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 Jan 2013 Amy Franklin
Ian M
Tired
 Jan 2013 Amy Franklin
Ian M
I write this and I am
Tired
of all that I can
Feel
the hatred of those
Who
just don’t care.

The cold creeps through my
Bones
white like marble
Time
covers the
Pain
caused by all.

Exhaustion creeps through me
like the shadows of the moon.
Yet I know that sometime,
healing will start.
I just hope it comes soon…

I long for sleep
I long for peace
I pray for serenity.

Feeling the creak of my bones
The pain in my joints
The weakness of my muscles
The beating of my heart.

It’s all a waste
And I can taste
The sweet embrace of death.
sometimes I feel like
theres no beginning
to losing and winning
all those people who are
dying and grinning
like the first few lines to a poem
read them so much you get to know them
thats what peoples hearts can be
if you polish them so they're all shiny
and hold their picture up to the skies
find yourself tasting the tears in your eyes
and think about how much ur missing
those cheeks you'd be kissing
and you stand there reminiscing
realizing all those years considered lost
where only true love with no cost
and thats the moment you turn around
thinking about what  you had found
and you make up your mind
that love shouldnt be timed
so you open the door
to the one you adore
Death drove up to me
In his shiny black car.
It was smooth, it was sleek
It was a Jaguar.

He opened the door
And waved at the chair,
Yet all I could do
Was stand there and stare.

He spoke to me in a voice
Seductive and calm,
"Come my dear,
Let me take you by the arm."

"You've had a good life
As you well know,
I see everyone's lives
Played back like a show."

"Some that are sad
And I weep and weep.
Others that are interesting -
Those I like to keep."

"Yours made me laugh,
Yours made me smile.
Though laughing and smiling
Is not my style."

I looked at him.
He stared at me.
I gazed over his shoulder
At the sighing sea.

I got in the car
And we drove into the sun.
My old life had ended,
My new just begun.
a note: I wrote this aged 12 when myself and my family were going through a difficult time. I dedicate this poem to my inspirational Granny Penketh.
My hands
open the curtains of your being
clothe you in a further ******
uncover the bodies of your body
My hands
invent another body for your body.

— The End —