Oak Park Library is currently closed and will re-open on Monday, Dec. 18 at 9 a.m.
You may think that color paints the Earth, but really you're wrong.
The things we say have been the culprits all wrong
Take this book, take a look inside,
Don't you see the things we should use with pride?
They fill our hearts, our minds, our soul,
chorus
What if the world had peace,
no one in the world would have to sleep wit a piece,
i need to find inter peace,
the peace that’s inside of me.
we all need peace it’s what provides for thee,
Creating worlds
The writer does
Is it not?
Conveying a message
With interconnected words
And a simple plot
A thousand ideas
A single pen
The writer has at hand
Yet nothing goes
Onto the blank page
Even at his command
What do you see,
when you look at me?
Do you see my different ethnicities?
I’m Mexican
I’m French
I’m White
TO claim one any of,
Those aren’t quite right
I was born on american land
Therefore I am American
A lonely tear gently drifted its way down my cheek. I wasn’t sure if it was because my rabbit, Hopper, had just died, or because my brother, standing next to me, was also crying.
I stared at the adorable stuffed plush donkeys on the shelf. “Do you think I should get one for Tommy?” my aunt asked me, thinking about adding another plushy to her dog’s collection. We were in line for the cable cars in Santorini.
Zachary sighed and put a hand to his forehead. He took off his glasses and rested his head on his arm, wishing he could find even one decent actor.
An ordinary villager was he
Poor and only twenty-three
His name was Benjamin
And the princess’s heart he wished to win.
The Princess he so wanted to have
But knowing his chances, he grew sad
My big brother was shot and killed late night October 17th
At a house party just relaxing trying to do his thing
Got into an Altercation but decided to walk away
But the oppose continued agitating all out of his rage
The congregation; working actors, writers, dancers, and painters looking for inspiration
The ministry; museum curators, storytellers, and teachers that spread the word
The saints; those who made sacrifices for art’s sake and are forever embedded in history
How do some falsely proclaim to
lie down to sleep in prayer, with a
right heart and mind.
And yet they arise with anger and
strife. Storming with hatred, even
though the sun is bright and shining.
Their soul is black as night.
In that worn book
With its black etched pages
Scribble marked paths
You chose through the ages
Even paqes wished forgotten
Outnumber those loved
Paper winqs ripped out
And thrown flittering up above
Maybe, you will realize
Later in a day
Behold the cage in the papers lines
Where history will stay behind
A prison for my free thoughts
Where my free words are being caught
In my wonder for my own ways
I wonder where my words will stay
Nine in the morning
And the crack between us widens.
A low rumbling starts in my chest
Where my heart used to be,
Growing louder and stronger until
I’m shaking
With silent rage.
They say I write to escape
That I let the words flow like droplets of water
Swept along in a strong current
Tumbling
Gushing
To get away.
The world is a spinning ball of darkness when there is no light.
The answers are hidden in a lying mess when there is no truth.
The happiness is crying mournful tears when there is no joy.
The bravery is retreating from its fears when there is no strength.
I’m looking for a trash can,
I’m looking for a broom.
I need to get a move on
I have to leave this place soon.
But I can’t find the door anymore
I can’t leave this place,
Cause of all the mess I’ve made
Caught up in the chase.
With such dexterity I make a world of my own.
Only here can I hew my imagination with intense zeal
To create greater imagination.
Here we see a prodigy that is us.