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I am not your maid.
I am not your personal cook.
I am not a butler for you to boss about.
I'm not your employee...
Your slave, nor am I anything of the such.
I'm not a *** doll.
Or a pillow to cuddle with.

I am a person made up of water, blood and flesh.

I think.
I feel.
I bleed.
I cry.
I laugh.
And I live.

Please don't confuse these things.

For I am real.
And you shouldn't take me for granted.
Don't mistake my apathy for empathy.
(I) decided to visit you

(W)anting to say i miss you
(A)nd to finally try and kiss you
(N)ever knew it could be real
(T)he 2 of us was just a dream

(T)onight will pass through
(O)ur fantasy will become true

(F)ree of what they'll think
(U)niting in your bed we'll link
(C)ream, oils and sweat, i'll be
(K)illing it all night till the end

(Y)ou above me
(O)r me above you
(U)nified under one moon

Words Of Harfouchism
Just for fun
With a tear in my eye
I tell you good bye
Knowing that
I wish this
To be the last words
I type
I feel so alone
As I let the tears run freely
I grab a blade
Cut my wrists
'Till I feel no pain
I know I'm dying
So I work to finish it
I dump my head
In the water
Not able to breathe
I feel so trapped
I hear a faint beep
Then ringing
Is this what
death is like
I pull my head
Out of the water
Notice that
I'm still alive
See a new text
The phone ringing
Another text
Another call
I guess someone
Really does care
Well three someone's
I hear a knock on the door
Should I ignore it
And carry through my plans
Of drowning in a bath-tub
But I called out
And asked what they wanted
We had company
How weird
I get out
Wishing I wasn't as weak
Then I see the person
I said good-bye to
Her and her family
With tears in their eyes
I feel so bad
Why was I so shallow
Couldn't I see
The only thing goodbyes bring
Are tearful eyes
I know
I'm not alone
You're there with me
I now know
I can tell you everything
You won't judge me
You really do care I feel like
Well a *****
Knowing that I'll be ok
With a tear in my eye
I start to cry
So this is a poem about my suicide attempt on November 12th 2011. I probably would be dead if it wasn't for that friend coming to save me.
Fly
I wish somehow
I could grow wings and fly
fly to a place
where people were happy
where people smiled
where people came out
and spoke their minds
where people weren't afraid to fly
because of the chance
that they could fall

Let me show you the way
I'll spread my wings
I'll set the example
Please don't just die
At least give it a try
You can do it
Everyone can fly
if they face their fears

Jump
just
freaking
jump

Jump to discover that you can
and you will
actually fly
Let go of the pains of the past
the one where suicide
was an option
where depression
was a way of life

Leave that world
I know you can
be the light
that everyone needs
by spreading your wings
and taking that step
to
fly
The wind rustled the leaves
The smell of plants filled the air
The snow on the ground
Turning into mud puddles
Children Jumping
In their new pink ducky boots
The smiles on their lips
The laughter shared from parents
Everyone was happy
Joy was everywhere
But there was a girl
Sitting on the sides
Watching as it all
Just passed her by
No one saw the girl
Was she even there
Until a boy
Walked over and shared
He looked at her
In her yellow worn boots
Her scratchy old jacket
And tangled hair
He took off his jacket
And then his boots
And became an outcast
Just like her
She had a friend now
At six years old
Someone noticed her
Maybe a spring day
Could wash away the pain
So I wrote this for some History extra credit, and fell in love with it. I hope you do too.
 Aug 2014 Victoria Johnson
Adam
We are each born
A box full of pieces
But as the years pass
We are faultily rearranged
Jammed into wrong spaces
Lost under the couch
And as the years pass
We look less of what we were
And now more of who we are

Luckily, unlike puzzles
Our pieces can be replaced
Our cut outs can be reshaped
And even if we are misplaced
Someone will put you back together
Everyone changes, however we don't fade, even feeling nonexistent. We are probably just hiding in the couch.
Running my fingers
Through your too long hair.

Finding out you don't care how much
I want to touch you, that's rare.

Sliding along, every inch of your smooth skin
Mouth tingling, thinking, not knowing where to begin

Being touched, from head to toe
Licking my lips, wondering where you'll go

Staring into your eyes, knowing there's nothing between us
Leaning back moaning, feeling all the love and lust

Knowing that all you want is me too
That's my freedom, simply having you.
Loud without the wind was roaring
Through th'autumnal sky;
Drenching wet, the cold rain pouring,
Spoke of winter nigh.
All too like that dreary eve,
Did my exiled spirit grieve.
Grieved at first, but grieved not long,
Sweet--how softly sweet!--it came;
Wild words of an ancient song,
Undefined, without a name.

"It was spring, and the skylark was singing:"
Those words they awakened a spell;
They unlocked a deep fountain, whose springing,
Nor absence, nor distance can quell.

In the gloom of a cloudy November
They uttered the music of May ;
They kindled the perishing ember
Into fervour that could not decay.

Awaken, o'er all my dear moorland,
West-wind, in thy glory and pride!
Oh! call me from valley and lowland,
To walk by the hill-torrent's side!

It is swelled with the first snowy weather;
The rocks they are icy and ****,
And sullenly waves the long heather,
And the fern leaves are sunny no more.

There are no yellow stars on the mountain
The bluebells have long died away
From the brink of the moss-bedded fountain--
From the side of the wintry brae.

But lovelier than corn-fields all waving
In emerald, and vermeil, and gold,
Are the heights where the north-wind is raving,
And the crags where I wandered of old.

It was morning: the bright sun was beaming;
How sweetly it brought back to me
The time when nor labour nor dreaming
Broke the sleep of the happy and free!

But blithely we rose as the dawn-heaven
Was melting to amber and blue,
And swift were the wings to our feet given,
As we traversed the meadows of dew.

For the moors! For the moors, where the short grass
Like velvet beneath us should lie!
For the moors! For the moors, where each high pass
Rose sunny against the clear sky!

For the moors, where the linnet was trilling
Its song on the old granite stone;
Where the lark, the wild sky-lark, was filling
Every breast with delight like its own!

What language can utter the feeling
Which rose, when in exile afar,
On the brow of a lonely hill kneeling,
I saw the brown heath growing there?

It was scattered and stunted, and told me
That soon even that would be gone:
It whispered, "The grim walls enfold me,
I have bloomed in my last summer's sun."

But not the loved music, whose waking
Makes the soul of the Swiss die away,
Has a spell more adored and heartbreaking
Than, for me, in that blighted heath lay.

The spirit which bent 'neath its power,
How it longed--how it burned to be free!
If I could have wept in that hour,
Those tears had been heaven to me.

Well--well; the sad minutes are moving,
Though loaded with trouble and pain;
And some time the loved and the loving
Shall meet on the mountains again!
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