Soccer

So today was the last soccer practice for me. Ever. And tomorrow is my last game. It feels so weird knowing that the thing that always cleared my mind is about to be gone....

"Paint it Red"

If you can understand the symbolism in this poem, I'm impressed.


"What am I to do with this room, sir?" asked the painter.
"Paint it red," said I.

Paint it red to mask the mistakes,
Paint it red to disguise the breaks,
Paint it red to hide the scars.

"And what of the deformity, Sir?"
"Cover it," I said.

Cover it with coats of green,
Cover it with layers of masks,
Cover it with dozens of family pictures.

"But Sir, what of the door?"

Cover it, and paint over it,
For there is no escape from this room,
This room, that has been painted red.

if you know me, you know who this is about.

when I look into your eyes,
I see a depth I can always lose myself in,
a beauty so pure and innocent,
I cannot help but to fall harder and harder.

Friends

You always said we would be friends until the end.

Well,
where are you now?

You can't spell "friend" without,
"end."

Same Old Blood Rush, With a New Touch

As she flicked her hair when she walked by me, I knew the feelings were mutual. From the way her deep blue eyes found mine, I could see the interest. I knew immediately that it was time to get out of this saloon, before I fell yet again.

You see, it was not long ago that I had a beautiful lass of my own. However, not long after I put that ring on her finger, a vicious Indian took her life. We were galloping away from a battle, for we never enjoyed war, when an arrow went astray and caught her in the heart. Ironic, that while she must die with a broken heart, I must go on living with mine.

Not a day goes by that she does not cross my mind. I write a letter for her everyday, and always place it on her grave. I miss her dearly, although I know she is not coming back. My only friend is my dear stallion, Hondo. For the most part, I stay alone in my cabin. I live through my days by farming my fields for beans and squash, by feeding my cow, or by drinking myself near death at the saloon.

I live in the middle of no where, otherwise known as Ohio. The year is 1843. My name is Royce Carrow, and I am thirty years old. As I said before, I was once married, ten years ago. Her name was Beth Miller. She was to me, what sugar is to sweet tea.

Enough of my past, though. I currently find employment, alongside my farming, as a writer. I am more of a poet, however. My poetry has yet to catch on in this society, for it would appear few are interested in love now-a-days. I also paint, although more often than not, my paintings are only of the sunset.

I am Royce Carrow. This is my story. My legacy, however, has yet to begin.