thebestofus - Hello Poetry

i wasn't born to not put up a fight

0

May 8, 2018

May 8, 2018 at 6:32 AM UTC

thebestofus

..

i wasn't born to not put up a fight

2

next time you see me slit my throat let my blood gush like it did on american streets mute my screams like i did while the news got old let your knife **** the silence and ignite the need for equality. next time you see me pull the trigger on my foolish mouth shut me up while i complain about my silver spoon while children die of empty stomachs in the south let the gun sound wake up people like me to reality. next time you see me lynch my body let it hang like decoration to show people that the silent are like the violent the mute are like police who shoot the ones who are quiet while they feast on a meal are like the crooked politicians who steal. let my silence be the death of me and my new found voice be the death of the thoughts of our enemy. - t.m

0

thebestofus

Apr 26, 2018

Apr 26, 2018 at 7:57 AM UTC

05tm

deathwish

next time you see me slit my throat let my blood gush like it did on american streets mute my screams like i did while the news got old let your knife **** the silence and ignite the need for equality. next time you see me pull the trigger on my foolish mouth shut me up while i complain about my silver spoon while children die of empty stomachs in the south let the gun sound wake up people like me to reality. next time you see me lynch my body let it hang like decoration to show people that the silent are like the violent the mute are like police who shoot the ones who are quiet while they feast on a meal are like the crooked politicians who steal. let my silence be the death of me and my new found voice be the death of the thoughts of our enemy. - t.m

17

i've been to hell and back, and every time, you start to slack, but you are my prozac, you are my soundtrack, and nothing sounds the same without you.

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Apr 24, 2018

Apr 24, 2018 at 12:35 PM UTC

thebestofus

without you

i've been to hell and back, and every time, you start to slack, but you are my prozac, you are my soundtrack, and nothing sounds the same without you.

5

This isnt a poem but it is a REALIZATION. A realization that most of everybody, every human being has their oen imagination. And each of us human beings use our imaginations almost everyday of our lives, now most human beings like me who have been bullied 24/7 almost everyday of the week.... Tend to use our imagination more than the average human being. You see I use my imagination everyday, in everything that i do. I use my imagionation as an escape. An escape from life. An esape from the bullies. And every other thing that ever happened to me. But after getting bullied so badly, now it seems like no matter how far or how deep I go into my imagination I go, the bullies are always there and now its to the point where i've turned to other things like drugs, I know thats a bad thing but its not bad to the point where im addicted its just that I use them to numb the everyday pain of life away. But as I continue to use the drugs the numbness from the drugs is starting to numb away and now im starting to feel all the pain from life again and now im realizing that I need help before its to late because I keep thinking these crazy thoughts. And they truly scare me. If your reading this please. Help me. Before its to late. BY: BLURRYFACE

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thebestofus

Apr 23, 2018

Apr 23, 2018 at 3:42 PM UTC

M

THIS ISNT A POEM.... BUT ITS A REALIZATION

This isnt a poem but it is a REALIZATION. A realization that most of everybody, every human being has their oen imagination. And each of us human beings use our imaginations almost everyday of our lives, now most human beings like me who have been bullied 24/7 almost everyday of the week.... Tend to use our imagination more than the average human being. You see I use my imagination everyday, in everything that i do. I use my imagionation as an escape. An escape from life. An esape from the bullies. And every other thing that ever happened to me. But after getting bullied so badly, now it seems like no matter how far or how deep I go into my imagination I go, the bullies are always there and now its to the point where i've turned to other things like drugs, I know thats a bad thing but its not bad to the point where im addicted its just that I use them to numb the everyday pain of life away. But as I continue to use the drugs the numbness from the drugs is starting to numb away and now im starting to feel all the pain from life again and now im realizing that I need help before its to late because I keep thinking these crazy thoughts. And they truly scare me. If your reading this please. Help me. Before its to late. BY: BLURRYFACE

2

i’m never going to be your dream girl i have sharp edges and bones too strong from all the breaking they did but i like that you still try i like that you still hold my hand i like that still you look at me and when you do i sometimes see what i could be

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thebestofus

Nov 11, 2017

Nov 11, 2017 at 10:03 AM UTC

rescuingraven

indurate

i’m never going to be your dream girl i have sharp edges and bones too strong from all the breaking they did but i like that you still try i like that you still hold my hand i like that still you look at me and when you do i sometimes see what i could be

