kaitlin-floyd
They say writers are born, not made. / / I believe myself a born writer. / / For I do not express myself in tears, or violence - but in words. / / My fingers are able to run along a keyboard - or guide a pencil across a page, without being commanded by my conscious mind. / / Words of the English language are as natural to me as life itself. / / A part of me will now live on this platform in the form of poetry. Rambles from my soul.
The adrenaline, the invincibility,
There was nothing that could stop me.
Testing the end of my limits,
As though my life had but minutes.
Restraints shed, I was unleashed,
A wild animal finally released.
And my potential energy,
Exploded in a cloud of ecstasy.
And my blood was finally singing again…
For I am animal that can't be chained...
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 7:19 AM UTC
Do you remember who you were,
The great songwriter, the passionate poet?
Intelligence rolls off you in waves,
Why do you hide it?
Do you remember who you were,
The kind classmate, the loving friend?
But you act so aloof and cold,
Why must you pretend?
In your pursuit for flings and,
In your pursuit for popularity,
You’ve left something behind,
And that happens to be me.
Because I see your hurt spirit,
One in need of saving.
That your hidden porcelain heart,
Is broken, and in need of mending.
You’re broken, beautiful, and in need of awakening.
Or…
Am I deluding myself?
Do you not want a saviour?
Perhaps the dark life you’ve got,
Is the one you desire.
But I don’t want to believe you are lost to me.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 8:52 AM UTC
I can feel the pounds of burden,
Weighing on my chest.
It hurts more than anything,
I only want to rest.
I want to cry my heart out,
I want to scream my lungs open.
The everlasting pounds of agony,
Leaves me beat and broken.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 10:14 PM UTC
Life is full of emotions,
Sun rays, thunder and rain.
But what truly makes one strong,
Is the burning hatred, searing pain.
Life can be a holocaust,
Life can be a candy cane.
But what truly makes one strong,
Is the burning hatred, searing pain.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 3:33 AM UTC
Her eyes are almost dead,
Struggling to get out of bed.
As she begins to dress,
In the mirror she sees a mess.
There’s so much she can do,
But there’s also nothing to do.
Nothing at all gets done,
She clutches her head as it spun.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 9:10 PM UTC
Where did all the ambition go?
The drive I had to succeed?
Why can’t I summon the strength,
Now that I’ve come to this length?
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 8:36 PM UTC
Poetry shines with light and beauty,
True art woven by intricate words.
It can sing songs so stunning,
That it outshines the best of songbirds.
But that’s only half of the story...
Poetry also grows in cold dark places,
In the pits of immense pain.
Fed by air filled with suffering,
Nurtured by acid rain.
As it shines with such light and beauty,
Poetry embraces true darkness.
What a conundrum it is,
That we can have beautiful madness.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 7:39 PM UTC
Everything is blissful in the light of day,
But at night the demons starts to play.
Every fear comes alive in the dark of night,
When I am too worn and too tired to fight.
*When every horrid memory comes crawling back...
Distorted, amplified and in a full-on attack...*
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 8:43 PM UTC
How can a piece of plastic,
Mean the world to me?
Hold the depth of memories,
That runs deeper than the sea?
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC