jem-barquilla - Hello Poetry

I don't have a choice But I still choose you Given the truth I'd still lie for you I don't have anything to prove But I still wanna prove myself Even though you do have a choice And you chose someone else I simply can't deny the truth I don't have a choice But I still choose you

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jem-barquilla

Jul 7, 2015

Jul 7, 2015 at 7:54 AM UTC

the-girl-who-loved-you

Choice

I don't have a choice But I still choose you Given the truth I'd still lie for you I don't have anything to prove But I still wanna prove myself Even though you do have a choice And you chose someone else I simply can't deny the truth I don't have a choice But I still choose you

11

You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I'll rise. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? 'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells Pumping in my living room. Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise. Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops. Weakened by my soulful cries. Does my haughtiness offend you? Don't you take it awful hard 'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines Diggin' in my own back yard. You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may **** me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I'll rise. Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I've got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs? Out of the huts of history's shame I rise Up from a past that's rooted in pain I rise I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise.

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jem-barquilla

Mar 25, 2015

Mar 25, 2015 at 10:00 AM UTC

Maya Angelou

Still I Rise

You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I'll rise. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? 'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells Pumping in my living room. Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise. Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops. Weakened by my soulful cries. Does my haughtiness offend you? Don't you take it awful hard 'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines Diggin' in my own back yard. You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may **** me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I'll rise. Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I've got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs? Out of the huts of history's shame I rise Up from a past that's rooted in pain I rise I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise.

43

Why don't people write poetry when they are happy? Because you don't need to digest happiness, you just let it wash over you. What would happen if, instead, we digested happiness through words and poured struggle and sorrow onto our heads so it dripped down our chins and leaked in our minds and slid down our shoulders and backs and legs and made a puddle of tears at our feet? Our books would be filled with joy that generations could read for years to come. And they wouldn't think us a boring lot, but find smiles in our words, and fondness in our memories. So the ground would be covered sadness... it would water the plants, and strengthen our souls, and nourish our minds, and that wouldn't be so bad would it? Because when it's all said and done... you can step out of a puddle. But if a pen is a sword and the words are it's ink I'd much prefer those words to be loved.

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jem-barquilla

Mar 14, 2015

Mar 14, 2015 at 9:47 AM UTC

briana-gardener

juxtaposition

Why don't people write poetry when they are happy? Because you don't need to digest happiness, you just let it wash over you. What would happen if, instead, we digested happiness through words and poured struggle and sorrow onto our heads so it dripped down our chins and leaked in our minds and slid down our shoulders and backs and legs and made a puddle of tears at our feet? Our books would be filled with joy that generations could read for years to come. And they wouldn't think us a boring lot, but find smiles in our words, and fondness in our memories. So the ground would be covered sadness... it would water the plants, and strengthen our souls, and nourish our minds, and that wouldn't be so bad would it? Because when it's all said and done... you can step out of a puddle. But if a pen is a sword and the words are it's ink I'd much prefer those words to be loved.

35

Even though you're cut and hurt Remember Beautiful flowers Are the ones people choose to cut and keep

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jem-barquilla

Jan 8, 2015

Jan 8, 2015 at 2:50 PM UTC

ember-evanescent

Reminder to the cut up

Even though you're cut and hurt Remember Beautiful flowers Are the ones people choose to cut and keep

5

And I think the part that hurts the most is that even though I jumped through hoops for you, Even though I emptied my wallet, and spent all the ink I owned writing pages of poetry for you, and through all the nights where we drove for hours into the silence, singing our broken hearts out, spilling our worries out of the windows of my car as we escaped into the unknown, and with all the nights we laid under the stars and just watched as they all burned out into the sunrise, and the nights we spent sleeping in the back of my car listening to your favorite bands play through the stereo of those perfect moments, and after everything I did to try and show you how much you meant to me, to show you how beautiful you are, it all meant nothing to you, and that’s what hurts the most. Knowing that the next guy that comes wandering, broken hearted and hopelessly, down your path, will hear the same story I did, How no one cares for you and how you've never had anyone to call your own or anyone to hold close, and how everyone leaves, and how you'd give anything to find that guy, and he too will **** himself over you until you get bored of him and disappear once more. But that's how you are, smoke and mirrors, a cold heart and a shy smile, and knowing that no matter what stories you tell your next victims, I loved every last part of you. That's what hurts the most.

0

jem-barquilla

Dec 25, 2014

Dec 25, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC

K-T-

What Hurts The Most.

And I think the part that hurts the most is that even though I jumped through hoops for you, Even though I emptied my wallet, and spent all the ink I owned writing pages of poetry for you, and through all the nights where we drove for hours into the silence, singing our broken hearts out, spilling our worries out of the windows of my car as we escaped into the unknown, and with all the nights we laid under the stars and just watched as they all burned out into the sunrise, and the nights we spent sleeping in the back of my car listening to your favorite bands play through the stereo of those perfect moments, and after everything I did to try and show you how much you meant to me, to show you how beautiful you are, it all meant nothing to you, and that’s what hurts the most. Knowing that the next guy that comes wandering, broken hearted and hopelessly, down your path, will hear the same story I did, How no one cares for you and how you've never had anyone to call your own or anyone to hold close, and how everyone leaves, and how you'd give anything to find that guy, and he too will **** himself over you until you get bored of him and disappear once more. But that's how you are, smoke and mirrors, a cold heart and a shy smile, and knowing that no matter what stories you tell your next victims, I loved every last part of you. That's what hurts the most.

4

I read a book today the words spoke to me from a dream into reality or vice versa I don't know. I read a book today the words were so pure some with love into fantasy or fondest desires I don't know. I read a book today words cut like a knife filled with hate and with despair or pure agony I felt it. The book spoke to me the words were vivid someone else's life poured out in ink and made me wonder somewhere inside I needed to know.

0

jem-barquilla

Dec 19, 2014

Dec 19, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC

debbie-jean-embrey

The Book

I read a book today the words spoke to me from a dream into reality or vice versa I don't know. I read a book today the words were so pure some with love into fantasy or fondest desires I don't know. I read a book today words cut like a knife filled with hate and with despair or pure agony I felt it. The book spoke to me the words were vivid someone else's life poured out in ink and made me wonder somewhere inside I needed to know.

25