8

i feel safer with you, but i know i'm safer without you

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Apr 7, 2017

Apr 7, 2017 at 2:00 PM UTC

thebestofus

safe

i feel safer with you, but i know i'm safer without you

3

now i normally wouldn't say this but i think you gotta know yes, I'm two years late but did you really have to go? and i normally wouldn't do this but i've cleaned up my act im not like i used to be and i wish you'd take me back

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Apr 6, 2017

Apr 6, 2017 at 8:28 AM UTC

thebestofus

2 yrs late

now i normally wouldn't say this but i think you gotta know yes, I'm two years late but did you really have to go? and i normally wouldn't do this but i've cleaned up my act im not like i used to be and i wish you'd take me back

8

The truth is, I'm just another mutant kid. Fused at the wrists and hips, these scars will tell you how I've lived. I've seen the Son's face, if it wasn't for His grace, I don't know how I would have survived this place. Your songs reminded me that I don't always have to be strong, that my tears weren't always wrong. My Savior offers me haven from the demons that plague this place. My home is dark and cold, but He set fire to my bones. He set my soul ablaze and I made haste to escape this dreadful place. I've thrown away all my ammunition, put aside all my false traditions. I've canceled all my plans, I've proven the enemy as a scam. And now instead of taking it out on my wrist, I've turned my gun to a fist.

0

thebestofus

Apr 4, 2017

Apr 4, 2017 at 12:15 PM UTC

AshTheSkeleton

A Fan's Response

The truth is, I'm just another mutant kid. Fused at the wrists and hips, these scars will tell you how I've lived. I've seen the Son's face, if it wasn't for His grace, I don't know how I would have survived this place. Your songs reminded me that I don't always have to be strong, that my tears weren't always wrong. My Savior offers me haven from the demons that plague this place. My home is dark and cold, but He set fire to my bones. He set my soul ablaze and I made haste to escape this dreadful place. I've thrown away all my ammunition, put aside all my false traditions. I've canceled all my plans, I've proven the enemy as a scam. And now instead of taking it out on my wrist, I've turned my gun to a fist.

6

her favorite color is blue her hair is blonde. her lips are blue. so are her fingers. her nails are silver. her heart is cold. it’s winter here. below freezing at this point. blue. the snow is a blue-white, its untouchable. cold, to the point where it hurts she is blue. she is dead. blue blue blue blue. she was pale. like a ghost. maybe she was one. pale. blue. she was smiling at me. her lips were blue. dark blue. her silver fingers tapped along the desk. she had a blue pen. uncapped, poised to write. blue ink flowed out; the pen broke, ink spilling on her hands. she didn't mind. she told me she liked blue. she is dead. she didn’t clean it up. blue everywhere. i went over to help her she didn't know me. she smiled, her lips blue. dark blue. i smiled back. i handed her a towel; she cleaned. the teacher wasn’t looking. her hair was long, cascading. the ends of it, blue. her silver nails touch my hands in thanks. i went back to my seat. my friend looked at me. i looked back. he looked at the blue girl, towel still in her hands. he raised an eyebrow at me; i shake my head. blue girl stares at her pen, broken in half, the insides spilling out, slowly then all of it gone, wiped away like it wasn’t there in the first place. blue still on her mind. we kissed. it was after school. i was standing outside, and she came up to me. to say thank you. for helping her. she was pretty. her hair was pretty. she was pretty. she smiled, i smiled back, she stepped closer, her blue dress blowing in the wind. it was spring she was alive. and breathing. blue. i saw lots of blue. her lips were blue. dark blue, and touched mine. blue on pink, silver on clear. she pulled away first. smiled at me. walked away. blue lipstick on my lips still. i liked her. her blue lips and silver fingers. they were part of her. she was pretty. my friend slapped me on the back for getting a kiss from her. like it was a competition. but it wasn’t. he wouldn’t have been able to handle her anyways. she’s her own person, an enigma of her own. a didn’t understand her myself. she was beautiful. she was alive. i didn’t see her again until the weekend. she was covered in blue paint in the paint store. i needed to repaint my room. she offered to help. she’s in my house, in my room, we’re alone together. i wonder if she’ll kiss me again. she did kiss me. when i touched her silver fingers, she looked at me and kissed me again. i didn’t pull away. she pressed me against my wall, blue paint on my back, on her hands, in my hair. i looked at her, she looked at me. we kissed again. her hands on my shoulders, she was a pretty blue girl, in my room. she was warm. she liked my name. i liked hers. i liked her. a lot. it was summer. she was still alive, even prettier. her hair was still blonde, still silver. she got a tan. she knows me. i know her. i love her. she doesn’t know. i met her mom, she’s also blue. she met my family, she loves them. its fall, her tan is gone, back to blue, dark blue. she said she loves me i say i love her, it’s winter and she is dead. i visit her grave, buy her while flowers and paint them blue-dark-blue so she’ll like them. i tell her i love her, that I’ll see her soon. i buy pink and white flowers, paint the white blue. pink for me, blue for her. she is dead, but she is still alive. and blue.

