aurora's writing space

Sara and I are laughing so hard we can't breathe, her company is so warm and welcoming. I've never felt so comfortable and safe with any person in my life, we are truly best friends. As the roar of laughter settles to some giggles I realize just how late it's gotten, 8pm. I look outside to see the sky ablaze with a sunset burning in purples and oranges. I give Sara a hug and thank her for having me over, reaching for my skateboard and fly out the front door. Skating down our neighborhood to my house I stop to look up at that gorgeous sunset. It's the prettiest I've ever seen, it looks like it was painted. I take a deep breath and smell the blooming jasmine flowers that line our streets, the gulp of air rejuvenating with springtime California air. As I keep going I'm plagued with the thought that someday soon I'll no longer have the safety net of Sara and simple days like these, that one day these memories will be riddled with painful nostalgia. N ostalgia....

My boyfriend laugh. Never have I heard something so obnoxiously loud but simultaneously intoxicating. Nothing like I had ever heard before, the sound of a person experiencing true joy. Ocean. Silver. Moving. Marble. Pink bed. Big windows. Earthquakes. Pollution. Water parks. Barbies. Mosquitos. Gluten. Doctors office. Bath and Body Works. Running. Short hair. Cheetah costume. Doc Martens. Bees. Tricycles. Hot Cheetos. The smell of jasmine flowers on a spring night. Nothing sweeter than the smell that reminds me of when I was unconditionally happy. The jasmine hugged my scent receptors but left reminding me that nothing lasts forever. "I swear to you I will tell her to stop texting me!"

Poem 29: The Dream Poem Bright lights, Infectious laughter, The sun warming my skin, Adrenaline pumping through my veins, Running, The smell of sea salt on the air, Wet sand in-between my toes, The crashing of waves against the shoreline, And sea lions barking, A bright blue sky, Not a care in the world. Poem 30: Bending Reality Driving along the highway, Halfway between destinations, I stop to pump some gas, Turning off my engine, Grabbing the cold metal of the pump, I look around to notice the scenery, Lush giant trees and wildflowers, Paint the world, Only to the right down into the forest, It looks like the place you'd expect fairies to live, Or to see a nymph prancing about.

The  focus  of the poem is my father, He is wearing a bright blue polo  and some khakis, He's smiling wide, In front of a lush background, The picture is being  shot  for his resume, It's  cropped  to then only show him from the waist up, He looks professional. Ready to conquer whatever life brings his way, To serve his community and  get his first job here in Minnesota, He's proud to be back in his home, The great Midwest. Part 2: In the cold concrete jungle, The city that never sleeps, The golden heart of capitalism, and the home of Wallstreet, New York City, Thousands of feet in the air  are men sent to complete Rockefeller tower, The societal butts of the bread loaf, Much like those they are eating, Suspended on a beam over the modern world, The sandwich tastes good, Like mayonnaise and turkey, Blended together for a savory taste, And the breeze this high up is a relief from the...

The one and only, James P. Sullivan, A peculiar monster, With spectacular and soft blue fur, He goes to enter the door, To find some children to harass, Harvesting their screams, To make Monsters Inc. last, But he finds himself instead, In the center of a party, There are too many of them, They look like children but... bigger? These giant children stumble around, In flashing LED lights, Holding red solo cups, Sully slams the door full of distress, To find out he stumbled upon a frat party.

Poem 17: The Dream Metaphor Everything is going according to plan, I'm ready, mic'd, and feeling good, I make my first entrance and step out into the blinding lights, I feel the stage beneath my feet with each step, I listen closely to my castmates, Waiting for my quo, But suddenly everything they say sounds like gibberish, Like a foreign language My heart rate rises and my legs start to tremble, I have absolutely no idea where we are in the scene, Or what is to come, The lights are suddenly scorching, And the sound I can hear booms through my ears, Suddenly, everything goes black.

I took chapter 8 as we were supposed to choose to write either poem 11, 12, or 13? I felt the book made this unclear, I choose 11. The chef paced the kitchen like a worker bee, Chopping vegetables with the grace of a swan, And the determination of a lion, You could tell cooking was an art to the Chef, Stars shot from their eyes when presented with their final masterpiece

A massive capitalistic shrine buzzing with shoppers, The midwest's best, a steel tourist trap, Thousands of unique stores filled with wonders, Where some have silky cashmere sweaters, And others have peculiar trinkets Where ambient lighting creates a sense of timelessness, The smells of hundreds of restaurants creep throughout the third floor, Each space with a different story to tell, All these I feel or am