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 Nov 2020 Sierra Barr
jj
An idiot is harmless,
Until that idiot falls in love,
Then they’re willing to do anything,
For the person they’re in awe of.

Whether its building a new world,
Or burning the old one down,
They’ll stop at nothing,
To give their love a crown.

Now if that love fades,
And they are left weeping,
They could take one of two paths,
Both will leave an empty heart unsleeping.

Path one is war and rampage,
Destroy everything in their way,
Path two is depression and tears,
They may cause their own doomsday.

Either way an idiot is harmless,
Until that idiot falls in love,
And if you happen to cross that idiot,
Beware for they do not care, they are deprived of---------
i might be an idiot in love.
 Nov 2020 Sierra Barr
Orange Rose
I wrote a poem when I died...
Another at my birth.
A brand-new sonnet when I cried.
And again when there was mirth.

A song for my confession...
A story for my pain...
A painting for depression...
And nursery rhymes for rain.

My creations live inside my heart.
I keep them there in shame.
Yet you looked around and saw my art,
And smiled all the same.
 Nov 2020 Sierra Barr
Ally Ann
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
don't
 Nov 2020 Sierra Barr
Grace Conde
I exist
on the border
between Reality,
and the Imaginary.

I breathe in belligerent Black,
and Withering whites.
I am incapable of grays,
a gradient of gruesome Grief.

I dance on the Border,
exhaling exuberant fragility,
my border is made of glass.

And I rise from the ashes,
a Byproduct of the
bridges I've burned.
Craving soothing touch,
Yet silently seeking
Incriminating Isolation,
Addicted to my own destruction.

A shattered soul dutifully
Dances on the Border,
Held captive by her sins.
Trapped between Good
and Bad. Happiness
and Heartbreak. Lost
and Found. Death
and Resurrection.

Born on the Border, a
Simple Figment of
Immoral Imagination.
 Nov 2020 Sierra Barr
Isabelle
i touched your soul
and scribbled my name on it
love, you’ll never get lost again

— The End —