We had to do poetry for my creative writing class. Please hang with me, as this is the first time I've written poetry since like high school or something. And that was just the random assignments. As always, comments welcome.
Blue was on the left wrist
Blue was for identification
Told the nurses his name and birthday
So they knew what to call him
But in the halls they just said “the attempt”
Purple was on the right wrist
Purple was NO KNOWN DRUG ALLERGIES
Told the doctors they could give him any and all drugs
Put into his body whatever they wanted
Because his heart no longer cared
Orange was on the left wrist
Orange was blank
Told everyone he could not leave
Marked him as a “risk to himself”
And gave voice to the pain in his eyes
Orange was on the right wrist
Orange was blank
Told everyone, no sharps, no chapstick, no shoelaces allowed
A bracelet the color of a convict’s jumpsuit
Said so much without any words
Blue, Purple, Orange and Orange
Against his pale skin
Lying limp in a hospital bed
Dull eyes grey with pain
Avoiding every other gaze
His life reduced to four colors
This is the first thing I actually wrote specifically for my creative writing class. It is supposed to be a character description of a person you know, or someone you write about. I actually sort of like it, but as always, comments are welcome.
His name was James Fredrick Sahldtrom. He never went by Jim, Jimbo, or Jimmy because that would imply that he was less than serious. If, after having a few conversations with him, someone mentioned to you that he was an only child, you would give a knowing “oh, that explains it.” What it exactly is, I am unsure, but he always had an air of great self importance.
He was about 5 11” and one hundred and thirty pounds. This gave him a seemingly small stature. There was nothing small about him though, as further evidence will prove. His hair was a color no one could ever define. I’m not even sure his driver’s license knew what to say. It was a gold/brown with enough red to put it out of any possible category. His eyes were also a color no one could ever recall. They were light, not brown, but an indefinable shade of blue, green, and hazel. These elements combined did not make a handsome person, indeed he bore an odd resemblance to Sid the sloth from the movie Ice Age. They did however, draw your eye in an striking mixture of oddities.
His personality was a series of opposites. He had a habit of never listening to anything you told him, and he constantly forgot his promises. He never called when he said he would, and never arrived where he was supposed to. However, he picked up on very random details. Something you had casually mentioned in conversation once, when he was doing homework and watching TV, was something he would remember and bring up in another conversation weeks later. His recall was excellent, but only for which pez dispensers he had yet to collect, or for what your childhood dog’s name was. His image was important to him, yet he never had a distinct image in anyone’s mind. No matter how many people he ticked off, they all still wanted to be friends with him.
I suppose one of the best ways to describe him would be an example of his character. He had very strong morals when it came to women, children and animals. He was a large supporter of never hitting women, etc. However, he never seemed to mind emotionally scarring them. (I met a number of those.) One night his roommate (slightly intoxicated) became angry with me. His roommate shoved me into their pantry with enough force to knock me to the ground. James came out of his bedroom to find me on the floor crying and after discerning the situation, pushed his roommate away from me into the other bedroom and threatened his life should he come near me again. His roommate was six four, and had about eighty pounds on James. He had also been James’ best friend since grade school. Some people would have looked upon the situation and thought that it was a testament to the friendship James and I had. However, to really know James, a person has to know his motive for such an action. It was not me he was defending that night. It was his own morals, or what he thought he should have as morals. It could have been any girl on that floor, it didn’t matter that it was his friend of three years. It wasn’t an act of selfless friendship, but rather a show of what society told him he should do in the situation. In typical James fashion, he walked me up to my own apartment, promised to check on me the following day, and promptly forgot about me until about a week later when he needed some milk. The irony that struck me the hardest was that he had somehow forgotten that three years prior he had struck me himself one night. It had partially been an accident, but he never condemned himself for that as he condemned the rest of the world.