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 May 2017 Zoe Byrd
ryrosaur
It's late.
And I type too loudly.
I barely even wrote anything - I just apologized for running.
They broke up with me and I hid away for a month.
This weekend? Yeah, I locked myself in my room and didn't come out.
Sorry I dunno how to write and it's late and ghosts are walking around upstairs again
 May 2017 Zoe Byrd
ryrosaur
I've already prepared myself for the loneliness which is sure to come.
I just got back from Burger King.
I found out that I don't like Burger King.
This is not a poem, this is a boy/non-binary-human complaining about fast food in the American society. Especially in the South. GUYS.
 May 2017 Zoe Byrd
ryrosaur
My hands keep shaking.
Pronouns are a mess.
Help? No, nothing really helps anymore.
I'm just
Kind of
Here
Essentially, there's really nothing left.
I'm a body running on automatic.
Whelp
I wrote a thing
I can't write poetry, but I can rant about emotional turmoil!!!
 May 2017 Zoe Byrd
ryrosaur
1/24/17

I talked to her today.
I cried in gym class over it.
I told myself what to say and I just couldn’t.
But I said what I needed to, and she apologized. We talked it out—actually had a nice, diplomatic discussion about it, and I got a promise. I know she’s trying.

And the funny thing is that I don’t feel completely emotionally drained anymore.
There’s something there.

2/8/17
It’s gone again. I think it was the drugs I was on: they cleared my mind.
Made me forget.
I lost everything I’d gained that day.
Pain meds. Hospital. Long story.
 May 2017 Zoe Byrd
Alyssa
I scroll through many pictures, from many friends
But they aren't friends.
They are simple just faces with a name set in front of them
with no soul, just a technological aura.
You don't know where their lives have gone,
what deep dark roads their minds have decided to take.
But what you do know is the way they do their hair, or their makeup.
You know a generalized assumption of who or what they are.
Soul's no longer seem to have meaning,
not like they once did.
Children will completely develop by the age 13,
With fake eyelashes and acrylic nails,
but when I was thirteen the only thing on my nails was the stains
from the mud in which I used to once play in.
Poverty ridden streets are just as ridden with $2,000 dollar cameras to capture the pain in someones life,
yet no change is given.
One day greediness and selfishness will be awarded
when the neediness is outshined
and selflessness is seen to be crazy.
We live in a TV,
and the streets are the circuits.
The government is running us,
worse than a circus.
This was random and it;s kinda ******,
 May 2017 Zoe Byrd
Ana S
Why is it we speak language. One uniformed form of speech. It's acceptable in society that's why.
Why is it if you can believe in a god that he still puts babies in the graves. Kids dying for illness everyday. Explain that.
Why is it that life quality still *****. I'm still here. Me and my bottomless bottles of pills.
Four of these. Two of these. One of that.
Why am I here.
Do I have purpose?
Maybe my purpose was to be a faint memory...
One to pass with the blowing leaves.
Either way i am here.
Either way I'm still clinging to life.
Pill by pill.
Medical ritual after ritual.
I am here.
Alive.
 May 2017 Zoe Byrd
Jellyfish
After rereading what you said to me,
now for the seventh time...
I'm starting to wonder if I am like her.
She dumps all her problems on a forum
while I dump mine here.
It's true I once was sad enough to hurt
but I showed no one.
You were there during this time
do you not remember?
How dark I became...
You hold yourself high on a pedestal
and like to think you made me who I am today.
While you did take part in the little things
you did not make me.
All you've made me is negative energy,
little smiles in between didn't help anything, not really.
Friends don't do these things,
not to each other.
I should have learned sooner.
Though I often wonder
when it all went under, the waves.
The waves that swallowed our loyalty.
Why did things have to get so difficult?
Leaving me always feeling so questionable, towards you.
You say I can trust you,
and that one slip up means nothing.
But I remember the last "slip up"
and the one before that, and the one before that.
You call me hypocritical,
for doing something in my past
that is completely unrelatable.
IT WAS NOT YOUR STORY TO TELL.
To anyone. Ever.
I hope you know, I would never
tell someone of your past.
Not the painful things that hurt you,
not the times you felt tearful.
*Why do you not care?*
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