Why do the colors black and white fight?
They are all the same on the inside.
All colors are civil, white or black.
To seperate them isn't right
Though they're are all but light stained.
By white or black, they're both the same
If a rose is a sweet under any name
Why can't color be so in every way.
Black and white are but seperate side,
Hating each other like our own lives
Why can't we see we are more than colors
Like the colors are more than light that shines
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 12:22 PM UTC
The world asks us, who are you
At one point I would have answered
But I have seen the world around us
And seen that others don't care.
My classmate comprise of many lies
Grown slowly into true and fact
Just ask around, I request you
Our questioning world, to take your line back!
A world of queer and question galore
One that a refused to accept before
I am an anomaly of color and ethnicity
The answer of who I am buried in years yet be.
Life isn't meant to be the same for you and me
Because we must be held to our own destiny
We are different in what we truly do
So the true question is, what do you see to be true?
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 2:19 PM UTC
I see her sitting there, deep in her thoughts.
Is she thinking of her day, like I feel many do?
Or is she seeing me thinking furiously
Thinking of how beautiful she is.
Like a dancing flower in the winds of the spring
She makes me turn my head with her pure voice
I wish to tell her how I feel about her shining eyes
But I am bound by chains of my fear
Fear that she will say no and it will change everything
Fear that she will say yes and then regret it
Fear that she will ignore my request
So once again I try to forget it.
But it will never be forgoten.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
Why is the shadows considered evil
When the shadows are as important as the light
As darkness is the absence of daylight
Just as Daylight is the absence of dark
Why is a hero considered pure
When the hero is just as murderous as the villain
As the hero is in the eye of the beholder
Just as a villain is only villainous to the victims
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC
I remember when the first flower sprang from its bud
The world awoken from a long, frigid sleep
As the rain fed the rivers and fell with a thud
The bear poked up without making a peep.
I remember when the first sunbeam shone
The world shining a million colors
As the berries become ripe and juicy
The bear caught salmon in the river bank
I remember when the first leaf fell
The world's bright colors being muted by the brown
As the harvest causes the food to be abundant
The bear stuff itself for the winter ahead.
I remember when the first snowstorm blew
The world being covered in a shining white veil
As the frigid cold forces the flowers to sleep
The bear naps until the first flower blooms.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
My heart still beats for her love, yet it will never be.
Like the light cut off by the leaves of the tree
I was but a flower, waiting for the next tree's rein to end
So I may feel the sunlight that never comes again.
I felt incomplete. The world was but a trial for me,
Filled with couple after couple brimming with happiness.
And I was but a humble shadow, Unfit for the world.
My heart falling into my chest with pain.
But, the time for your sun is over. My heart will heal again.
As it must every time you reject my love.
I don't need your love anymore.
And yet, I can't move on.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 11:44 AM UTC
A drop of water falls from the storm
Descending from above a feared road
As it falls on the window of a room
It meets its fate on the way down.
A drop of water falls from the bags
Drowned out by the endless, single beep.
As his heart fails from his illness
His soul meets its fate on his way down.
A drop of water falls from the eyes
Brown Hazel eyes that gaze on him.
Loving him and yet full of hate
For the horrid fate that made him fall.
A drop of water falls from the storm
With every drop, a story untold
As with every life when it began
And continues on the way down.
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 10:55 AM UTC
A poet's hands are slow and small
Surveying the mind for a new poem to tell
Before putting their pen to the paper
Taking the time to think and to toil
Growing as slow as a small White Cedar.
An artist's hands are fast and crafty
Rushing to capture the moment ahead
Stopping only to change their pallets
Creating worlds of wonder and woe
With passion as wonderful as a drooping Willow.
A musician's hands are rough and beautiful
Playing their instrument with the power of a hero
Each one standing out among any other
The notes of their nectar flowing like a rushing waterfall
Making music as sweet as a Maple's sap.
A child's hands are ever changing
Learning skills unique to them alone
No two child hands are the same, yet all fit in
Like a sapling growing in a forest of art
Growing to become a mighty tree of its own.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 10:12 AM UTC