0

Apr 4, 2017

Apr 4, 2017 at 11:32 AM UTC

thebestofus

blue girl pt. 2

her favorite color is blue her hair is blonde. her lips are blue. so are her fingers. her nails are silver. her heart is cold. it’s winter here. below freezing at this point. blue. the snow is a blue-white, its untouchable. cold, to the point where it hurts she is blue. she is dead. blue blue blue blue. she was pale. like a ghost. maybe she was one. pale. blue. she was smiling at me. her lips were blue. dark blue. her silver fingers tapped along the desk. she had a blue pen. uncapped, poised to write. blue ink flowed out; the pen broke, ink spilling on her hands. she didn't mind. she told me she liked blue. she is dead. she didn’t clean it up. blue everywhere. i went over to help her she didn't know me. she smiled, her lips blue. dark blue. i smiled back. i handed her a towel; she cleaned. the teacher wasn’t looking. her hair was long, cascading. the ends of it, blue. her silver nails touch my hands in thanks. i went back to my seat. my friend looked at me. i looked back. he looked at the blue girl, towel still in her hands. he raised an eyebrow at me; i shake my head. blue girl stares at her pen, broken in half, the insides spilling out, slowly then all of it gone, wiped away like it wasn’t there in the first place. blue still on her mind. we kissed. it was after school. i was standing outside, and she came up to me. to say thank you. for helping her. she was pretty. her hair was pretty. she was pretty. she smiled, i smiled back, she stepped closer, her blue dress blowing in the wind. it was spring she was alive. and breathing. blue. i saw lots of blue. her lips were blue. dark blue, and touched mine. blue on pink, silver on clear. she pulled away first. smiled at me. walked away. blue lipstick on my lips still. i liked her. her blue lips and silver fingers. they were part of her. she was pretty. my friend slapped me on the back for getting a kiss from her. like it was a competition. but it wasn’t. he wouldn’t have been able to handle her anyways. she’s her own person, an enigma of her own. a didn’t understand her myself. she was beautiful. she was alive. i didn’t see her again until the weekend. she was covered in blue paint in the paint store. i needed to repaint my room. she offered to help. she’s in my house, in my room, we’re alone together. i wonder if she’ll kiss me again. she did kiss me. when i touched her silver fingers, she looked at me and kissed me again. i didn’t pull away. she pressed me against my wall, blue paint on my back, on her hands, in my hair. i looked at her, she looked at me. we kissed again. her hands on my shoulders, she was a pretty blue girl, in my room. she was warm. she liked my name. i liked hers. i liked her. a lot. it was summer. she was still alive, even prettier. her hair was still blonde, still silver. she got a tan. she knows me. i know her. i love her. she doesn’t know. i met her mom, she’s also blue. she met my family, she loves them. its fall, her tan is gone, back to blue, dark blue. she said she loves me i say i love her, it’s winter and she is dead. i visit her grave, buy her while flowers and paint them blue-dark-blue so she’ll like them. i tell her i love her, that I’ll see her soon. i buy pink and white flowers, paint the white blue. pink for me, blue for her. she is dead, but she is still alive. and blue.

205

blue blue blue blue. she was pale, like a ghost. maybe she was one. pale. blue. she was smiling at me. her lips were blue. dark blue. her silver fingers tapped along the desk. she had a blue pen. uncapped, poised to write. blue ink flowed out; the pen broke, ink spilling on her hands. she didn't mind. she told me she liked blue. she is dead.

0

Mar 24, 2017

Mar 24, 2017 at 3:00 PM UTC

thebestofus

blue girl

blue blue blue blue. she was pale, like a ghost. maybe she was one. pale. blue. she was smiling at me. her lips were blue. dark blue. her silver fingers tapped along the desk. she had a blue pen. uncapped, poised to write. blue ink flowed out; the pen broke, ink spilling on her hands. she didn't mind. she told me she liked blue. she is dead.

25