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Writing like Whitman
I lay upon my bed in metastasizing thought-
wondering about the window that shields me from the world.
How does a sheet of glass act as such a powerful source of security to my indulgent self?
For it has no idea just show shield-like
I am allowing it to be.
I am alive in a place where magic surrounds us,
With emerald green trees and pale colors of sky.
And I am sighing with relief knowing that life grants me the opportunity to live in a place other
than my head.
How flawless it looks through this glass and how perfectly arranged the trees look
in alignment to humanity.
It is as if each plant, each person, are tediously placed in a game of chess.
Each with a promise, each with a purpose.
But, looks can be deceiving; so is it truly all that perfect?
Yes, for imperfections is perfection.
We see this among the picturesque that is obtained when trees reach their dying end.
We see this among the caterpillars that disappear for weeks, and then return in elegance and
beauty.
Why do so little realize the infinite miracles around us?
Minds agonize over petty things,
People will extinguish the fire in their eyes after their first encounter with hindrance.
Stress and hatred floods hearts until emotions spill out like a tsunami.
Mindlessly pacing in a fast-moving world, people trample over nature’s beauty,
missing every worthy moment in their time.
Yet, how do they not know that someday, they too will be under the grass that they so hastily
step on?
Their soul and body will too, become one with nature when their time is up.
The moon is our universal clock.
Every night, it visits to tell you that another day has passed by.
And every morning leaves, to remind you that you will never know how many more times you
get to see it again.
So treat everything with care! Leave doors open to welcome any adventure, no matter how cold
the wind may blow!
Smile at those that have done you wrong, and nod at those that spite you.
Treat every person you encounter as if they are a stretched out rubber band; prone to snap at any
moment.
You will never know of the catastrophes that explode in someone's heart.
Nor of the love that comforts them like a blanket.
We are strangers to everyone but ourselves, no matter how see-through their heart may look.
So withhold your judgement.
Do not assume one does not know the intelligence you carry so high on your shoulders.
Do not laugh in the face of someone whose heart could be bursting at the seams.
Do not smash the flowers, or the weeds for that matter.
For we all live under the same moon...
And you never know when that may change.
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I was given an assignment to write my phiolosphy on life in the same style that Walt Whitman did in his poem, Song of Myself. This is the result.