Teen Pulse

The symptoms are common this time of year. Simply thinking about the fun that freedom will bring once school ends, sweeps the average person into a fantasy world in which giddyness enhabits.
The most devout students find themselves sighing longingly while staring dreamily out a finger-printed window at the scene beginning to bud right in front of their eyes. Every minute seems like an hour as the clock slowly inches toward the beginning of a new adventure.
The only thing keeping teens inside is the reality of school discipline.

Ode to a pencil

Yellow and wooden
plump pink eraser slightly rubbed and smudged with gray.
Layers of light brown wood peeled off of the tip.
A chunk of soft black graphite pokes itself up and shines dully in the light.
A layer of paint is evenly spread.
Dented and scratched
nibbled on from anxiety and impatience leaving indentations of molars in its soft wooden body.
Twirls in fingers, having the potential energy and power to write down any thought any idea, any image, picture,
create any world.
The soft black graphite comes in contact with white crisp paper scratching little gray marks revealing what was once in the mind and laying it before all eyes to see.

The members of the Thoughtful, Encouraging, Rational, Reliable, Optimistic and Realistic Individuals Supporting Tranquility in Society (T.E.R.R.O.R.I.S.T.S) withdrew Osama bin Laden’s title of World Hide-and-Go-Seek Champion May 1.
The title was originally presented to bin Laden in 2004, after many years of hiding from the powerful United States government.
Bill Omb, the chairman of the hide-and-go-seek committee, joked, “Of course Osama wasn’t there to accept his award. He was so good at the game that he would not risk revealing his ultimate hiding spot.”
When asked what he thought of bin Laden’s capture, Omb looked down sadly and sighed.
“I was so disappointed. Not only was he found, but he cheated!”

The Artist:
A Form Poem

I created her from nothing:
A heap of empty leaves.
I planned her night and morning;
Of notes, I wrote out sheaves.

An outline on the anvil:
That rough, imperfect start.
I planned her night and day, until
She nearly broke my heart.

At last I planned her just so;
Every detail written right.
I heated the ore ‘til it gave a glow;
Beginning was in sight.

I pulled the lump of shining ore;  
The pen unleashed my mind.
Useless slag pooled on the floor;
Bad ideas left behind.

I took a hammer in my hand;
Pen in my firm grasp.