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Poetry should go for a walk at night
Through the park
lay in the due sprinkled grass
and gaze up at the sky lit by stars and a Hunter's Moon
With you

Poetry should put on a crimson red dress
With blackened leather boots
And sing for all of the ladies and gentlemen
Who drove for miles just too hear her voice

Poetry should put on her blue and white polka dotted galoshes
Dance in the rain and jump in puddles with the kids
and let the rain drizzle upon her head
With not a care if she gets wet

Poetry should sit down and curl up by the fire
sip some hot chamomile tea
And read a captivating book that Richard Tyler would befriend
Until she drifts into sleep

Poetry should paint you a picture of love
One that starts with a smile, blue sky's, the brine flavored ocean
And ends with your lips running across my chest
while my hands caress the nape of your neck
and yours entwine with the tangles of my hair

Poetry should make the colors of the leaves turn
as clouds creep into the sky leaving a blanket of crystals on the ground
Poetry should thaw out your forgotten memories
that froze like the once trickling creek
so you can know that every second is worth while
Re-vised from a poem I wrote 6 years ago which was inspired by a poem that starts out with "poetry should"..... these are my poetry's should.

Also much love if you know who Richard Tyler is and no, not the fashion designer.


<3
You know though,
it still hurts
and it's still ****** up
and life goes on
and I mean I loved you, god I loved you.
But time has gone by, **** it's been going by so fast.
Two winters ago I would have never even
questioned us, even if it was me from the future
I still would have ignored myself.
Just a fool that was played and how can
other people go through this all the time?
And I guess you got your wish. A child at the young age of 20,
something that a once 17 year old girl should not have to give.
I don't mean to sound like a girl that
had her heart broken, because really
love is something that I never wanted to dabble in
and I do not want to be weak, sad, and pathetic.
This doesn't seem like poetry to me and it's because
my inspiration has been torn out. But here is a plot twist: I think
I hate nicole more.
"Fill me up, steam me up, hear me shout, tip me over and poor me out. Poor me out on the concrete, next to your feet. Do I have to cry? How can you hear me? Oh, Just to be with you"



I want to scream at the top of my lungs,
Oh, please notice me.
Don't call me man or bro....
It breaks my heart everytime.
I look at you and think of the times we have
spent together, few, but amazing.
And after them, how can you see me just as a friend?
How can you pull me close and dig your face into my neck
and not think I don't want more? You fell asleep in my arms as
we watching the lightning. How many hits can I take?
I feel bliss around you and all I want to do is kiss you,
but I fear if I tried you would deny me and say that you don't share the same
love for me as I do you.


"You look at me holding on to a dream that filled me long ago, but I'm still wating. I'm still holding on"
"Hey, all you nice guys out there?

It's not so easy being a nice girl either.

Just sayin'."
I was born to be a child that planted seeds of
happiness in whoever I met, so my parents have told me.
I don't think I have ever had the leading role in
this play. I've never been that girl who everyone fawns
over with the spot light shining on her all the time.
I was meant to help others like the backstage hands.
My biggest accomplishment was teaching my mom
how to laugh at herself. She has always been that
busy workaholic type.
At this point in my life, it is only Act III Scene II and there
hasn't been a visible plot yet. My soul is chameleon, and
it is indecisive as to what color it should be. My ideas
of what I want to give to this world change all the
time. But soon if I don't pick, I will be thrown into
a ****** without any heading. My most secret dream
is to become a painter, but nobody has ever understood
that part of me. When I paint, I lose all consciousness of
the outside world and there is no incentive to paint
besides the love of  looking at a finished piece. Maybe
one day I'll be a starving artist who gets a break and then
I will get my spotlight on stage.
My death was at an odd time in my life. I never
got to fully experience what it was like to be an adult.
My life was filled with waiting, waiting to be
finally old enough to do the things I wanted to
do. I waited to go out with my friends after dark like
you see in the movies. In them you always see teenagers going
on road trips and I waited thinking to myself 'that
will be the day I have fun.'  But even when I did get
older, I never did those things.
I filled my life with fantasy- reading books that projected
the world that I wanted to experience. I sought out magic
in people and the things I did. My magic was painting.
The art room was the place I felt special and like I had
reason to be.
But even so, I waited with my artistic skills. I waited
for them to get better, but they never did.
I always loved helping people. I would always be nice
and I looked for the best in them hoping and wanting
to be liked by everyone- and what teenage girl doesn't
want to be? I waited for the invites to parties to go
get drunk at, I waited to get a high school sweetheart, and
I waited for the time when I would be prom queen.
These are the things that I thought where what you
did in school and I yearned for these experience.
They never came.
I thought that those things would make me happy,
that if I waited long enough they would just naturally accrue.
But I waited for the wrong things. I never realized that
sometimes you have to dive into what you love like
painting and that you have to look around and appreciate
the people and moments that are now.
I had to write an Epitaph about my life for an English class. So this is it.
You ever think of death?
Some fear the thought of it, afraid
because what they have done in this life.... will haunt them
in the next.

But others they can't wait to take the plunge,
today a boy killed himself.
I mean he took not his life, but the life that his parents put into him
      How? Why?      I don't know. Can anyone answer my questions? Can anyone hear the thoughts that scream in my head of what really matters... It seems to me nothing does.
Was it all pre-planed by a god the-- God?

I don't know, I don't know, I don't know(Do I want to know?).............. Just the other day a boy was left out in the cold and died, he somehow got across town, away from his fraternity, his "brothers." Not just a few blocks away from my house.

And with that, a girl, who I knew, died from sickness and overworking herself.... When she knew she was sick...... did she do this to herself?

Was it known that all these people would die at these specific times, down to a point blank of the second,  because every movement, every thought, and choice they ever made led up to that moment of their life.

Had this god made up their life, and known?


It is weird to think that these peoples bodies are still here, yet lifeless.... how can a body be limp? How does a life leave? What causes it? What causes death, death of a body-of a soul leaving from a beating heart and thinking mind... Personalities gone.


I don't know, and it hurts some part of me that I can't explain.

I ask you to think of not being alive, of there to be nothing after death---- try. Try picturing a world without your thought. Going further than picturing a black nothingness....
It's like everyone is moving forward,
but
     I
     am
          staying
                      in
                         the
                              same
                          ­            place.
Their minds sweep with their plans with maybe going off to some school or how they know what they are going to do forever.

I'm split, feet sprawled onto two cliffs as they pull away
slowly ticking                            off four months
this side?                                     or this side?                             Pick a side, pick a side... what side???
                   w
                      h
                        * a
      ­                     * t

                                       i
                                      f
                   ­             I
                                      f
      ­                                 a
                                       l
                                      l
                   ­           r
                                i
              ­                   g
                                   h
                                    t
                     ­                         down
                               ­              t
                                            h
             ­                             e
                          m
  ­                           i
                               d
                                 d
                                     l
                                     e
                                      ?

Help help help........... but everyone tells me I have enough time.                 You will figure it out, they say.



"It'll be interesting to see what you go into... very interesting"        
                                                                ­         You would do great here.... great things indeed.

I feel like harry potter when he's getting sorted, but the difference is between me and him is that no hat is picking what I do...
                                   No hat picking a path for me to go down..
                                                        ­                                                down...
       ­                                                                 ­                                          down....
I have no escape from the future, and I'm going in blind.
                                                      ­                                               We will see how long this foundation can hold

          m
              
                    e.
         ­               .
                           .
                       .
                    .
                  .
                .
   ­           .
            .
             .
               .
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