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 Jan 2015 Roc Rose
Amaya Danzy
She doesn't know.
She can't see what they are doing to her
They use her for their games and tricks
They don't care that hearts are in the mix
Bodies against bodies
No one knows where to start or where to end
But I'll try to mend
Her broken heart
 Jan 2015 Roc Rose
gemini
i spent so much time
on a rip-off of cloud nine
i think i forgot real happiness
bad circumstances wounded me
brought me down just like a knife
and bled the color right out of my life

but luck has a lovely way of changing
sometimes things just need rearranging
i once was lost but now i'm found
my head's up high with the birds
my feet don't touch the ground
no matter what i go through
i'll always come around
i have determined that i'll never give up on life, even if it throws me extra curve *****.
 Dec 2014 Roc Rose
N
Open books with black covers containing stories never good enough to be read, words never long enough to contain the fragment of a thought. Maybe that's why I turn to putting my own in the complexity of poems, maybe that's why I'm never satisfied because I can never say what I mean. Sometimes I don't think you know what I mean, so if you haven't been able to read the between the lines; I miss you. I've been looking for so many ways to say it but none of them have been enough to make you come back. The thing about poetry is its never enough to make you feel the way I do. It'll never make you realize that ink seeps out of my pens with the purpose to make you feel something; but it never does. The thing about poetry is that you need to be empty to write it and that's why I learnt how to after you left. The shut door opened a new one which was the will to write about all the broken pieces of myself. The thing about poetry is it requires to see life through the eyes of things unspoken. Little do most know that mirrors and picture frames can speak novels of things forgotten which is me to you. The thing about poetry, is that I'm running out of things to say. I'm running out of words to spray on city walls, or carve in the wood of dying trees. The thing about poetry is that this isn't it. This is the goodbye, good luck. I have nothing more to bleed out for you, my mind is turning to dust. This is the last "I love you" I have left to write about, this is extended hands with empty palms.
This is the apology. It's me trying to feel something more than what I do, and as hard as I try to get there, I can swear that in nights of deafening silence I can still hear the sky screaming out your name.
Idk how I feel about this one

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