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Rain Jan 2019
Maybe we cut
Because the monster we've tried so hard to be rid of
Isn't hunting us,
Isn't near us,
Isn't lurking around the corner to come get us
But is in us

It is Us
We run so fast and so far to escape our monsters, but more often than not we find that _we_ are what we’ve despised.
Rain Jan 2019
War
Pain.
So much pain
It flows all around me, all-encompassing
Like a thick, viscous syrup
The dust hangs heavy in the air, no wind to blow it away
The flies, they swarm in clouds
Surrounding and enhancing the stink of death
Their incessant buzzing fills my ears

I look to my left and see a soldier boy’s broken body lying in the dirt, his face marred with scars
Can hear his ragged, sharp intakes as he fights for his life
Slowly trailing off into wet, ****** gurgles.
I’ve never seen death before, but somehow I know that this,
This is it
And I realize he’s close to it
I’ve never felt grief before
But I know its stabbing ache now,
Harsher with every crippled body I see
Growing gradually into an unnatural stillness
I beg for the soldier boy to hold out, I plead silently for him to live
But I know in my heart that he won’t.

Suddenly he chokes out a single word-
“Water!” He gasps
I startle and he falls back again, into the blood-soaked mud
I shift, starting toward him, when liquid fire shoots up my arm
Hissing breath,
White spots
I can hardly see
Can barely breathe

Nearly immobilized by anguish, I move once more to help him
Water trickles into his open mouth,
And then, for the first time, I see the light of life leave someone’s eyes

I slump onto the hard, unforgiving soil
Down, down, my eyes travel
Roaming over what’s left of my arm
Flesh and shards of bone
My gaze swivels around to the ****** landscape
Shredded bodies, torn horses kicking at the air
Death, so much death.
For long hours I lay baking in the sun, surrounded by devastation
At last, long last, far beyond the point of hope,
The Giver brings me back.
I turn my sunken stare to him, and he hides his stricken face
For showing all that I now know
“Forgive me,” he whispers
I nod absently
So.
That was War.
This was written as an assignment for English class, and is about Jonas' first interaction with war and tragedy, from the book The Giver.
Rain Jan 2019
"Do you ever wonder if a painter ever tires of his colors?"

Does a painter ever tire of his colors?

Well, here is what I consider;
Does a bird ever tire to sing?
Does an instrument ever tire of its tune?
Indeed, does a poet ever tire of his words?

I, though I am surely no expert, say that it is not so
For as a bird may sing a hundred songs yet speak no lyrics,
As the instrument may contain a thousand songs therein, whilst keeping its tunes the same,
As a poet may conceive of an abundance of lyrical wonders, poems so sad or sweet to make a grown man weep, but only the order of the words he uses may change

As all of this is so, I say this:
A painter may yet tire of his colors, but all artists are only given so much
So if a painter and a creator he truly is,
They shall surely find again a new way to use that which they were gifted
For colors, words, tunes- these are all limited, and infinity does not present itself in any
Yet that is the unique power granted to artists,
they create a multitude of works from the most limited material

And isn't that what sets us artists apart?
The ability to make something beautiful from but a few colors, from but a few words, from but a few tunes

Essentially,
To be able to carve infinity from something finite.

So again, I say it is not so - a painter should never tire of his colors, but only think longer on how he should next arrange them.
This was written in response to poet Eleanor Sinclair's work titled "Wonder", which asked the question of whether or not one thought a painter ever got tired of his colors. You guys should totally go check out her other poems - they're really good!!
Rain Dec 2018
Stress.

























































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Oh, and education, I guess.
Pretty much sums it up.
Rain Nov 2018
“Yeah?”
Don’t do it.
“You really think I care?”
This isn’t you
“I hate you!”
Stop, be done and let it rest
You make me miserable, not them.”
End it, you’ll only cause damage and pain, you’re blind with anger and you should walk away
”You make me wish I were dead."
Said in deadpan, voice with no inflection, yet packed with emotion
There it is, you've done it now.  See their tears? See the way they threaten to fall?
Please, see me! I don't mean it
Yes I do
No I don't!
Please!
Please...
I stand there, helpless in rage, even as unwanted tears roll down my cheeks

