Death doesn't like his job,
anymore than some of us like ours,
and when he calls forth the gentle flowers,
to answer for their lives,
he hides his tears.
Wear a colorWear purple,
because sometimes you feel like royalty,
and it's the color of queens,
who don't need a king,
and kings who reign,
with happy underlings.
because the sky is your favorite thing,
and the sunrise is beautiful,
but so are cloudy days turned sunny,
and the warmth of summer feels,
because you enjoy the earth,
and the grass beneath the feet,
of every human being,
and the leaves on the trees,
who are here for eternity.
because you feel like light,
that came from across the universe,
to land on earth and shows,
that the stars still exist,
in a variety of colors.
because you joke it's the color of your soul,
but not because of hatred,
the night sky is beautiful and and entrancing,
where every darkened place is happiness,
because the dark embraces.
Wear any color,
because it's your favorite,
and let no one tell you otherwise.
Why do you write free-verse? Someone AskedI like free verse poetry because,
It flows like how I think,
And tends to travel along until it reaches
Something else to talk about.
I’ve written poetry for a long time,
I remember when I was 12 and…
My Mum and Dad made fun of me.
They called me lesbian like it was a slur,
And joked and poked,
And acted like they were only teasing.
And I always fought it,
Because lesbian means you feel attraction…
To those of the same gender,
(if you’re female anyway)
And that concept confused me.
They teased despite me anger
But I have great parents,
Who love me regardless…
I wrote some free-verse and I …
Felt better for it.
Another time I laid down words,
Like they were the blood in my veins,
Was when I was 15 and I asked…
What people meant by “hot”
And all I got was laughter in response.
I’d already trained myself not to ask my parents
At this point in time.
So instead I write poetry.
And got advice from Internet friend
TickI think about ticking a lot,
like the clock that tells me time,
and how it's there,
in the back of my mind.
Just tick, tick tick,
and I watch and I wait,
and I write about that tick,
that odd little noise.
I write about it all the time,
and time seems to not mind,
almost flattered it might be,
by my perception.
So it seems I shall listen,
to the faint little tick,
and wonder what happened,
to make my world slick.
ListenI have been broken beyond all reason,
my age has gone,
been treated like its treason,
to grow up alone inside,
when every-time I speak,
I'm trying to try.
Do they hear that?
in my words and voice,
the shaking of my hands,
the tearing of my lungs,
gasping and listening,
trying to be,
trying to see.
I dont think they can see,
see who I am,
and who I wish to be,
because as time goes on,
I'm losing my song,
my voice and being,
that things that make me,
Perhaps time will tell,
them that they don't know me,
even as they pretend to hear me,
when all they do is see,
the ground beneath their feet,
and the grass swaying in a breeze.
Dont leave me alone,
at least for long,
because we all need love,
12:01The clock ticks
at midnight it will have been another year,
of dealing with bull****,
of crying oneself to sleep,
of feeling murderous intent.
Is it worth another year?
The endless suffering,
the constant bickering,
the tiring courses and people,
The people that tear and bite
and laugh and smile,
Is it better to laugh...
Almost fell asleep,
thinking of everything that can be done,
of thinking about the last year,
of thinking of that last midnight,
It's always like this.
The family is there,
behind but asleep.
This happened this year.
Fighting to stay alive.
Should the fight continue?
So much was done this year,
so much more to be done,
Can't let go now.
Not after surviving,
and living and seeing and
Gender or OrientationIt takes courage to say something different.
But does it matter to know yourself,
when others don't acknowledge your hard work,
and laugh as you declare something they...
don't think is true?
That StoryI've tried to write that story,
in so many ways
and in so many words.
New words, old words.
I've tried to write it funny and cute,
with fuzzy kitten slippers for the mind,
to drift to sleep in.
I've tried dark and mysterious,
horror and pastels,
even that of realistic fiction.
But I've never tried to way it was meant to be written,
the way that if I wrote it,
it wouldn't sound all wrong like the others do.
It would be a story of heart break and loneliness,
of wanting and desiring to fit in but never doing so,
because the real world isn't like that.
You try and try but nothing changes,
you have to leave,
to explore to find new things in the real world.
Take a leap or dive off a cliff,
but the heart break of being an outsider in ones own heart,
their own mind betraying their every emotion,
the idea of submission to the deep pestilence of self-esteem,
and the wondering queries of whether it's okay to not be okay.
I cannot write that story,
as I live it in every waking moment,
Burnt outburnt out,
a synonym for exhausted,
tired and worn out,
done with life and seeing the world,
can continue without your work.
Too much is asked for,
too little is given,
too much to do,
too little time to do it in.
mentionings of that being laziness,
or just un-adaptability.
When it is never the fault,
of the one whose mind
has been destroyed.
Old and newPeople try to forget their daggers,
the ones imbedded in others' hearts.
