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Shall you discover that,
Her eyes are not as big as the moon,
Skin not golden but a tanned pink,
You could never tell woe and her apart.

By the passenger seat of her jaw,
A chipped tooth hidden behind a laugh,
The oddest tint of awe,
The asymmetry of the softest flesh.

As she strips off one by one,
The realisation of obscurity,
An alien to what you have perceived,
To be just another mediocre heart.

For she lingers around death,
And you are terrified of the dark,
A girl far from pretty,
The girl who radiates like the Sun.
That "oh ****" moment.
© 2015 Izzah Batrisyia
Poets** were put on this earth to suffer because without it where would our thoughts come we thrive under hard times when life leaves you breathing nothing but sulfur but when in serenity we find we finally unwind and calm our troubled minds until the rug is pulled from under our feet down back to the deep we venture writing of sorrow surviving for the serenity to return to our world again
I've come to notice I write most of my work when i am depressed and my best work intoxicated by love however love hurts and back to the abyss I have fallen
 Mar 2015 Gillian Drake
Angie S
What fine weather we’re experiencing today;
Let’s go outside, let’s not delay.
We’ll chase the birds and climb a tree,
The door’s before us and we’ve got the key.
And while we’re feasting on the warmth of summer,
I’ll ask you, won’t you be my lover?
What fine weather we’re experiencing today.
But with you, it’s always a good day.
No matter what the weather is, my love for you will stay steady.
 Mar 2015 Gillian Drake
Mari
I don't know
how much longer I can cope
with the demons
in my head
and monsters under my bed
I feel the walls caving in
crumpling like
paper
slowly giving way
to the pressure
slowly fracturing and tearing
at the structure
of my
Barely. Breathing. Heart.
 Mar 2015 Gillian Drake
Mari
Dilema
 Mar 2015 Gillian Drake
Mari
All those years ago
without even
realizing
what I was doing
I picked myself apart
laying all the pieces across the floor
and said
"I don't like my eyes"
my mother asked
"why?"
I shrugged my reply
"they're too dark and remind me of mud"
then it was
"my hair looks like damp dirt"
and
"I hate my smile, my tooth is crooked"
I hid my
bruised legs behind jeans
and scrawny arms
beneath long sleeves
always stepping on tip toes
for an extra inch
"I'm too short to keep up"
always being teased
"you're so short and tiny like Santa's elves"
and slowly over time
I began to hate
my own
skin
lashing out at anyone who got too close
and while I appreciate
others trying to
fix me, the problem is
how do You
Fix
something I created?
People keep trying to fix me but the thing is you can't simply erase the damage I caused myself without even knowing. Sure others played a part but I dug my own grave.
I stole my voice from a red headed boy my freshman year of high school. His twiddling thumbs and broken pencils caught my eye,
I picked up the bad habit like it was smoke entering my pretty pink lungs  for the first time.
I wrote run on sentences that lingered somewhere between lyrical and tragic,
I stumbled through nouns and mumbled my way to failing before I even tried. I just wanted peace to expand my broken artistic ability,
My home life was anything but quiet. I drowned out the noise with cracking spines,
A new book with perfect pages... I wanted to staple myself into them. Managing sadness with stress I took to the lines of notebooks to relieve my aching emotions,
My eyes continued to flutter shut in disappointment so I took to writing about others,
Women in back alleys that guzzle bottles of catcalls like a baby,
fishnets aren't the unspoken yes.
Men who cry themselves to sleep at night,
third world countries that have it worse than us,
My eyes are still dry from staring at the broken pencils in front of me. Unfinished pieces of art that speak loudly in the minds of others,
but leave me with fake expression and a burning in my throat that won't go away. I picked up the bad habit of a worldly mind that couldn't keep it's mouth shut, and
with all the smoke entering my lungs...
I'm writing in staggering breaths and coughs. I'm writing in screams and shouts and  complete ignorance to what's going on around me,
maybe I should start with the room i'm sitting in. Maybe,
I should start with me. But not with my sadness or my stress or my life at home,
I'll start with the passion that I stole from a redheaded boy my freshman year of high school. I'll start with my bad... habits.
Work in progress, yo.

— The End —