#creative writing example

[misstreadlightly-blog]

Bitterness is not sweet

I have been growing increasingly bitter. Where does this foul root grows from? This emotion is completely foreign to me and to be completely honest, I find it difficult to cope with.

A new friend told me recently I seem like a "caged bird." This broke my heart, as you can imagine. I have always viewed myself as someone beyond bounds, uninhibited by others. But I agreed with him. I do feel like a caged bird. I felt defeated.

Maybe being bitter is a symptom of feeling trapped. But why do I feel trapped when I am about be launched into a new direction of life? It seems paradoxical. Which is exactly how I feel in most parts of my life--polarized, at ends. I have been bouncing between ecstatic and depressed. Lonely and socially overwhelmed. Sleepless nights. Over sleeping. Over eating. No eating. This is the truth.

This ping-pong effect is exhausting. And with each day I feel my self slowly loosening my grip on everything I thought I was and more welcoming to everything I am fated to be. 

I just hope that person isn't bitter. I just hope I am not transforming from a wild brumby to a broken down mare. 

That is not in my blood.

[thegirlwhowantedtobeapuffin-blog]

The Bumbleless Orange Bumble Bee

"You will need to provide previous examples of your written work, which demonstrates your flair for words, imagination and creativity". Well,  this poem is my first example - there'll be more to come. 

The Bumbleless Orange Bumblebee

Imagine if you will

What it is to be,

A harmless buzzing, bumbling bee.

But for some bees to bumble is supplementary,

For example The Bumbleless

Orange Bumble Bee.

Orange he is,

But a  bee he still be.

Never he does bumble,

And why you shall see.

For a bee who bumbles,

Can make only honey.

Stripes on his back,

Yellow and black.

Not so for The Bumbleless

Orange Bumble bee.

Amongst the colonies,

He was easy to see,

Scorned by his fellows,

For not being yellow,

Stung by their mockery

He bumbled solitary,

For a year and a day.

Until he worked himself into an utter tizz-wuzz,

He tizzed and wuzzed until he started to buzz.

‘Buzz Buzz,’ buzzed the bee, ‘I’ll

bumble no more’.

Buzzing invigorated, he formed a plan.

If I can’t make honey, I’ll get into jam.

But the Robertson’s men, they laughed

They scoffed at his plan;

Whoever heard of a bee making jam?

But this time the mockery stung not at all,

For as he buzzed and not bumbled,

He finally saw -

He was a bee blessed by his unusual shade,

For an orange bee, of course, makes marmalade.