They turn and look the other way,
laughing, making jokes and...
They think, that,
just because it's been so long,
the dagger has disappeared.
But everyone knows that the world doesn't work,
based on someone's whims and whimsy.
Instead, it lets the knife rust.
The rust cakes it in,
and taking the knife out now would be useless,
because the hole is now permanent.
Kept open by the rust that makes the heart throb....
... in remembrance,
and chemical allure of false
If only they thought to pull it out,
when they'd stabbed it in,
because everyone knows a fresh wound,
is easier to deal with than an old one.
SMIH ONE PIECE INTRO
The straw hats had held another large feast after yet another amazing adventure. All of their friends had gathered from across the many Seas to attend this party. The food, was naturally delicious, and the drink flowed freely while music from Brook played long, and loudly. The atmosphere with this large group of both Pirates and a few Marines alike was uncanny and would rarely, if ever happen again in the near future.
Suddenly there was a clinking sound coming from the midst of the large crowd. The laughter and chatter quieted down to hear what the announcer had to say. A certain blond pirate with a swirly eyebrow and a cigarette stood and took a puff before he spoke.
"Never have I seen so many of our friends in one place before, so, I'd like to propose a toast to our friendship." Sanji began as he raised a red wine glass.
Everyone picked up their drinks as they gave Sanji their undivided attention.
"Whether we met on the battlefield, or through Luffy-'' (A small riot of chuckles at th
Carrion Tallow I
I pluck feathers from a felled sky,
tie them to the ends of my hair
to remind myself of all the innocent days
that lie suspended in cardboard boxes
because mothers can't bear to throw them away.
I pluck feathers from a felled sky,
deftly thread the wings of an angel fallen
to tie my awareness to a bird -
recalling 'bunny ear'd loops
held by my father's impossibly large hands
for his son to watch and learn -
pulled through the eye of golden hair laces.
I wish I would just die.
That I would run out of power.
That the other's would just stop torturing me.
That the other's would just destroy me and all my parts.
I don't belong here.
I'm an outcast.
A nice guard to play with!
Maybe this time I'll gain a friend!
But where'd you go?
All I see is the leader.
I hide out of fear and come back to see you again!
I want to play!
I steal your torch to start a game!
But what's the matter?
You look terrified, Mr. Guard.
Are you alright?
You're staring at me with those big round eyes.
Trying to talk, I think?
Suddenly, blood splatters the walls as the teeth of a certain one sinks into your brain.
It's my fault.
The one turns around and grins at me.
"Not bad." he says.
I stare at the bloody guard.
It's my fault.
It's all my fault.
I make a whimpering sound.
The one stares at me.
"Ya wuss" he sneers.
All I wanted was a friend.
stop ruining autumn.listen:
fall makes me think of leaving and of apple cider, though i never liked apple cider.
but i liked the idea of it.
two years ago i met a boy as fragile as dead leaves who called me his little spring girl. (i'd always liked autumn the best.) he kissed the two soft dimples on the small of my back and told me helikedme helovedme hewantedme.
and oh, by the way, "everything good must come to an end."
on our one year anniversary we picked out two pumpkins and i drew elephants on them for us to carve. he cut his out so aggressively that it lost its shape.
lopped off tusks and broken trunks became just a large, jagged hole.
he put a lit candle inside, and we watched it flicker, illuminating the raw edges.
"what is it supposed to be?" i asked him, taking his hand.
"my heart," he said definitively.
like an afterthought.
after that i was too afraid to carve my pumpkin at all.
the leaves changed, or maybe he changed, or maybe i was b
Vietnama cellar door was beginning
to open somewhere in all of us
emerging somewhere between
the throat and the spine,
spitting out ink as it burrowed deeper,
giving a new place to hide and store
smiles for better days,
a place for matchbooks and
milk cartons and anything in-between
a place to harbor unkept promises and
other multitudes of sorrow.
had been placed on shelves with chipped
high above the earth
were brought underneath us once again
at this not-quite cemetery,
the all-encompassing "i-love-you"
buried deeply in the mix
of scattered blades and bones
as we learned
how to confront skeletons
belonging to strangers other than ourselves.
from passing by the roses strewn
at the feet of the fallen and feeling
the names of the dead on the cold, wet
stone, there became a certain
satisfaction in breathing
and even more in realizing we still could.
darling, darling. i.
you were in my
darling. i felt you in my
d a r l i n g, and when i awoke i thought
that it was
and you were yelling and
asking me where you were, where
you had been, the worst part
was that i
couldn't answer you. in all
of your anger,
you were still the one person
whose name stung my
you were in my
part of me wishes that you
my mother told me that people
would often break your heart
if you loved them too
much, so i guess that just
this is my fault after
but now i am high
thinking of last winter and how
i spent it
with you, and how i am
doing it again this