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Beck May 2019
under a table,

behind the door

where nothing is cleaned

not even the floor.

there, lies a body,

collected with dust

piled under splinters, cobwebs, and rust.

its breathing, though ceased,

by a soul, never noticed

the family moves on

never wishing to know it.

roaches and rats snigger with glee,

as the body decays,

first a hand, then a knee.

but, a moment's not passed,

when a slam of the door

finds that He has returned,

to take one thing more.

He looks and he scowls,

finding, perhaps, one thing of use...

a leg of the thing

he once had abused,

"Good for a table,

this leg might be!

but its so sickly, and thin,

what use is it to me?"

he examined the leg,

for a minute or less

and finally said,

with no shortage of breath

"what good were you girl? you did nothing for me.

not this house, not this wallet...

not this family!

for you sat and you sulked,

and you fell on the floor,

and it was quite hard to hide

that you looked such a sore.

and you'd cry and you moan,

until finally you stopped,

but even then, you'd not budge

for a sponge or a mop!

what good were you,

to exist in this way?

where you slept in a bed,

for which, i had to pay?

if you left us much sooner,

before we could see

your bruised little leg and dis-located knee,

we might have not stopped you

from growing so vast,

if you had been good,

if you had worked fast!

But, if you had died,

and we knew then

what we do now,

we could have left you

much sooner, you cow!

but since you've survived,

and we've taken your all,

We must do it ourselves,

and bury you whole."

and the girl, as she slumped

on those wooden floorboards,

did not kick or punch,

or demand her own words,

for she knew how He felt,

when he saw such a sight,

her skin and her bones, were,


quite a fright...

but she did decide

that she'd mention one thought,

for it left and gone

without once being taught.

And this was who she was

cracks, bones, and skin,

with wishes and hopes,

in loss or win.

for the love of all

she, weekly, would pray,

that she might be able

to love one, someday.

she looked up once more,

to the hand holding her knee,

and she spoke such a truth,

which made her instantly free:

"you knew me not here,

nor when i was born,

and certainly not now,

though, my legs, you have torn.

Look at this body,

my blue skin and bones,

and KNOW there's one thing

you never have known!

that this sunken-in skull,

which longed for a dream,

within it, still lives

some incredible things!

Though leaving this world,

though no good for you,

though, you threw me your scraps,

if you threw just a few,

I'll fly and I'll live

past all of your years,

you have not a soul,

you shed not a tear!

O, timeless I'll be,

despite lack of drink

but look at you, sir,

your head does not think!


Look at me now,

while withered

I may be,

and know this you bore,

you never knew me!"
*TRIGGER WARNING* (themes of depression, abuse, isolation, generally non-so-happy verbiage)
I like to write things that let me express inner emotions...

While a lot of it is pretty grim, I think the ending is sort of empowering because the person in the poem has this sort of message (lesson?) that the Other never "knew" her.

I can't really describe why I find this comforting... I guess because it sort of shows that the very people who do so much wrong to us never really knew us, so there is/was a part that they can never touch, betray, or understand. Meaning, we have won... we have kept a part of ourselves unharmed even if it's a minute part that holds dreams and beliefs and whatever else.. I wonder if anyone can relate.
Beck Nov 2016
A new life lives beyond the wall
not a drop of sun flows by
a new movement which some people call
a newfound way to die
if i shared with you a secret
which will leave your eyes in tears
would you pick for me a flower
with its petals shaped like spears?
And when I call upon your name,
if the sunny sky won't shine
will you let me live beneath the soil
before you ever question why?
And, when we both grow weary,
and, when we both grow small
life has a funny way of showing
just how easily we fall.
While I may die and you may lie
beneath the weeds we sow,
can we ever really wonder why
those flowers still won't grow?
For, bearing soil and simple minds,
have easily no doubts
about the love they hold for one
and about the things one shouts.
I wish I could forget it all
my past, which haunts me so
but in my doubt and in my fall,
my weeds continue to grow.
Just a poem. Check out my site
I am always looking for contributors & curious minds.
Beck Feb 2015
They say you are most creative when you are heartbroken
naïve people live content lives
however, boring nonetheless

i just want to cuddle up next to you
in your bed
or mine
id sleep outside if you wanted

i saw you talking to her,
you saw that i noticed
you took the opportunity
and ran-- straight for the bank of my soul
emptied the account...

is it payback
for my actions?
i said i was over it
and you

i was not
i am not

and now
we go back to being strangers

yet i can't seem to accept it

someone please help me--no
i am not desperate,
i will live on
Beck Dec 2014
why did you come here?
for the joy of poetry
or to wallow in self pity

do you write
with a passion for life
or a desire to finally     pick up that knife

i know its hard
but for once,
tell your demons    no
today you will take a walk outside for the first time,
you will keep your head up
tell your demons goodbye.
and your angels, hello.
Beck Dec 2014
sometimes i begin to write
nothing in mind
i confuse myself
yet am shocked by what i produce

even the creator teaches himself in his own insights

interpret yourself openly, freely
be c o u r a g e o u s
  Dec 2014 Beck
"i love you"
doesn't mean a ******* thing, if you spit it down the throat of 20 different girls one night, then get home and plant yourself beside me
"i love you"
i can smell the betrayal on your shirt and taste the **** in your mouth
you ain't nobodys angel
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