My Conflict (Poetry vs. Short Story)

Over the years, my endeavors in writing has taught me many lessons. Lessons that range from grammar and punctuation to style and the fundamentals of building a story. In many of the writing classes that I have taken, professors have required me to write a short story and/or poetry at any given time. I wish, on many occasions, that my professor would give me the choice between the two, because if I was to choose between poetry and a short story, without a doubt, I would choose the ladder.

It has come to my conclusion that my strong point, when it comes to fiction writing, is stories. Conversely, my weak point is poetry. Now, my difficulties in poetry are only weak in the sense that I don't really get the understanding of most peoples poetry. On the other hand, I can definitely write and understand my own work. I believe I can be rather good at it at times also, but it doesn't come to me as natural as writing a story would--that's where my problem arises.

I don't think my feelings on the subject will change anytime soon, if it changes at all, but I do hope I can find more of an understanding and appreciation for the art of poetry.

In any case, I chose to post a poem of mine that I wrote recently. I also plan to share it in class.

Hopefully you will enjoy what's in The Mind of Eldon.

The Darkness

A child cries retched screams of pain
Abandoned by a soulless mother
Sitting deadly alone in a corner of a room
Four walls erased by everlasting darkness
Shivers bring no warmth
Coldness breaks the body’s natural ability to heat
Locking tightly; closely
No hope of a key; a savior for release from bondage
Unending floods of desolation plummets
Fear increasingly eradicates the senses
Breathing becomes heavy, light, heavy, light
No air—just despair, agony, turmoil, hurt
Eyes are open or closed? No, open; no, must be closed
Sense of sight is unequivocally paralyzed
The void is intense
A continuation of endless screams brings forth no resolution
Screams go unanswered

Walls begin to move
A steady push on all sides showing no signs of end
Forced slowly by four great hands; one on each wall
Immense pressure on the sum of the back
A chilling panic
Closing fascinatingly tighter
Visions of a dove, purest of white
Soaring high and swooping low
Long magnificent wings of glory
Feathers smooth; beak hard
Eyes fiery; legs unseen in its descent to rescue its child
The walls begin to squeeze punishment
The child is small, weak, and fragile
The dove draws close, ever closer
Nearer—the dove, the key, the savior, the mother

But wait! Can I be saved?

Deafening screams
Pain, tears, loneliness, cold, the blackness
Is there any means to salvation out of the destruction of my self-inflicted pain?
My mind is deceptive; it plays cruel tricks on me
I can’t find tranquility within it
I am trapped within its four walls and the endless darkness of misery
No light
Mother, please help me