This Is Me

Not only is it a privilege to teach but a job to learn. Employment should be accessed with passion, not simply intent to earn…                                                                                                                               - Boneata Bell  

I recently had the pleasure of interviewing my amazing friend, Laurence. This is my article. Journalism style. Enjoy. :) Laurence Paul Short is a young man from England. He has many inspirations that all lead him to one ambition; to one day be a professional sports commentator. He hopes to do this by studying professional writing at degree level, followed by working his way through the ranks of journalism. Among his inspirations is Jim Ross; a WWE Hall of Fame star, professional sports commentator. Laurence feels that he is a 'legend' as despite multiply strokes he has continued to work within the career that he loves. Laurence also feels that despite the public love of the stereotypical body, Ross is quite a largely built man but he is a huge success. From the age of eight, Laurence would visit his cousins in London where they would play games and practise live commentary, beginning his love of wrestling and goal to become something like his inspiration. Jim Ross is

    The argument is... inevitable.     The season took her shape with grace, heat grew, sunshine embraced. The season took her shape with woe, with grey footsteps in the snow...   The season took her charming form, dark skyline now transformed. The season took her shape with glee, with raindrops setting flowers free.   The season took a form so pure with heat radiating from the core. The season took a form so true, clouds so grey but sky so blue...   The season took a form of art, rainbows warming every heart. The season took a form so knew. There's no mistaking, her from you.   The season cast a sunrise shine, upon a world of yours and mine. The season then she rained so wet. You cannot please the frown so set. The season she, with smile live. Cast her ray of red sunrise. The sunshine she, with laughing spark, gave a simple true remark. 'You cannot save the pen from ink, so why save water from the sink?'.   Poetry by Boneata Bell. P

I took the hand of the man most wanted. He kissed my palm, with somewhat happy lips. Happy lips for a man on death row I find Myself pondering.   He didn't do it. I know that - you hear that every day. People claiming innocence. With blood stains clearly staining Underneath their fingernails.   But Jason didn't do it. Not this time. He is a good man. We are sitting alone now Within the walls of a cell - a perk of having Connections within the police department. Perks. I laugh a little at that.   I am carrying our baby, eight months old. I half expected to miscarry Under the influence of stress related Continuous death-daring-seeking violence. We have named her Liberty.   To count for irony in a bottle. She kicks now. She kicks life into a deadly world. He sits within the electric chair. I can feel his life draining from his body. That is

Glitter exploded, a fountain in the sky. Picturesque perfection by & by. Imagination tainted with ink-blue.  It's what I see, when I see you.

A petal fell from roots so strong, toward a ground with helpless weeds - combined between both good and bad,she succumed to evil deeds... With kisses lost between each flame, the petal took the depth of blame. With legacy intact and tame, good and bad became the same... ... Forevermore the lesson learnt, will tell a tale of morals burnt. Between the state of disbelief. The Devil spread his black mischief...                                                            - Boneata Bell

I have been sat facing a blank screen for about thirty minutes. A few times I have started a sentence, winced, and erased it. I am finding it difficult to merge the chaotic blizzard in my head with the calm beating of my heart. I wonder how it can be so strong in rhythm whilst my silent voice is screaming in my ears. I am currently out of words. I have topics, I have pictures, I even have the existence of the unknown and the creative dream-like state of my own imaginings, but nothing that seems worthy of publication. I altered the way in which I viewed the room in which I am sitting; the television so loudly strangling my lungs, mother and father watching it with eager eyes, and a picture of two sleeping dogs. The fire is off, two candles alight. I see the room with little delight. So change the channel on my glasses. I read again, to view two tiny puppies playing on a floor, Yorkshire Terriers, one only six weeks into a life upon Earth, the other one year older. He is nuzzling he

Lime green. A line of silk, Each movement Perspiration on her brow. She stopped to think, Of then and now.   Garnet red, A circle of black, Each footstep, A journey to carry her back, She paused between tree, And flew to be free.   Sunset yellow, A stripe of grey. Each sting A threatening act of display. He paused without care, Causing then a destruction.   Hazel brown. A soft skin of molten. Each crawl So prepared, Without flaw, Without falter. He stopped to see. Eight eyes next to me.   Queen King. Smaller than stone, And roaming alone. As the human evolves, Stays new does the wig.   And - It takes something small, To carry the big.   Boneata Bell 07/02/2013

I began a journey. One of self reflection and the continuous self destructing battle. A journey of belief, overcoming the wrongs and hitting the 'rights' with fist first newly sharpened arrows. It made me stop. Considering the doubts. Knowledge. The atmosphere surrounding the aspect of to be and not to be. A question often considered. A question yet, left so neatly avoided. Surrounded by a castle, seagulls crying to a sync of hyena laughter. Thoughts a distant illusion. Happiness felt yet altered. One moment in a passion of happiness, a tender hand and soft, cushion soft deep white tanned skin, I faltered. A palm became a fist. A fist became a palm. A palm became a fist. I landed face first in a sand so full of grit and stone - my picture perfect skin became the picture of her devil's daughter. I cried. Sat one moment in the company of love, another in the company of laughter. Technology a sin of mis-communication and anticipation. A rock too hard, a stone too smooth.