Considering I will pick one, I’m balancing which would be more useful versus fun. Entrepreneurial would certainly be useful. I can see it being creative and fun. I mean, being an entrepreneur means starting your own business from scratch and being your own boss. Keeping a business like that takes a lot of creativity. So I think I’ll be okay, just as long as it doesn’t get all technical business lingo-y on me; that’d just be downright scary.

Writing, however, I would probably pick mostly creative writing classes since that’s what I enjoy the most. I would love to take some Creative Writing classes or Intermediate Poetry. But writing can also be useful. So many people don’t know how to communicate effectively with the written word. Or their grammar makes them sound like they’ve just graduated from Primary school. Just the other day, someone posted on facebook, “I don’t want to go to class either but I already have went to one.” That makes my die a little inside, each time I read that.

Anyway, writing is a big part of communicating properly on the internet. You can’t be there to explain your services to someone on your website, so you have to be good at communicating effectively in writing without getting too long, or complex. I tend to be a little bit long winded (as I probably am here, but it’s my blog and I’ll rant if I want to), or I can’t think of enough to fill the space.

Winding down, I still can’t decide. I think next semester I will start some Intro classes for each and maybe that will help me decide. Until then, any input from readers would be great! Anything I’m forgetting to consider, ideas, opinions, your experience with college minors? Thanks!

Now, my heart, straining against it’s cage
desperately wanting to love you,
needing to love you with all it can.
Taking every grasp of you it can get
through these bars that you are slowly crumbling
with your beauty, wonder, and patience.
I am grateful for each and every shred of moments
we share, my heart fluttering and racing to live it more.
Every word of your tenderness and soothing voice,
better than the most expensive oils on my skin.
And each thought and idea we share,
like flames of our passions,
licking and merging together in my mind,
to form a brighter fire.
When we meet,
a blaze will come that shall never be put out.
What we have now are merely embers,
to what we can hold together.

repeating thoughts swirling around eddies

like a lost fish swimming in circles,

stuck in his fishbowl.

.

These ideas want to control me,

but I won’t let this cloud

of flowery romanticism catch me,

even though the side effects

of writing sappy poetry

in scripted handwriting

have already set in.

.

Then in a moment of lucidity

the poem is carefully and elegantly

scribbled out,

almost in regret of having to do so

but the idea is already there.

.

My efforts of avoiding these ideas

have been ruined

by writing them down once more.

This is the vicious cycle of a single lover

attempting to breathe underwater

alone.

_____________

Just a little something I wrote a while ago. I still like it so I thought I’d post it. I know most people don’t like or read poetry, but I hope someone enjoys it.

In my scramble to write down the words that came to me, I opened a web page and started writing. I got it all typed down and I copied it to my clipboard but somehow between opening a new document to save it and closing the web page, I lost it.  And to my dismay, there is no clipboard history (there really should be) so it was completely gone.

Now, thanks to modern technology I was able to buy the song from iTunes via my iPod Touch and listen to it on repeat while writing what I remembered of the poem on paper this time. I also ended up skipping my boring science class to do this. Well worth it I think. Later, I went back and did my usual editing process with about three different revisions which brought it to where it is now.

Click the link to listen to the song that inspired this all while you read the poem.

Welcome Home, Son by Radical Face

Lovers and a Pretty Song

When you hear a pretty song,
it’s like getting an unexpected hug from behind
by an unexpected lover.
You look up and smile at their face
and you see yourself, brighter than before.
They smile back and you feel warmer,
as you forget your fears from yesterday.
“Welcome home,” they whisper.
And there’s a new smile on your face
as you examine your radical feelings inside.
And the choir remains singing,
as the invisible lover leaves your back,
leaving you with their breath on your neck
and their imaginary scent,
drifting from memory.

When you hear that pretty song,
it’s like getting an unexpected hug from behind
by an invisible lover.
You look up and smile at the cloudy sky
and see your day, brighter than before.
The sun smiles back and you feel warm
as you forget the fears from yesterday.
“Welcome home,” the wind seems to whisper.
And there’s a smile on your face
as you look at the radical new colors in your world.
And the choir remains to sing
as the invisible lover leaves your back,
leaving you with the breeze on your neck
and the effervescent scent of summer,
drifting away.

Okay, so I had trouble uploading audio so I’m linking you to a site where I could upload it. It’s not my preference, but I’ll figure it out later if I ever post audio again. LISTEN HERE.

Thanks!

Trolley - New Orleans by Robert Frank

While reading an article for class, I found a line describing this photograph that said, “The trolley riders seem to be eternally held within the vehicle, a group of strangers thrown together to journey down the same road,….” That inspired the first two lines to my response which I felt has turned out to work best as a poem. I have yet to hear back if a poem is an accepted response for the assignment. I hope it is since I kind of like this poem, even if it’s not my best.

Ode to My Fellow Bus Riders
1/11/2009

We are all strangers thrown together
to journey down the same road.
Yet all different, no one knowing the other,
we are all the same as we share this experience together.

We are consumed by ourselves,
awkwardly avoiding each other’s glances,
listening to our music and texting on our cell phones,
on a selfish and lonely bus ride.

Only looking up to glance at new riders,
we don’t see the real person,
just faces that cover them.
Maybe breaking the barrier
and smiling at that cute someone.
But we mostly judge them,
then pretend not to care
as they pass us
to struggle for the few remaining seats.

We all get on the bus
trying to meet and exceed expectations,
giving an image of ourselves
that we hope will express who
and what we want people to see in us.
But when all we do is ignore others,
what right do we have to expect that
we won’t be ignored either?