: block; font-family: 'Arial Black',Gadget,sans-serif;"> <span style="display: block; font-family: 'Arial Black',Gadget,sans-serif; text-align: center; font-size: 150%; color: rgb(5, 204, 204);"> media type="custom" key="3468572"