jasminef7
Hi! My name is Jazz, I am sixteen years old and I am from England. I'm studying Level 3 Performing Arts at college. I come from a difficult background, as a result of this I am in care. As a result of being in care, I have difficulty expressing my emotions. This is how I fell into poetry. I began reading it and wondering why the poems affected me so much on an emotional level. Then it hit me. The writers always had a personal reason to write the poetry. We may never find out what those reasons are, but we know they are there. / So, from then on, I decided to write poetry myself. I had so many balls of paper screwed up on the floor from mistakes I had made it looked like it had been snowing! But in the end, I got the hang of it...I hope. / A brief warning, friends. My poetry can get a little dark. There are happy ones too, but a lot of my emotions spill into my writing. So, overview finished and I'm sure you're bored to tears, I have one final thing to say. / I HOPE YOU ENJOY MY WORK! :D
I wish sometimes people would consider me,
What I think and feel,
What my emotions might be.
I wish sometimes they would stop and think,
The reasons I say and do what I do,
But no, all you think on is you.
I wish sometimes someone would care,
Instead of just walking on by,
How much longer can I hide my despair?
I wish sometimes that someone might realise,
All these smiles and laughs...
They are simply lies.
Copyright © 2015 Jasmine Bryony Holmes
All rights reserved.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 6:55 PM UTC
Broken down, pieces of my soul,
Scattered around in my head,
Hoping and wishing the world was less cold,
That I might lose this feeling of dread.
Sorrow, howling from deep within,
All selfless acts thrown in my face,
I have to just take it on the chin,
While my hope is lost in the human race.
Pieces of my broken heart,
Scars that cut me deep,
My wounded mind is torn apart,
And I'm thrown upon the trash heap.
Society tells you 'Don't let them judge',
What else can you do but sit,
Waiting upon your name dragged through the mud,
To be alive you feel unfit.
You did it, well done,
You finally broke me down,
Wow you finally won,
Turned my ever bright smile to a dimly lit frown.
Why do you behave,
In such a nasty manner?
When all I do is try to help you,
You just throw it back in my face.
Well no more,
I refuse to be treated as a lesser being,
A punch here and there and a cut to the skin,
How are you blind to what I'm feeling?
Well no more,
No further words shall pass,
You won't hurt me again,
I'd sooner walk on broken glass.
Well no more,
You won't win again,
Take your silly ideas of victory,
You will cause me no more pain.
Well no more,
From this day on you aren't worth my breath,
You won't break me down, you know the score,
Now we'll be in living death.
No more.
You do not win.
You know the score.
I've got a pretty thick skin.
No more.
I am the one, to sustain my grin.
Copyright © 2015 Jasmine Bryony Holmes
All rights reserved.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 9:10 PM UTC
The deepest connection,
You can ever know,
The connection of two hearts,
A love you're able to show.
A cut that is deep,
A scar that is wide,
They allow you to keep,
Your ambition and drive,
The deepest connection,
A central glow,
The deepest affection,
That allows you to let go.
Of the pain of the past,
The turmoil you suppress,
A pain you are rid of at long last,
Free of your distress.
The deepest connection,
You can ever know,
Is that of two hearts,
Always let it show.
Copyright © 2015 Jasmine Bryony Holmes
All rights reserved.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 8:15 PM UTC
I've made some pretty harsh mistakes,
But none like this before,
Its like I've shut out all the light,
Closed every single door.
My life has become a lie,
All the pain I must hide,
The fakeness of my smile,
But no matter how hard I try.
People won't let go,
Of wrongs you've done,
Beg for mercy,
But they all keep on,
Cry your tears,
Just dont let them see,
In essence,
Be just like me.
Copyright © 2015 Jasmine Bryony Holmes
All rights reserved.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 5:33 PM UTC
Heaven,
Eyes blue like the ocean,
Tranquillity,
A calming effect they have.
Beautiful,
Greener than emeralds,
A passion swimming inside,
They take away my heartache,
And all the hurt I hide.
Senses,
Your smell, touch and taste,
They make me go insane,
Ease all of my troubles,
Allow me to love again.
Love,
It burns deep inside us,
And nothing could ever go wrong,
For once after all the worries,
I feel that I belong.
A time,
Passage of it is slow but fast,
You help me forget,
The pain of the past.
For you,
My love I would give the world,
I, at last, can open my heart,
Happy and content,
And now our adventure starts.
Copyright © 2015 Jasmine Bryony Holmes
All rights reserved.
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
Puppets on a string,
And the master of the game,
Pulled around as dolls,
On the endless string of pain.
Puppets on a string,
Lack of inspiration,
Rolling around to the beat of others music,
Never free from constant frustration.
Puppets on a string,
Nothing left to gain,
And this will always remain,
Always remain the same.
Puppets on a string,
And the master of the game,
Pulled around as useless dolls,
On the endless string of pain.
Copyright © 2014 Jasmine Bryony Holmes
All rights reserved.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 12:10 PM UTC
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to ****** and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? …
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep… tired… or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old… I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 9:25 AM UTC
Breathing,
In out,
Slowly exhale,
Close your eyes as you breathe the sweet smell,
Of him pressed against your chest.
Holding,
Closer,
Tighter,
Arms wrapped around his waist,
You feel safe, secure and happy again,
Knowing he's there can end the pain.
Listening,
Hearing sound,
Slow and comforting,
His words lapping over your body to nourish your soul,
Talking of your life together,
Growing old.
Hoping,
Breathing in his scent,
Feeling his presence,
Heart beating fast with recognition as you scan his face,
Eyes flicking over a familiar place.
Smiling,
Teeth bright and showing,
Happiness growing,
Inside your heart and head,
Knowing he wont desert you,
Wont leave you for dead,
Like the rest.
Loving,
Love in your eyes,
Love in his,
Allowing your soul to be released to him,
The lights are dim,
Passion is flowing,
Love for each other inside of you growing.
Death,
Silent,
Peaceful,
Not alone you are together,
Hearts as one, always, forever,
A love so strong, death defying,
No more hurt, no more crying.
Eternal,
Life you have been given,
Souls by love and happiness driven,
Hold his hand,
Sour through the sky,
Here,
Our love,
It will never die.
Copyright© 2014 Jasmine Bryony Holmes
All rights reserved.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 8:58 AM UTC
One must sit and wonder,
Just how deep their love can go,
Is it just the cuddles,
The kisses that you blow?
Does it stretch to a deeper level,
Is it shallow and cold,
Or forever my darling,
Your heart will I hold?
Copyright© 2014 Jasmine Bryony Holmes
All rights reserved.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 8:24 AM UTC
You make my cheeks burn brighter than Charizard's flame,
And make my heart beat faster than Sonic The Hedgehog on Green Hill Zone,
You calm me down like you're Lugia's song,
And you make me laugh harder than a boss level itself.
If you were the doctor I'd jump in the Tardis without a second glance,
And fight daleks and weeping angels just for the chance,
To grasp your hand.
Out of all the starter Pokemon,
I'd still choose you,
And never trade you away,
Not even for Mewtwo,
You're rarer than a shiny Pokeman and mean more to me than that,
You're hotter than Aiden Turner and Ash,
If you're Link then I'd love to be your Zelda,
The princess you save over and over.
Like Tetris itself you complete me,
You hold the key to my heart,
And I'd proudly go on a quest to reclaim Erebor if you were by my side.
I know this poem is nerdy,
But I hope you find it sweet,
Because I find without you,
My life wouldn't be complete.
Copyright© 2014 Megan John
All rights reserved.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 2:14 PM UTC