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| The Falcon | ||||||||||||||||||||||
| Man, is this lame or what? A seventeen year old guy writing a journal. I don't even know how to start. The whole thing is Mrs. Robinson's idea. She's making us write a practice essay for our college applications at the end of this quarter, because we have to write one for real next fall when we're seniors. She's making a big deal out of it because she says its getting harder and harder to get into college, and colleges are even more interested in essays these days than in SATs... | ||||||||||||||||||||||
| I wonder why colleges are so big on writing? On my list of favorite things to do, writing's down pretty low, I gotta tell you. Not that I actually hate it. I mean, it's not as bad as Spanish or calculus. Now there's a subject that really sucks. | ||||||||||||||||||||||
| The funny thing about writing is, once you get into it, it's not that bad. Believe it or not I had a poem published in a magazine a few years ago. I wrote it when I was fourteen. I still remember it by heart. It's called "The Falcon." | ||||||||||||||||||||||
| As the falcon sits | ||||||||||||||||||||||
| on his lonely perch | ||||||||||||||||||||||
| his heart is soaring | ||||||||||||||||||||||
| through the deep blue sky. | ||||||||||||||||||||||
| He dreams of drifting | ||||||||||||||||||||||
| through the cool, crisp air | ||||||||||||||||||||||
| and seeing things to be. | ||||||||||||||||||||||
| The falcon sits | ||||||||||||||||||||||
| with his head sagging down | ||||||||||||||||||||||
| and his eyes staring up, | ||||||||||||||||||||||
| a chain around his leg. | ||||||||||||||||||||||
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