On Writing (+ a little poem)

Today, I would like to share something different. My blog is, for all intents and purposes, a food blog… but my vision for it is so much more. I want to try different kinds of posts: lifestyle/reflections/etc and so I would like to share a little piece I wrote. So here’s the thing- ever since I was little I was an avid reader- I DEVOURED books and fell completely in love with characters and stories and it all inspired to me one day write my own novel. I just don’t know if that will ever happen, haha. And I don’t say that to be a debbie-downer or rain on anyone’s dreams. I just don’t think *I* personally have the time and patience to write an entire novel. I do write. Sometimes instead of working on an essay I’ll pull up a Word doc and start writing…usually if I get a random burst of inspiration (and of course it happens right before an exam when I should be studying). But it’s so difficult for me to come up with an entire plot! So I kind of have turned to poetry.

ANYWAYS- I wanted to share a a poem I wrote that kind of stemmed from a class assignment and I guess based on the theme it’s pretty timely since my Spring Break has just begun (also pretend it’s winter cause when I wrote this it was freezing outside and now it’s so warm out).

Feel free to leave feedback cause I hate stuffy/forced/cheesy or just plain bad writing and I would hate it if my writing came off like that and there’s always room for improvement, right?
So here it is:
Her Happiness
Long week, hard days-
itโ€™s Friday evening, finally
She strips the stuffy layers of corporate off of her-
her prim, gray pencil skirt, and her starched, white blouse
are on the floor-
she breathes.
her fireplace roars against the chilly, biting wind from outside
she wraps herself in the blanket her mother made for her,
nestled in nostalgia.
Cup of hot cocoa in hand, swirled to the top with whipped cream, dotted with tiny marshmallows,
And a drizzle of chocolate for good measure.
The fireplace, fully ablaze now, beckons,
cup of cocoa in hand, and Jane Austen in the other
She nestles in nostalgia.
To her, this is happiness. Happiness, finally.
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5 thoughts on “On Writing (+ a little poem)

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