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My heart will not be denied
Soul, body, and mind
I will not be confined
I'll reach for the sky
This, I will live by

Even after I die
I will be immortal
My words have no goodbyes


**-Joseph B Schneider
© Joseph B Schneider. All rights reserved
 Feb 2015 Cheyanne Lemons
a
you had a green thumb,
planting rose after rose.
but when you grew bored,
a tulip would show.  
her stem was too short,
her smell did grow hazy
so not long after that,

you planted this daisy.

I thought I was special,
I thought I was yours.
until I saw you water
that daffodil *****.
(shoutout to the daffodil who ****** my boyfriend)
 Feb 2015 Cheyanne Lemons
a
insomnia
 Feb 2015 Cheyanne Lemons
a
if you can't sleep,
            then you cant dream.
                             if you cant dream,
                                      then what's life mean?
bullet
here's to a la mort of a love that can never be,
a outrance of feelings that never got to be expressed.
i hate that my heart is so refractory,
how can i be in love with someone i know nothing about?

never seen you yet somehow i've seen you,
never spoken to you yet i've had numerous conversations about you..
i want to enodate my thoughts onto the canvas that is your heart,
but how can i?

you're probably in love with a lightskin beauty,
but is there any room for a caramel skinned Queen?
or will i be too much of a challenge,
too much of something too brilliant?

my feelings for you are pygalgia,
please darling allow me the chance
to search your soul & find the most unappealing things,
but love you anyway...

you're soul is too ostrobogulous for a quean,
may my being coruscate in the very darkest place of your heart.
til you realize your soul's worth,
til you realize yupukta my love.
for one of my readers..
 Feb 2015 Cheyanne Lemons
a
when i was 10,
my father said,
"i'll walk the aisle when you wed. "
when i was 12,
my father unfurled,
"you're dead to me if you like girls."
when i was 14,
my father cried,
"slit those wrists, say goodbye."
when i was 15,
my father did grieve,
"pick up your bags, i need you to leave."
now at 16,
my father is silent.
my home is too far,
my wrists are still violent.
my family is none,
my bones have grown weary.
life's closing my door;
deaths locking the windows,
im trapped in a shell
of homosexual innuendos.
(if you struggle with sexuality or abuse due to, call this hotline 1-800-850-8078)
I like poetry
Like a painter likes art
While they make brush strokes
I stand up and try to evoke
Feelings  
I can’t paint a picture with a brush
But I sure as hell can with words
For instance
Some of the most beautiful things
Come from sadness
I’ve seen Poets hold back tears
When talking about lost lovers
I’ve met vagabonds who run
From state to state looking for
A place to call home
I’ve held my baby brother and sister
In my arms while I smile to myself
Knowing that they will have a better
Future than me.
I put these thoughts into poems
Because we use feelings to create
It doesn’t matter if it’s
Poetry, photography or painting
We all have an escape
My favorite artist killed himself
At the age of 29
His only escape
Consisted of starry nights
Wandering in wheat fields
And painting the man he wishes
He could be
Not realizing he had
All of the time in the world
To find his happiness
But It didn’t take much time
For the bullet to enter his chest
Lead penetrating his heart
Where his passion should be
His last words were
The Sadness will last forever
And it does
It feels like an eternity
When depression is clawing your back
Leaving you bruised and scarred
When anxiety comes crawling back
Leaving you broken and breathless
Realizing the person you once were
Is no longer the person you truly are
You’re not the same kid
That your single mother raised
Working night shifts at bars
Where people were shot in cold blood
Because my father decided
That leaving a 19-year-old woman
With a newborn was a good idea
You’re not the same teenager who prayed
To a god every night and ended up
Being even more alone than before
I don’t believe in hell
But if it’s real then I’m already living in it
You soon begin to realize
That life doesn’t owe you anything
So you try to make the best of it
Even when you’re dying inside
Because life is about memoires
Sometimes you have to stop and smell the roses
Watch the sunset and sunrise
You have to travel to the places
You dreamed of seeing as a kid
To remember the innocence
Fall in love with someone that
Leaves a fire in your chest
That cannot be extinguished
Because for once
Waking up will be okay
If they’re in your arms
Learn to live your own life
Before you teach somebody else
How to live theirs
Learn to love yourself
Learn to live freely
And don’t be afraid to explore
You have to be lost
To eventually find where
You belong anyway
So don’t rush to your destination
There’s so much to see along the way
This was inspired by the Vincent Van Gogh painting, "Wheatfield with Crows." The last painting he painted before committing suicide.
Don’t be ashamed
Of your scars
Because I have matching ones
 Feb 2015 Cheyanne Lemons
Kai
Navy
 Feb 2015 Cheyanne Lemons
Kai
clear thumbtacks hold the
few blades of grass
collected from the meadows
of the Magnificent Days.
no baby blanket can wrap up
these times;
no perfume from the 80's
mask such greatness.
driving home at 8:56
in february feels like four-thirteen a.m.
while it's raining
(how strange)
we don't feel like talking,
we don't feel like junk food
but scratchy blankets to tuck
in the snow-less mountains
this time of year.
something has to cover them,
because our society doesn't approve
of ******
or happiness, really
for our smoke detectors
are dead and the mirrors are stained
the rugs are frayed
and our poetry *****.
our candles smell like grandmothers
but that future for us isn't so
far away.
we focus on the water that will burst
past the controlled walls
in a few months;
that's so close (too close) to tell
because we are told
we won't end up being what we thought
we'd wanted at sixteen.
our christmas lights are getting dull
and we don't strive to make people jealous
anymore.
we just sulk on the loss
of the Magnificent Days,
bright and kind.
is this what it feels like to write a ****** poem in a few minutes

— The End —