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Literature Text
We cry.
We scream.
We fight for our dream.
We scream.
We cry.
We're just waiting to die.
The same emotions
with a different drive.
Sometimes dead, sometimes alive.
The same in one way,
different in another
brother and sister, sister and brother.
So close in feeling,
so different in the end.
Falling apart, or finally on the mend?
Which am I?
Will I ever know?
Fighting to stay or ready to go?
Maybe I'm both,
in some impossible way.
Emotions oddly mixed everyday.
Wouldn't surprise.
I'm such a freak.
Excuse me, I laugh, I should call it "unique"
We scream.
We fight for our dream.
We scream.
We cry.
We're just waiting to die.
The same emotions
with a different drive.
Sometimes dead, sometimes alive.
The same in one way,
different in another
brother and sister, sister and brother.
So close in feeling,
so different in the end.
Falling apart, or finally on the mend?
Which am I?
Will I ever know?
Fighting to stay or ready to go?
Maybe I'm both,
in some impossible way.
Emotions oddly mixed everyday.
Wouldn't surprise.
I'm such a freak.
Excuse me, I laugh, I should call it "unique"
Literature
Passion
For when the daughter experiences a first
it is the passion she feels in the night.
For when the innocent is murdered against reason
it is the cry of a nation that can’t understand.
For when the son disturbs the peace of a day
it is the rage of parents that calm his youth.
For when the music carries upon the floor
it is the color of the dress the darling wears.
For when the veil drops and all is revealed
it is the pain of truth that becomes clear.
For when the last moment is seen
it is the suffering in the eyes that shows all.
For when the child breaks the toys they cherish so
it is the shade their face turns in anger.
For when
Literature
Thank you...
I keep my feelings
All bottled up inside me
And sometimes it was nice
To stare into that bottle
To see the yellow of happiness
And the red of love
But even I should have known
Putting too much emotion into that bottle
Turns it grey and murky with confusion.
You who has shown me nothing
But kindness and love…
I am afraid to hurt you…
That you will see my dark past
And it will swallow you whole
Like it did to me.
So therefore I hide my bottle
From everyone and everything
So as not to feel the violation
Of a simple peek inside
I trusted someone once
Told them everything there is about me
And to my demise
They used all that agains
Literature
Murder your Poem
Make your poem suffer,
it needs to know how you feel.
And if it doesn't, your poem is ignorant.
Gouge the pen deep within it, until bloody ink stains through.
Write very hard
so your poem can feel your scars.
If you crinkle the corners,
good;
it needs to have broken tattered bones.
Feeling exhausted before your done.
Do not share or post your poem so soon,
for it needs to feel rejection.
Most important, before it dies.
Never..
Clean it's wounds, or tape its rips,
do no accept forgiveness..
As your poem dies, you'll be surprised.
Your dead withered poem,
has found
new life.
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So, basically, this is a poem where I did not edit, didn't go back to change any rhymes, didn't think about them too long, just typed it out as it came. I was interested to see how it would work out, pretty badly. Anyway, I know it finishes oddly. The "unique" line. This is what my mom said about me earlier this week when someone asked about the strange way I act around people. Because, of course, it has nothing to do with the social anxiety or depression, I'm just that fucking "unique." Alright, so the original idea for this poem was that, I feel like, I should fight against my depression and all the bad thoughts in my head. While, at other times, I'm more like, fuck that, i wonder how much ibuprofen I have to take to not wake up. The answer is a whole fucking lot because, just a little tip, pills that you can just walk up and buy without a prescription, won't kill you. Awesome. This is a long description, sorry.
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Amazing. LOVED IT!!