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Other Forms of Creative Writing


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Alex Medina Alex Medina Male, 17, United States (11/19/2012 2:18:00 PM)

This is an informal essay, however, I like to call it a creative writing piece. I was assigned the task to take an everyday, superficial event and make it into something deep and meaningful. I think this is one of the most powerful pieces I've ever written, and I would very much appreciate receiving your thoughts/ feelings. Hope you like it!

Shattered Soul Cemented Whole


I remember eighth grade. My friends and I had Ms. Rogan as our English teacher. The nauseating topic of poetry was important in that year’s curriculum. Ms. Rogan often assigned us sheets of poetry to interpret. Other times she’d make us write our own poems. We tried studying different forms and literary devices used for poetry. Similes, metaphors, alliteration, repetition, personification, hyperboles, imagery, irony, onomatopoeias, tone, rhythm, rhyme, sonnets, and iambic pentameters razed the walls of my sanity. I absolutely despised poetry, and I cursed whoever began the innovation.
I was always one with creative ideas, and I never really found ways to release them. I began writing stories, due to inspiration from a great friend. I grew to adore sharing my ideas with friends, and I loved the encouragement. Most of all, I loved releasing my inner self.
Being a teenager can be difficult, and we can be overwhelmed by our studies, families, friends, and of course, crushes. I was feeling overwhelmed one day, and I wanted a healthy solution to rid myself of my pressurized, concentrated emotions. Writing down my ideas in the form of a story simply wasn’t enough, nor did it release my feelings. Without thinking, I wrote down how I felt in a format full of rhythm and rhyme. Before I knew it, I had myself my first poem, my first step to a long and painful journey of self-growth.
A devastating event tore through my insides, pulling apart the foundations of what I was, my very essence. Soon, an internal war between two colossal powers began with the collision of what was right and what was wrong. Two halves of one whole met in a mental plane of confusion, doubt and weakness. And so, a darker person was born. This person fed on the pain of others, and willed the energies of sadness, anger and hatred.
I struggled with life. I was my most powerful enemy. I soon discovered a weapon that would help me rise from the expanding void of consuming darkness. What better use for poetry than to combat my emotional instability?Constant was the pain, the tugging of my malevolent shadow. Poetry poured out from my soul, its words and strength pounding my enemy with cascading might. Despite my best efforts, poetry as my solace would not last. My enemy told me I would never rise from the dark vacancy of my self-destruction, and I believed it. No way out.
No way out.
A single beam of light dispersed my lonely, enshrouding mist. Looking skyward, I took the hand offered to me. Letting the godsend guide me, I saw the world from which I fell. I opened my eyes and they all stood there together, smiling at me.
And for the first time in two years, I smiled back.
After they helped me along my path, I realized a power far greater than my deadliest weapon. My writing was formidable, no doubt, but it didn’t lead me away from my eternal agony, or help me realize who I am. My writing didn’t save me from myself.
Friendship did.

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