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Poems are a fun thing to write,
The way my pen lit up at night,
And the only way I ever felt bright.

It became more than just an ordinary hobby,
Surrounded by people who said poets are ******.

Poetry is a way of life,
A way to survive,
A path for people who pray to stay alive,
Settled a life filled with strife,
And nothing left to do but let words strive.

That is why I'm still on Earth,
Writing felt like natures calling,
Because even when I was free falling,
Picking up a pen,
Meant picking myself up again.
I remember your hair,
As it lit up the night,
I remember the sight.

I remember the morning after we'd fight,
Because we never made the wrongs right,
You'd face to the left and I to the right.

Back against back the next day,
Not a single word we could say,
To make anything go the right way.

I remember your heart made of clay,
The way your sight had stray,
And I could remember you walking away........

That day.
I want to inject music into my bloodstream,
Maybe then
I'll feel a beat come through my heart for once.
Listening to a cover  of Twenty One Pilots' "Stressed Out".
One day they're going to forget about you.
They're going to move on.
One day they're going to disappear.
They're going to be long gone.

One day they're going to be with someone else.
They're going to start a family.
One day they're going to have everything.
They're going to be happy.

One day they're going to sit and think.
They're going to be listening to music in their car.
One day they're going to hear your favorite song.
They're going to wonder where you are.

One day they're going to see that the lyrics finally make sense.
They're going to think they should have noticed before.
One day they're going to see the connection.
They're going to realize you're the one they're meant for.

One day they're going to have sadness growing in their hearts.
They're going to try and blame fate.
One day they're going to feel the pain.
They're going to be already far too late.
They chose suicide,
With belief that somehow it soothe inside,
For when the grass turned blue,
They had no idea of what else to do.
A feeling that nothing mattered and it was a waste of time,
Laying lines after lines of sadness upon their arms,
Until they finally did themselves harm.
The people who walked a road alone,
Or seemingly alone,
Saw friends as strangers,
And family as dangers.

I had a friend,
A close friend,
Almost a best friend.
Sadly this friend chose the bitter end,
Tormented by names the other kids called her,
From man to other names regarding her masculinity,
The edged blades of brutality,
That rained upon her soul,
And no matter how much time I spent with her, she still has a hole.

I visit her once in a while now,
We'd talk through different realms somehow,
She'd reply in silence,
But i know she would have said something like
'look up to the sky dilweed, theres so much to see. Look at the ******* clouds, look at the sun it shines for you you *******'.
The way she'd berate me but in warm gesture,
I will always remember the one thing she said to me,
'The path you pave is yours to walk, be it alone with a friend, it will always be your path. What matters is you get your ******* *** of the couch and walk that path you lazy ***".

How does suicide.....
soothe a person's inside.
Does her heart and soul,
Finally feel peace as a whole?
the less I
know.
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
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