Mental health vacation (perspective 2)

I remember when I was in the hospital and I finally got the opportunity to go outside. It had been days since I had seen the sunlight and felt the fresh air hit my face. It was of course nice to be out, but it was a big disappointment as well. It wasn't what I had remembered, or hoped. I could see all the buildings of Palo Alto. I felt like I was so close, yet so far from everyone. It is the worst feeling to not be in control. It didn’t matter what I did, how I acted, what I said, how much I cried, how much I screamed on the inside and outside, I couldn't feel as if I was in control. My enjoyment of being let free depended on the doctor’s decision, and my health, both mentally and physically. I felt trapped. During the summer, you're supposed to be outside, enjoying the days as they pass, not in a hospital, in a small room, on constant watch. After what felt like years in that room, I was finally going home, and I felt this boulder lift off of me, and I felt free again. I felt in control 


Stina, I can tell that there are some powerful emotions here, but they're clearly still in process toward being written... do you want to keep going with this one? 

A beachy escape

Stepping onto the beach, the small children running about as their dog chases as if they are cats and mice. The variety of bottles, wrappers, and paper floating in the sparkling aquamarine ocean was a terrible sight. As I was strolling on the beach, the feel of the warm, honey golden sand between my toes was truly intoxicating. In that very moment, I felt as if I had been transported to a different place, a paradise almost like Heaven. I pulled out my fluorescent beach chair and matching umbrella, and placed them in the sand. I picked


it's a good beginning... 

Help

I am sitting here alone,with a loud mind,
and a dark soul.
Begging for everything;
for death,
for life,
for happiness.

As my mind spins,
my souls sinks,
in the darkness of my thoughts,
which eat me up inside.

I feel the death inside my mind,
my soul cries for the blade,
is it just a hollow cry,
or the desire to live in sky?


ok, Stina, please do tell me whether this is really a cry for help because if it is I'll respond differerently of course... but if it's a poem ABOUT a cry for help, I think you can do better. Do you see that a lot of it's abstract? meaning, you're not letting a reader in to really picture the feelings. Remember that video poem that Katie showed us? Think about the some of the specifics there--the ways he captured the details of his emotional journey...

A flower and a mirror

When you shine light into a mirror,
The mirror doesn’t absorb it in,
It just reflects it back.
Or, if you’re a scientist, and like experiments,
Light can also refract.
When light is given to a flower,
It doesn’t reflect it back,
It absorbs it in
UV Rays, and a bit of concentration,
Amongst other wonders, can sustain life.
When you put me in a situation
Where I will have to do
Either one of two things;
You will find that I will do neither
For I am just an imitation of light
And of life.
Can I be less oblique?
I am artificial life; a fake; a phony.
I can carry no light. I am a mirror in that way.
Do you see where I am going?
Flowers take in the UV light, and create life.
I want to do the same—
Not just reflect back the light and life
I’ve been given, but to absorb it in
and make it easier for others to live, and breathe, again.

I had gone to the Exploratorium and one of the exhibits is a mirror and some kid was pointing a laser pointer into it and it sparked a thought in me. We don't really absorbs things, we simply reflect them. Our looks, thoughts, and knowledge, simply just a reflection. Nothing is truly absorbed.


This one I like a lot, Stina--I like it's conversational/philosophic tone, and I like that you're asking me to picture something and work that picture... good work here

So, since it's 25 pts for four poems, the most I can give you is 12.5. Because the first one needs more work, I'll give you 10 pts.  

Norman Bates: The Real Story

Redrum is the theme of this nightmare. As a young kid, Norman Bates was never a child to lead or follow, he liked being invisible. Much like a sloth, he moved at an extremely slow pace, which sadly made him the target for most of the other kids.  Teased day after day throughout school, Norman gained the nickname, "Psycho." Little did they know, that's what he was soon to become. Now an adult, to get away from the daily torture, he worked at The Bates Motel, a motel that his grandmother had built in the middle of nowhere, however, the vacancy sign never came on so most of his days, he spent alone. One day while at the front desk, Norman heard about these murders on the news, and about how the killer had put so much intricate action in torturing and killing his victims that Norman suddenly felt this weird feeling in his gut, almost like a child in a candy store. While watching the news, almost as if a  lightbulb went off, Norman decided to become a copycat of the killer. He started planning out how he going to select, capture, torture and finish off his victims. Even though he had so much to think about when it came to his victims, there was one thing Norman was certain of, and that was what his weapon of choice would be, and it was a knife. But not just any knife, no, a butcher knife. He thought it made for more pain and he liked the idea of how it cut through flesh. The more and more Norman thought about how he would slice and dice his victims, the more he got a thirst for a messy crime scene, his goal? A complete and total bloodbath. His ideal crime scene would make anyone feel sick. He wanted to make not only his victims suffer, but the people who discovered the scenes as well. Finally, it was the night he had planned to catch and kill his first victim. But in the corner of his eye he sees a middle aged man walking towards the motel. The man walks in and asks about the nearest gas station, and Norman remained silent. The man, confused, started to turn back around, when Norman took the knife from under the desk, and side swept the man, hitting him right in the neck. The man fell to the floor, and bled out. Norman felt so proud of himself because he had finally committed his fist homicide. Weeks went by with no word from the outside world. Then one day, out of the blue, rangers discovered the man's car and starting searching the area. To avoid an end to his sick and disturbed hobby, Norman started to find safe houses to hide out in. To this date, some 15 years later, Norman Bates was never found. He changed locations, changed victim type and hundreds of people were killed throughout the years. Some say he died, some say he is still out there, looking for his next victim, but if one thing has remained the same these past 15 years, it's that everyone stays fearful that they'll be next.

well... it's a good story but I'm not sure why you're re-telling the story of Psycho here... you were to write YOUR family story... hmmm... I'll ask you in class.