For the past couple of years that I’ve been writing for The Scoop, I’ve tried to make articles that are not only informative but also filled with insights that might help you, the reader, understand the world a little better. However, it has been a while since I’ve poured my creative spirit in the pages of this newspaper. So, I’d like to share with you all some poems I’ve written over the years that reveal, or at least attempt to reveal, some of my more personal thoughts. I hope that in future editions of the newspaper, you are also encouraged to share your creativity with this wonderful community. 

 

Patchwork Blanket 

 

The invisible hand wraps the sky in a pitch black veil, 

I feel the cold sheets as I sink into them, and even when morning is still far,

Its dew already rests in my eyes, 

Sorry, I think; sorry, I whisper in the dark

 

I remember a time when laughter flourished from my mouth, 

dripped from my tongue like sweet honey. 

A time when my grandma told me about the coffee fields and the chickens,

they filled her childhood, and through her tales, they filled mine.

But now no garden blooms in my chest, 

For no sunlight reaches it anymore. 

I’m sorry, just like before

And say it over and over and over again.

 

I want to go back and listen to the stories, 

The coffee and the chickens and the house in the mountains, 

I want my heart to swell with joy,

It shall beat, and the world will hear it,

Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump

But in a calvary of my own making it sank to grief

And now all the world hears is silence,

I desperately open my mouth, I listen, 

Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump

But it doesn’t sound like a heart, 

 

So I take a needle and some thread

And with what is left in my heart,

I sew a patchwork blanket that will cover me in the dark,

I’ll wrap it around me the following night, 

So when the dark veil comes again, 

The bed will no longer feel cold, 

And my eyes will be filled with dreams of the stories about chickens, 

maybe about coffee and an old house in the mountains,

The next time darkness comes, 

The blanket will rest over my shoulders, 

And when this happens I will hear my heart again, 

Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump

Thank you, I think; thank you I whisper in the dark 

 

A Frame in the Door

 

A frame in the door,

that holds the weight,

of all that’s above the floor,

 

A frame in the door,

if it falls nothing will catch it,

and its shattered pieces,

shall be kept in a forgotten drawer,

 

Try and tell the frame and the human apart,

both bearing the world, on a wooden back,

as if enduring suffering was a form of art,

and the soul could never crack,

 

The frame in the door,

Such a plain structure,

but could there be anything more,

than a heartless rupture,

 

Frame and people,

no matter how much it hurts,

both have to stand like a proud steeple,

 

But remember it’s okay,

that from time to time,

For a week or a day,

We might take a break,

and let the soul breathe again