bianca-meagan - Hello Poetry

I write, seemingly unending and years later when I look back at my troubles I realize I never wrote a thing of meaning

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Sep 16, 2016

Sep 16, 2016 at 12:28 AM UTC

bianca-meagan

I Realized

I write, seemingly unending and years later when I look back at my troubles I realize I never wrote a thing of meaning

4

We are writing unprepared speeches for white men and their teachers, we are young tormented creatures, the fault of our preachers, we are old faceless features, the fault...of ourselves. On shelves we sit and the dust and the grit in our eyes is black like our lies because these white men are screaming their teachers are dreaming and the young tormented creatures are weeping for our losses, our preachers, the bosses, are keeping our souls from us. There is no more trust in ourselves, as our old faceless features are weeping from non-existent pores the doors are closing, sealing us in. But, All of these people have got the keys to our minds, our hearts and all the while we sit on our shelves, curled into ourselves, and wail, pale in the artificial moonlight. Maybe it's better this way.

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Aug 25, 2015

Aug 25, 2015 at 9:00 AM UTC

bianca-meagan

But..

We are writing unprepared speeches for white men and their teachers, we are young tormented creatures, the fault of our preachers, we are old faceless features, the fault...of ourselves. On shelves we sit and the dust and the grit in our eyes is black like our lies because these white men are screaming their teachers are dreaming and the young tormented creatures are weeping for our losses, our preachers, the bosses, are keeping our souls from us. There is no more trust in ourselves, as our old faceless features are weeping from non-existent pores the doors are closing, sealing us in. But, All of these people have got the keys to our minds, our hearts and all the while we sit on our shelves, curled into ourselves, and wail, pale in the artificial moonlight. Maybe it's better this way.

19

Fall and call and hope to borrow, The sun, the moon, the winds and sorrow, With eyes like glass and cheeks pulled hollow, Full of acid too strong to swallow.

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Jul 26, 2015

Jul 26, 2015 at 11:11 AM UTC

bianca-meagan

Untitled

Fall and call and hope to borrow, The sun, the moon, the winds and sorrow, With eyes like glass and cheeks pulled hollow, Full of acid too strong to swallow.

4