|  Teen Writing
New Writing by Emma, Maureen, Celia, P.J., and Nicole.
Faith
The difference between Faith and Fact
Is Fact is proven, true and exact
Faith is when you're not sure of the truth
But you still believe though there's no proof
Faith is when you're not quite sure
You question yourself, you feel insecure
Faith is I believe, I hope, it might be
Faith is I trust even though it's unlikely
Faith is pure, strong, and just
Faith is the difference between truth and trust
Emma, Winston Churchill High School
The Truth Is Blood
The ones who effortlessly write
Use words which are hallow and slight
They write with empty utensils
Engrave with pens or pencils
It is easy to write about fluff
but writing something deep is tough
The profound do not write they bleed
they suffer to write and succeed
The words must come from the heart
You must bleed out a work of art
It is very hard and very painful
But so sincere and so gainful
When you finally cease
you will have a beautiful piece
A glorious work of art
That bled straight from your heart
Emma, Winston Churchill High School
Take a Stand
Life is our future, we have to try
Life makes a difference so don't let it slip by
We are the future so don't waste your time deciding
Take time and listen to the words that are guiding
We have a choice to take a stand
brother to sister and women to man
Things may happen with ups and downs
but don't let that affect you ‘cause you can take a stand
We are the people it is written by law
We have a choice to be heard but that's not all
Our founding fathers gave us a right
to take a stand and join the fight with courage and love
We shine like the stars
We the people are a symbol of love
Maureen, Northwest High School
Pencil in Hand
Scritch, scratch.
My pencil in hand,
Paper on desk,
I am ready to begin.
Scritch, scratch.
The ideas begin
In a drizzle:
Slow and small. I sift through,
Looking carefully
For the golden idea.
Finally, I find it!
Scritch, scratch.
My pencil leaps to attention,
Eager,
To begin.
It takes off at a sprint,
Too impatient
To let lumbering thoughts
Catch up.
Scritch, scratch.
I briefly visit fairytale castles,
Knights in shining armor,
And fierce dragons.
Scritch, scratch.
All too soon,
It vanishes,
In a swipe of
The ruthless eraser;
Whisked off
To other strange
People, places, and times.
Scritch, scratch.
My thoughts catch up
With my pencil.
They move in tandem,
And suddenly,
I go faster!
The story flows
Through my expectant hand.
Faster!
The perfect story
Crackles
Like electricity.
Each new idea
Sends a shock
Down my arm.
Scritch, scratch.
The story takes over,
Ever growing.
Silence.
The pencil
Wilts.
It has finished
The race.
Celia, Westland Middle School
Boy in the Woods
As the plane glided through the air, ripping through the trees, out of nowhere,
the pilot crashed into a tree on the shores of a lake in North America. Paul
Roberts had to swim across the swamp. The wings of the plane were torn and
flattened and there was no way a thirteen-year-old boy could repair it himself.
One wing got torn off and had sunk in the lake. Paul was lucky—he had
his .22, and he had hunted with a bow before but had just started shooting
his rifle. He wanted to hunt grouse. When he saw a grouse his mouth watered
as he thought of the meat from the grouse fried in batter that he enjoyed many
times at home.
There were still patches of snow on the ground, and behind a bush Paul
spotted something crashing into the brush. DEER! A deer with red eyes was going
after Paul. Paul started throwing stones and branches, but the deer got even
angrier. Paul moved back and the deer stomped,
ripped and tore at Paul’s jacket until the jacket was torn to shreds
on the ground.
The angry deer snorted and urinated on the tree. Paul saw clearly the deer
was not going after him, it was angry at the tree.
Paul was getting eaten by mosquitoes. Clouds of mosquitoes swarmed over Paul,
filling his nostrils and his eyes, flooding his mouth when he breathed. He
ran into the dark woods. If the mosquitoes would leave, Paul could make a smoldering
fire and the smoke would keep the mosquitoes away.
The woods were swampy, so he set up camp on a mud bank shore. Paul dove into
the muddy water to soothe his mosquito-bitten legs.
That night, Paul speared fish, and tried to make bows and arrows of willow
branches. He needed food and tried his aim at four
Mallard ducks about thirty yards away from a tree branch he was on. Paul
brought his gun to his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. He plucked the
duck clean, roasted it and ate most of it that night. The air was crisp and
clean.
The next day, as Paul hiked on, not even a mile, he saw a grouse. It was sitting
in some willows. Paul caught the slight movement of its head before it froze.
He walked closer and closer until he was no more than ten feet away. He raised
his bow, drew the shaft, pulled, and released. He missed by not more than an
inch; the blunt tip of the arrow was stuck in the soft ground. He fired more
arrows at the grouse and still missed, but the grouse would not move. After
many more tries, Paul speared the bird with an arrow, and a mass of feathers
exploded in his face and the grouse was gone. After having bloody hands, Paul
decided to stick to hunting with his .22.
Paul didn’t have any matches to light a fire but there were plenty of
dead birch trees around for tinder. Birch bark was the quickest way to get
a fire going in swamps. He cocked his gun and stepped off into the swamp. He
sank through the muck and both his boots filled with cold, muddy water. As
he approached tall grass in the mud, something large began coming closer, straight
at Paul. Paul raised his .22; it was a twelve-point buck. The gun fired. The
bullet vanished into its chest, and the buck bled to death. Paul gutted the
carcass and cleaned it out with grass to keep the meat from rotting.
P.J., Rosa Parks Middle School
Changes, Changing..
I'm gonna try...
Try to be who I want to be
Try to not let you bring me down
Try to make my life how I feel it should
Try to be free...
Life comes and goes inside me,
A new person each day.
Summertime, with nothing to do but think...
Think of what I've done to myself.
Think of what I've done to her...
Think of how in a different time and place things would be better or worse.
Summertime means freedom..
We've moved on, better lives await us...
So why do I not want to let go?
Why can't I forget who she was before?
Why is that the only part of her I can remember?
She was a part of me.
But then I lost her.
She cries and weeps.
Day after day,
Night after night,
Because of a guy she left us all for,
Who will undoubtedly break her heart...
Nicole, Northwood High School
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