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danna22081 Mar 16
It might be said:

So I depart,
Without really departing,
For my adherence to the state of removal
Is not well developed.

As arrogant as the next upcoming minister,
I care not about my future,
As of now…
And only now.

My departure, conclusion, resolution,
To this journey many classify as the beginning of life,
Had never felt more diverse than my
Days during the Weekend.

And it is so,
That I have already departed…
And I have not anything to lose…
But where do I go?
She thought she knew her way.
danna22081 Mar 1
It might be said:

My thoughts relentlessly glide,
Ever so freely,
With apathetic, liberal pride,
Which I could never ideally
Express in my common,
Communicative nature.

I pondered upon my inability to expressively-express,
To inevitably manifest
My tunes within the populous world.
As chirping birds whistle within the gentle wind
Of a pocketed, clustered nestling,
Guiding their unravelling tunes
To their loved ones.

I pondered upon my proficiency,
My renown, relative intricacy
To speak through the ink of a hole within a pen.
The miniature loop of tragedies,
Romantically- led fantasies,
Before I simply had time to count to ten.

The pen of life,
One which glides
Throughout all walks of life
I’ve simply travelled.
Extends my thoughts
Which could never bring themselves
To walk… unravel.
To mend the journeys which met only the eye.

Journeys like years,
Lessons as tears
Which silently withered within the softened sockets of a warm, swollen eye…
Consumed by the joys of silent expression,
Regurgitating stories
Better told than their primary processions,
Of loopy, treacherous tragedies,
Romantic, fantastic fantasies,
I have finally realised.

The journey of a lifetime
Is merely dependent upon my
Expression.
I am a chirping bird,
Guiding my tunes to my loved ones,
No longer nestling amongst the hysterical herd.
For I know,
I am finally walking,
And my pen silently glides within the wind
Far behind me.
I love the subtle chirping of birds.
danna22081 Feb 25
It might be said:

I momentarily, dutifully ponder
Upon the sensation of pure melancholy,
As the rain pours deep into the vast, wide Earth,
Shattering all it contains in crammed, picturesque wonder.

Rain drops,
As powerful; commanding as bullets.
Apathetically shooting the dreams
I have thought to their fullest.

For I, young, able, and ambitious,
Have been cracked, fractured,
Pounded, with much ammunition
Proudly supplied, and released within rain
Drops.

You see, it is to no surprise that I
Am merely unable to adapt amongst my surroundings.
It is much easier, and efficient to pick
The individual with least mistakes; the least edges to their rounding.

But I must learn to learn,
To love,
To live.
And I know I do not have much to give
To anybody apart, and other than myself…
To supply my personality with accumulating wealth;
Love, care, dignified-dignity;
To be most ambitious, despite my wounds.
You will get there. One day.
danna22081 Feb 22
It might be said:

I stared into their eyes,
For the first, distinctive time,
And gaped at the discreet mystery
They held.

I stared into their dark eyes,
Opaque as the ever-gloomy pitches of night,
And gaped at the enriched, blooming flower of opportunity
Hidden from the rest of the broad, exposed world.

How could I have possibly known
To unmistakeably build, and mend
The shattered pieces of this young,
Discreet window, alone?

For the eyes of mine,
Brighter than the conspicuous flashes of light,
Of the beaming, incisive rays of the Sun,
Were lead through the eyes of the firm, charming window.

I peered into the placid, enigmatic frame…
Of their violent, sadistic life,
Of shattered, broken pieces of glass,
They were never inclined to reveal without rife.
They said they loved their eyes.
danna22081 Feb 19
It might be said:

He walked alone,
Through the woods of ancient roots,
Within endless shrubs of glistening-green stems,
And aging, decomposing fruits.

He ran along the maze of bushes,
As though escape was distant...
Concentration,
Expertise no longer consistent.

He tripped, stumbled,
Tumbled
Along the snakes of vines,
Which promised him care, comfort,
Contentment intertwined.

As the mouse was promised love by the cat,
Vines were no longer able to maintain their caution for the boy,
For he slipped through their bare, smoothed curls
Of stems, and dislocated his purpose for living.

He fell into the cave of confusion,
Psychological transfusion,  
No longer riveted by the significance in living,
And prior to anybody’s realisation,
Of his surreal, realistic, reality of life,
Took his own, upon individual discretion.
Mental Illnesses are not jokes. Many individuals have committed suicide, due to influences of their surrounding community, and wider society.
danna22081 Feb 17
It might be said:

I love the hate
Of haste,
Of viscous cruelty,
Of bitter-sweet taste.

I have lived on,
And cannot seem to recover
The judicious need to bother,
To despise,
Yet to interact,
With the person merely responsible for their horrendous act...

My devastation, depression, detention,
From the life I once considered my own, developing legion,
Of friends who hated,
Of enemies who loved...
As the retrieval of a memory you couldn’t remember with cohesion.
They’re all going. Every last one of them.
danna22081 Feb 16
It might be said:

Tumbling down my treacherous, traitorous tower,
Of hope I thought was the greatest petal of my flower.
Reflecting, refracting,
Revisioning my thoughts
For the hour of my death was a second from naught.

The flower of petals,
Of dazzling, daunting life,
Of elegant, empathetic love…
I never realised all of such would be tough
To truly clench,
Feel,
Hold in my eyes,
When every other petal was crowded with lies
Which confidently smiled and smirked in my face,
Convinced me,
To irrevocably love this life with haste,
To grin at the tower, smoothened with glace.

The flower of formidable life,
Of practical love,
Of transposing colour.
Vibrancy spread by its central, salient stigma.
Of secrets,
Confessions of my imperfection,
My disinterest in life,
In simulated lovers,
In sensual, plastic, flexible hardcovers.

And so I glanced at
The departing turret,
The surreal, realistic, reality of life,
Of people who live,
But do not really live,
For the petal which fell,
Decided never decide to give
Its distinctive love to anybody other
Than the traitorous hand which pulled,
Tore, and Crushed its heart,
And left it to stumble upon its death.

Naught.
He once asked me, "What is love?"
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