Simile and Metaphor

A simile is when you use like or as in sentence. An example of a simile is in a poem below.
I want to be free

I want to be free
Like a kite, Dancing in the sky.

I want to be free
Like a wind, Blowing over the sky.

I want to be free
Like a balloon, Going up to the sky.

I want to be free
Like a plane, Roaming above the sky.

I want to be free
Like a bird, Flying trough the morning sky.

I want to be free
Like a cloud, Trampling trough the mild sky.
I want to be free
Like a sun, Watching the world from the sky.

I want to be free
Like a moon, Hanging and smile in the dark sky..

I want to be free
Like a rainbow, Darting high to the sky..

I want to be free
Like a child, Dreaming about the endless sky..

To be free; Wondering about the sky. 

A simile is an important part of literature because its describes how the writer sees the object by comparing it to another object while using like or ast. When the reader sees that then they would understand what the writer is trying to describe to them.


Metaphor is a comparison without using like or as. An example of a metaphor is below.

Peace

The wind is now

a roaring, smashing

monster of destruction,

raking all man's work

from the valleys,

from the vales,

and sends them spinning,

broken flying -

but all of that is

not its core,

its center is in truth

eternal stillness

bright blue skies

and all you hear

are gentle whispers

far away

and unimportant.

A metaphor is an important part to literature because its the same as with simile, just that it describes the object or person more simple without using like or as.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

   Without the voice of Dr.King, people back then and all of us today would be suffering. In the night before Dr.King died he said, "But I want you to know tonight that we as people will get to the promised land." Dr.king hoped and believed that sooner or later things were going to change at least the way he would want it knowing his death was near. If Dr.king came to my classroom tomorrow he would be proud about what he had accomplished and sacrificed for but a bit upset about the errors people are making now.
   What he really wanted was for all people to be equal. No matter what race, color, or religion you are, we were all human beings. Back then people was not treated equally among each other and Dr.King wanted to change that. At the end he had accomplished what he had wanted. For all people to be treated equally. That is something that Dr.King would be proud from his accomplishments  if he had still been alive today.

   People now are making somewhat of errors through out their lives. Something that Dr.King would not like. There are people who do not behave, let their pants sag, graffiti all over the place, more violence. Usually most of the actions people make reflects them selves. People sagging their pants is not really something that someone would consider as "cool". That is just disgusting and pretty sure Dr.King would feel the same. I am sure that if Dr.King would see something that is not right, he would make sure he would stop it just how he was willing to give people equal rights.
   Dr.King played his part and now its time to play ours. In order to make it to the promised land we must try our best to fix the problems that we are currently having now around the world. It is our turn now to make a huge difference just like how Dr.King did. If we do nothing then we will definitely not make it to the promised land and live our life all miserably. If Dr.King came to my classroom he would be proud but a bit upset but I also have a feeling that he would believe that there would be someone to make a difference.
 

Hyperbole in a poem

What is a Hyperbole and why is it an important part of writing?

Hyperbole is when you exaggerate the way you feel about something. Hyperbole is an important part of writing because it expresses how the writer sees or feels about the object or person. Like it would help you imagine more of what the writer is trying to tell you. An example of hyperbole is underlined in a poem below.

Three days into the journey

I lost the Inca Trail

and scrambled around the Andes

in a growing panic

when on a hillside below snowline

I met a farmer who pointed the way--

Machu Picchu allá, he said.

He knew where I wanted to go.

From my pack I pulled out an orange.

It seemed to catch fire

in that high blue Andean sky.

I gave it to him.

He had been digging in a garden,

turning up clumps of earth,

some odd, misshapen nuggets,

some potatoes.

He handed me one,

a potato the size of the orange

looking as if it had been in the ground

a hundred years,

a potato I carried with me

until at last I stood gazing down

on the Urubamba valley,

peaks rising out of the jungle into clouds,

and there among the mists

was the Temple of the Sun

and the Lost City of the Incas.

Looking back now, all these years later,

what I remember most,

what matters to me most,

was that farmer, alone on his hillside,

who gave me a potato,

a potato with its peasant face,

its lumps and lunar craters,

a potato that fit perfectly in my hand,

a potato that consoled me as I walked,

told me not to fear,

held me close to the earth,

the potato I put in a pot that night,

the potato I boiled above Machu Picchu,

the patient, gnarled potato

I ate.