A Self Portrait Poem with a Clearing and a Brook

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is what I wrote in a writing class I took at Truman State University over the summer of 2011.

Submitted: October 19, 2011

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Submitted: October 19, 2011



I sit upon my rock.

It is smooth, but rough.

Soft but hard,

Cold but warm.


I am thinking,

Thinking about my story

A story that started here.

It is a story with my heart.


The trees whisper inspiration.

The flowers speak of meaning.

The sun talks of life

My heart and mind want feeling.


This is my own little world.

It is there when I need it.

The little brook calling my name.


 My name, what is it,

I have been here too long.

I can’t remember.

But I cannot leave.


The little brook cries in my absence

It sparkles like diamonds when I stay,

But becomes murky when I leave.


I can’t leave, for the flowers die.

They continue speaking when I stay

 But shrivel when I leave.


The trees, filled with birds beg me to stay.

When I leave, so do the birds.

The birds sing louder and the trees higher

When I stay


My rock longs for me when I leave

It seems so warm when I stay.

 But when I truly leave it cracks


The sun wishes me to stay awhile longer.

It shines brighter with my coming and staying

The clearing seems so dark as I leave.



I wish I could stay, I really do.

I can write more and for a longer time.

I get words of wisdom from the animals.


When I look at my reflection in the brook.

The brook changes my appearance to a character.

Though I always see the same base.


Ordinary girl with an average body,

She has brown hair with hints of red and gold,

She has blue eyes with hints of yellow, green, and purple.


On some days her hair has a lot of gold.

Or it’s super long or short.

It’s straight, wavy, or even curly

Up or down.


Some days she has color in her face

Others it is pale, almost sickly.

Sometimes its sun burnt.


Sometimes her eyes are a clear sky blue,

Or they’re almost green

I’ve even seen them black before.

One thing always startles me though.

She is never smiling.


Is she never happy?

Is that her average facial expression?

Does she have anything to make her happy?


These are questions I constantly ask myself.

Why does the brook create this figure?

Is he lonely, does he want a friend?


I will never know.

He won’t tell me.

I would like to think he was happy.


I would hate to think that they were sad.

Maybe I should stay a few minutes longer.

I think that would make them happy.


But I know that the longer I stay,

 The harder it is to let go.

Every second I stay the harder it is to leave.

I should leave.

But I can’t

I know that I will be back later.


But all I can think about is.

‘What if they won’t let me back?’

‘What if I’m not welcome?’


I love my little clearing,

No one can find me here.

It makes me feel better.


What will I do when I leave?

I wonder. Just listen!

I know you don’t want me to leave.


You are my inspiration.

You keep it just the right temperature.

Just the right light, the right setting.


I would hate to leave.

Yes, don’t think I don’t.

I would stay here forever,



The crisp clean air,

The soft grass under my toes,

The smell of the flowers,

The cool feeling of clean water,

 The sun on my back,

The trees to climb,

The baby animals of all kinds and shape.


But I am missing some very important things.

I don’t have any human company.

I have no food.


No, I will not eat you roses.

I know you droop from your tree.

You are too pretty to eat.


Fine I will stay.

 But when the sun has gone

So will I.



Just hear me out.

I do care but I am human.

I need to eat.


As the sun goes down,

The flowers droop,

The brook becomes murky,

The sun cries,

The birds are slowly leaving,

My stone becomes cold,


It makes me sad,

 I fear of crying before them all.


If they saw me cry

They would talk me into staying.

Knowing that they could,

I turn and start walking down the little path.


I can hear the clearing calling.

Wishing for me to come back,

I can feel the tear fall.

Just as it hits the ground

A little stream forms.


It makes me happier.

Just to know that the brook,

The poor lonely brook,

Just may get a friend.


Most wonder where I go,

When I leave for my hideout.

Some even know that it’s impossible,

Impossible to get to,

Because my hideout, meadow,

Clearing, or whatever you call it,

Is hidden within



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