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Amelia Owen Dec 2015
Maybe I want to not feel so empty,
Maybe I need to be beside you,
What if you're the solution to my problems,
What if you make me feel less blue?

I need to know if you feel the same,
I need to know if you need me too,
I yearn to know if you think about me,
I yearn to know if we could make it through.
I'm sorry for being overly emotional.
Amelia Owen Dec 2015
it's been so long
i'm trying to write
but the things off the top of my head just don't suffice
maybe by tomorrow
i can write of my dreams
i can write of the things that won't fall apart at the seams
i go long periods of time without writing but i just squeezed this out of my brain
Amelia Owen Jul 2015
I can see the veins in his arms when he walks
And I can see the blue in his eyes when he laughs
And I wish that I could hold his hand and kiss his lips
But I'm so far away from doing that and I don't even know how to get closer,
But oh god, do I want to be his.
I like this guy two grades above me named Andrew and I want to die.
Amelia Owen Jul 2015
Me
I want to describe your eyes the way a poet can describe the sea
Though I am no poet
I am just me
I haven't been on in a very long time.
  Jun 2015 Amelia Owen
Shanijua
The clock strikes 3:30 and the pit behind the school opens.
We feast on the smell of burning skin and sunscreen.
There is chaos as instruments are strewn across the back room,
No exits and the doors are blocked.
My eyes slide past his but I'm too burned out to care.
Freshmen are the worst,
Insisting on acting as if
They are four year olds.
Not a second late, for Whit is never late.
I have lost feeling in my legs
Still I have perfect
Technique just as he does. Water.
Water does not have an existence in this world.
Heat and sun have taken over.
Our tuba players have given up,
There they lay down in the burning
Grass. He never complains.
As I'm close to my breaking point,
Air no longer passes my
Lips and not one note escapes my keys.
The perfect string of notes and rhythm
Sound from my left. He never missed
A note.
March it back,
March it back,
March it back sixteen counts.
An endless routine.
Opening set.
These single words are bitter sweet.
In ten minutes I am free to go home
And write poetry about him.
Amelia Owen Jun 2015
The way the sea
Forgets to calm
Or how the wind
Forgets to sing
I will forget my sadness
When I see you
idk
  May 2015 Amelia Owen
Tina ford
She wore yellow shoes on her wedding day,
They reminded her of the sun,
She wore a blackened garter,
To remind her of what he'd done,

She wore a deep green eye pencil,
To remind her of meadows true,
Red upon her cheeks so pale,
Enlightened her eyes cold blue,

She wore a clinging silken gown,
Caressing her curvy form,
The brightest white, as white as snow,
That glistened in the dawn,

Around her neck a silver chain,
As silver as her hair,
She sat alone, elegantly,
In her old dusty armchair,

Fifty years had passed away,
Like the flight of an albatross,
Her shoulders weighted heavily,
As she carried her burdened cross,

For on that day, her wedding day,
She waited and waited more,
He never showed, and left her there,
He'd left her alone once more,

She stared into the looking glass,
As her life had passed her by,
But every May, she wore the dress,
And a tear fell from her eye,

She wore yellow shoes on her wedding day,
They reminded her of the sun,
And now the blackened garter,
Lay on the floor undone.
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