We will be examining the works of William Blake, and trying to identify how a teenager views them.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

The Dream (Prose Poem)

I’m standing on the shore. I see the waves coming to greet me, so I wave back. As I lay on the sand I can feel the graininess rub hard against my skin. The sun sends down a heat current and it begins to caress my face softly. When I reach for it begins to shrink in my hands, like a bouncy ball I throw it on to the ground soon it jumps back to its place. The ocean is tints of blue, from turquoise to indigo, and it begins to call my name. I run to it but as I do the world around me starts a metamorphosis. An “Oh no!” slips through my lips.
All these memories start to flash before my eyes, but then suddenly it all stops. There I am only five years old helping my grandma make her famous apple salad. I reach for her but she can’t see me. Tears stream down my face like rivers and soon I yell, but I’m not heard.
I close my eyes and count to ten, I open them and it is pitch black. Slowly a scene around me gets painted. I realized I’ve been dreaming. Grabbing hold of my bed frame I weave out of my sheets. The pain is still there. I’m an empty shell. I can’t believe a jagged little pill could cause all of this. It was the incredible ride it takes you on that hooked me. You feel nothing; no pain no sorrow, and especially not the need to be loved. I fabricated too many lies, and like a jenga tower they all eventually tumbled down.  It seems like my withdrawals have triggered my body to convulse I can sense the bed quivering beneath me like the ground does during an earthquake.
Before I know it I open my eyes and I’m standing on the shore. I see the waves coming to greet me, so I wave back.

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