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Literature Text
Who am I
But a pile of thoughts and
Feelings served on golden plates
Who am I
But the darkness that surrounds me
And the light that penetrates it
Who am I
But a figure ducked in corner
Enveloped by melting fingers
I cry and shout
But nobody can hear me
I try to move
But space curls around me
Who am I
Deep inside underneath the clothes
Underneath the skin and flesh
Who am I
The being that exists
For itself and by itself
I cry and shout
And smile upon the sounds
I try to move
And split myself to pieces
And there is no one
To stop my rapid fallout
As the drops of me
Soak into dried earth
But a pile of thoughts and
Feelings served on golden plates
Who am I
But the darkness that surrounds me
And the light that penetrates it
Who am I
But a figure ducked in corner
Enveloped by melting fingers
I cry and shout
But nobody can hear me
I try to move
But space curls around me
Who am I
Deep inside underneath the clothes
Underneath the skin and flesh
Who am I
The being that exists
For itself and by itself
I cry and shout
And smile upon the sounds
I try to move
And split myself to pieces
And there is no one
To stop my rapid fallout
As the drops of me
Soak into dried earth
Literature
an apology to anyone who'll listen
It begins with a wish
and ends with a sigh.
I am in love with boys who
don't exist and girls who I sometimes
pretend are myself. Spineless,
spiteful, and one hundred percent
sporadic,
I'm becoming undone.
When I was
younger I thought it
was a sin if
your parents didn't
love each other. Now I
know that it's
just the way this world works.
And hell,
I need you right now;
to tell me that
gaining four pounds in
three days is typical
to tell me that
living in a dream every
second is perfectly okay
to tell me that
I'm normal, that I'm
still sane, that I'm not
going to close
Literature
The music is gone.
I remember emotion
Like the deaf recall a tune.
I still have the notion,
But even that will be gone soon.
The songs are muffled at first,
But the notes remain.
I can still be immersed
In musical joy and pain.
But like a copy of a copy of a copy,
Notes are lost and misplaced,
The whole thing gets sloppy,
A masterpiece defaced.
Finally, the end of the blaze
The last notes die in a frost
Leaving the profound malaise
That something beautiful was lost.
Dead is the feeling I once had.
Left in a mute concert hall,
I wonder how it can hurt so bad,
To feel nothing at all.
Literature
Awareness.
She writes such lovely poems
But nobody really cares
She hides them all the time
To avoid the judging stares
She wrote one yesterday
About a boy who said he loved her
But to her own dismay
She caught him with another
She wrote one about school
And the words painted on her locker
“No one likes you, stupid bitch.
You’re lucky I’m at soccer.”
She wrote about her parents
And how she wished they were together
But she knows that won’t ever happen
And forgetting’s probably better
Yes, she writes such lovely poems
But there’s so much more to this
See, her pencil is a razor
And the paper is her wrist.
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I haven't been able to speak to myself for what feels like a long time because of some psychological problems. This poem reflects on an attempt to rediscover what is deep inside me, on the fact that there is contentment buried underneath my desires, happiness and depression. It's hard to find it these days though, with too many responsibilities to distract us. We have to keep trying every day to remain true to ourselves.
© 2013 - 2024 Elendurwen
Comments20
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This poem calls to me great job.