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Let hate become a feather
- Light as air
In the midst of the storm
- Let it fly away
So that if you look for it
You will not find it there
- Let hate become
Light as air and float away
I'm a volatile
Gas,
Exploding
At the most
Inopportune
Times.

Unpredictable
Outbursts that show
There's a little me
Left inside,
Angry
But there.
The sun was always brighter,
The sky, an endless tapestry,
The world’s hidden beauties,
Amplified in her dreams.

The crunch of fall under her feet,
As she jumped into a pile of leaves.
In a moment, the world was covered in snow, and she,
Smiled blissfully.
Springtime flowers bloomed,
The world covered in hues,
She saw good ol’ Mother Goose,
From the nursery rhymes she recalled when she was two.
She felt free,
In her dreams.

Adventure called from all around,
Knight’s boots clanking on the ground,
An ever-changing battleground,
Filled with overwhelming sounds.
Sometimes, the duels were in space,
Others, it was just a simple race.
Occasionally, she’d lose just for fun.
What does it hurt to mix it up?
After all, she was the god of her own world,
In her dreams.

The worlds she created,
Almost seemed real.
But dreams, consistently,
Have the same fictitious security,
That can distinguish whether it's fake.
She remembered when she was younger,
And she longed for endless dreams.
She wanted them to cross over,
An ambitious endeavor,
Now she longed to see the real sun.

In her dreams,
She’d wake up.
No more sleeping blissfully,
She needed to see the world again.
Look her mom in the eye,
And apologize for the accident.
If she were still alive,
She’d pray she hadn’t perished yet.

Her mother dreamed,
That her daughter awoke.
So, she drove to the hospital,
And watched as her heart broke.
She remained,
Comatose,
Her brain unstable,
And her heart rate growing low.
All because of teenage love,
Kissing blissfully and driving drunk,
Leading, inevitably to pain and suffering,
To all parties.
The man she was with,
Was already dead,
She’d be lucky,
If she lived.
She feared,
About all she’d miss.

How she found herself longing for the mundane,
If it meant she would receive one more day.
She’d never touch a bottle again,
And she’d leave her toxic friends.
How she wanted to brush her teeth,
The simple notion inviting reprieve.
Her mother’s pancakes were divine,
She wanted to devour them one last time.
She couldn’t believe she’d been so foolish,
To throw it all away.
She’d make sure to be more careful,
Till her final days.

Life seemed to be a blissful reality,
One that she’d trade anything to see,
All of its intricacies,
She wished she could take back everything,
In her dreams.
A darker poem, but one I've written for a competition. Tell me what you think!
P.S. Thanks for the support as of late! :)
I accept it.
You’re doing everything
to dim my image,
to rise above,
to play the victim,
to show the world
how much you suffered,
how cruel I must have been.

As if I, too,
hadn’t wept,
hadn’t begged,
hadn’t broken
and rebuilt myself
just to make us work—
two puzzle pieces
that never truly fit.

It seems you need this
more than I do.
Some people must turn you
into the villain
so they can crown themselves
the hero of their own lives.

So I accept it.
I will be
the villain of our story.
I hope it rains once again
That the clouds decide to mourn and cry

As the skies turn grey
The clouds gather together, a coalition of sorrow and joy all at once

I hope that when I look up, I’ll see the rain begin to fall

I hope it rains once again
So that the clouds may shed the tears I never could
I want to cry, but I can’t bring myself to. So I’ll let the clouds do the crying for me, and stand by, watching the clouds do the heavy lifting
 Sep 16 C J MILLER
Reece
I am realizing that the times you spent with me,
Were more of a worry than they were any reprieve.
I guess hindsight is twenty-twenty,
I wish I had seen it sooner so that I could leave.
Now I’m questioning,
Did it mean anything?

What defines a friend?
What separates them from an acquaintance?
I don’t know anymore;
The ones I thought were my friends are strangers,
That I’ve never met before.
Perhaps, there were good times,
But they’re clouded in the grey.
Now I’m left with ambiguity,
To haunt me for my days.

Those times that you laughed,
At a joke I didn’t understand.
Dividing us further by our clear differences.
This lone wolf was meant to hunt on his own,
Dancing with solitude in the comfort of his home.
But the lonely monarch grows tired of his throne,
He’s frozen with fear, for he doesn’t know where to go.

So, what’s next?
How does the second chapter open?
Would it be simpler to just forget?
Or act bitter and broken?
I walk the trial-heavy road,
Of finding new friends.
I wish I were a bloodhound,
To sniff out genuine people,
Who could invest in me.
Authenticity is a rarity,
Amidst all of the fallacies,
Filled to the brim with irony,
And patronizing apathy.

It’s a painful search,
That leaves me questioning my worth,
But I won’t stop looking,
Statistics assure me,
That there’s at least one friend out there, somewhere.
I just have to find them wherever they are.
A friend is as rare as a perfect pair,
And they can be covered with fool’s gold.
How is anyone to know?
Finding honest friends is the hardest quest.
 Sep 15 C J MILLER
peyton
I keep catching myself
thinking about this one thing,
soft, perfect,
the kind of comfort i shouldnt miss this much.

i picture it in my arms,
not imagined,
not far away,
but real, something i can feel breathing,
like its close enough to keep forever.

and i know exactly
what I’m wishing for.
not just a stuffy,
but my stuffy.

the one that feels
a little too perfect to exist,
except, you do.
hehehehehaa
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