As I watch I see their fury slowly die
Replaced by hurt and anguish
And soon my anger, too, fades away
Yet the words are already out

I feel as if I were an insect caught fast in a web
The more I thrash and strike, the more I am ensnared

They turn away, their face is hidden
Yet still I stand here inert
Inside something cracks and shatters
Yet I do not reach out my hand

Slowly they draw themselves up
Pointed away
Away from my piercing words
Away from the dagger that has become my tongue
Away from my bullets disguised as speech
Away, away, away
Away from me

Suddenly I stagger forwards,
calling out their name!
"Wait! I... I..."
Nothing.
The sentence hangs, it must have caught between my heart and mouth

Please, I didn't mean it!
I want to howl
Please, don't listen to me
I was trapped in the heat of my fury, and fool enough to let it show

I want to scream after them
"Please, see me
Not my words
Please... please, don't walk away"
I would quietly beg
My voice hoarse and expression haggard, I would stand there limply
And they would walk briskly back and we would embrace and all would be well and and and...

But no.
I could not speak any of this
And so away they walked
Into the gloomy night

And me, still standing there
My heart so loud yet my mouth too slow, too slow and too fast

Finally, I too turn away, eyes damp and heart heavy, full of words unsaid
I climb numbly up, back to my room
And write all the things I wish I would say
Distantly hoping that next time, they might find their way out sooner

Maybe there will be another chance,
Maybe it's too late
Maybe they will forgive me
Maybe they're too far gone
Maybe, maybe, maybe...

Maybe my mind will work better tomorrow
But if not, at least
I have the words down now
Finally set in ink and paper
Will they ever see this poem, I wonder?
I wonder...
Sometimes we all get caught up in our emotions. Some less, some more, but everyone has, and it's hard when there are all these thoughts inside but you Just. Can't. get them out.
Rain Aug 2018
I keep my age and name hidden
Locked away indeed
Can't have internet strangers
searching through my feed
Looking for girls naive enough
Trusting enough
Pretty enough
Young enough

Watching, waiting
Anticipating a catch
Clever leeches
******* away our vitality
Ensnaring the lovely
Making money off friends,
Siblings
Daughters
Success from our blind innocence

Need it be this way?
Whether it does or no, I shall hide my name and age
And in safety I will stay

But I know many who do not,
I cannot be with them forever
And I fear that one day, somehow
The evil that has beset so many others
May then take them too,
Simply another stupid teen
Too dumb to realize that the world was crouching,
waiting to ****** them away
Forever, never to be seen talking or laughing again

I hate this.
I haven't written in a while, but I needed a place to vent. How can people be so awful? Be careful who you put your trust in, especially on the internet, and if you see someone else making bad decisions, stop them. Do not let the world be an even darker place then it already is.
Rain Jul 2018
If everyone had superhuman abilities, then guess what we would all be called?
Normal.
If every single person could lift a thousand pounds, then it would be no longer considered extraordinary;
It would be deemed merely
Normal.
You are stunningly beautiful, talented, and smart
As is your neighbor, your friend, and everyone surrounding you.
All display their talents in different ways,
Some in jobs
Some in science
Some in love
And it is all, completely, 100%,
Normal.
We are all superhuman in my mind, and I look at each person with astonished amazement, constantly wondering how they could ever be considered
Normal
But I think
We have all been exposed to so much talent and brilliance
That we have become desensitized to it
So I say,
If this is what is considered Normal, then I too wish to be Normal
So
I am Normal
You are Normal
And congratulations to the both of us
I found one of my old entries in a journal that I'd totally forgotten about, but here it is (I changed it a bit, but the main point is the same). Looking back among my darker thoughts and wishes at that time, re-reading something hopeful instead was somewhat refreshing, and I hope you find it so as well.
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