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James Apr 2019
The shadow of our tempest is a devil to curb.  
Allow it to simmer,
lest it shall disturb.
James Nov 2018
Born, I wasn't made for the riches,
They've forgotten my mother's stitches.
Borne to a home built by exiguity,
Hope to stay in for a brevity.
At a loss of hope I pondered:
What much is there to live for, I wondered.
But vengeance gathers in a bunch,
So I opened every door of ****** nonesuch.
Crawled in and sat in their hole,
Only to be withered away like a crooked soul.
Into the air I streamed,
Up into the atmosphere it seemed.
Farther from home,
I drift into a black roam.
Spacious enough to be alone,
I have found my tone.
I've finally known myself,
To fit perfectly in this akward shelf.
I was a misfit,
Too ignorant too quit it.
Played like a puppet,
By the wealthy culprit.
Justice is my unruly mission,
And they'll take watch of my disturbed exhibition.
I stumbled upon this bit, written by me years ago when I first started writing poetry. It's filled with a a bunch of nonsense that I wrote when feeling whatever emotion I felt at the time. Despite the middling quality, I thought it would be amusing to share whatever teenage, emotional frustration I had undergone.
James Oct 2018
Nights keep the knowing in secrecy.
The trails where we once walked,
linger in obfuscation.
The man we once were,
slumber till dawn.
Far from our nature,
we go into the night.
Where we feel free,
from the measure of God.
Scream and shout,
drink and puff.
Let us release our tribulations,
through the sins of man.
For no one is awake,
to condemn our darkest of nights.
James Jun 2018
Here I stand on the ***** of my feet,
Watching as the time passes by.
The day fulfilling the dreamers,
The night exhausting the lost.
Why must I move on?
Why must I go?
I don’t know.
I don’t know.

Here I sit under a stately willow tree,
Accompanying me with its hospitality.
It droops as it stands so mighty,
It rises as it slumps in humility.
Why must the tree persist?
Why must the tree grow?
I don’t know.
I don’t know.

Here I lie in a box of plastered wooden veneer,
My eyes encumbered by pitchy darkness.
I breathe my gratitude of this quietus,
I cry my despair for my own creation.
Why must I wallow in my regret?
Why must I now feel this woe?
Now I know.
Now I know.

— The End —