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The Wordsmith Jul 2015
These whitewashed walls scream out my discontent,
The faces of inmates line the corridors, impassive and unimpressed,
I bang on steel locker doors, but I hardly make a dent,
My words are not replied to, and my screams go answered,
It doesn't matter though, they are silent screams of aid,
They resound through these hallways like the echoes of a gale,
The cold of locker steel is an ever foreboding constant.
They line the hallways, like the vigilant sentinels of a jail,
And I can help but think, how familiar the two seem to be,
And how in one a perfect illusion is created, of being free,
These whitewashed walls are filled to the brim,
With students and inmates, angels and demons alike,
Teachers and wardens stalk these halls, hidden behind their hollow faces,
Bullies and inmates swarm these halls, hidden behind unfamiliar faces,
In these whitewashed walls, there are blackened souls and empty holes,
Holes where hearts used to be, and coal where souls used to be,
These whitewashed walls are alive, and they bear witness to it all,
And here these whitewashed walls remain, through our rise and our fall.
This poem was to try and show the similarity between school and prison by gross exaggeration. Leave a comment on how it can be improved. I'm open to criticism.
The Wordsmith Jul 2015
That awkward boy in the corner.
He walks oblivious through the school halls,
His arms are crossed in front of him like a shield,
A shield to block out the pain hidden in these whitewashed walls,
His backpack is slung across his back, weighing him down,
Amongst other things.
If you look closely you can see the tears in his downcast eyes,
His shoulders aren't hunched from the weight of his books.
No, they're burdened by the fears he dons like a burial shroud,
So he stays away and keeps his head down, ignoring their looks,
Where others have friendships and love, this boy has spaces,
Screaming teachers and bullies clamor in his dreams, with hollow faces.
This world it holds nothing for him, but in his mind he is free,
In his mind he is not an outcast, in his mind, he is not me.
But he does not live in his mind. Reality has never been kind,
It deals out impossible hands and leaves the good ones for you to find,
But this boy, he finds none. So every night he writes under the stars,
For they are his only friends, the words and stars. They reach out to him through steel bars.
They comfort him. But each day the sun rises and they leave,
Just like everything else. The pain is a constant, but he feels it none,
His lips run red with his own blood, and his side it aches from kicks and blows,
The fear and pain, it consumes his body and craves him whole,
It threatens to engulf him, to damage and blacken his soul.
This boy he's covered in the darkness, smothered by it.
His world is cruel, filled with dreadful blackened souls,
And they march on his hopes and dreams, filling them with a million holes,
Escape is ephemeral, like everything, and everything crashes down eventually,
This world it holds nothing for him, so in his mind he makes his own,
In his mind he has friends, and in his mind, there is no pain at all,
The whitewashed walls are empty, and he has the stars and words for company,
In his mind there is no pain and he is free.
In his mind, he is no longer me.
The Wordsmith Jul 2015
He was born with a builder's hands,
But has a poet's heart,
In reality he is a slave,
But in his mind he is free,
The shackles, they bind him to these lands,
They exist, but they are not for us to see,
For they are mental constraints, and they cannot be shaken loose.
But there is freedom in all things, even in slavery,
We cannot see this though. He can.
He's different from us. Where we see endings and walls, he sees milestones,
Who is this man, who will wait for the night, till the cold claims his bones?
Who is this man, who prefers the night to the day for it bears the audience of the stars?
Who is this man, who knows not the art of speech, but makes men cry with his words?
Who is this man, who gazes upon a girl and sees not a girl, but a universe and perfection?
Who is this smith who craft's blades strong but forges hearts adamantine?
He is a wordsmith.
The Wordsmith Jun 2015
We used to count the raindrops on your window sill,
We used to lie together and stare at the city lights,
We used to sit together under the tree on that hill,
And when the sunset came you'd kiss me and hold me tight,
But then you left.
Now there are no raindrops to count on the window sill,
The city lights don't sparkle like they used to before,
They cut down that tree on the hill, I let them,
And now the sunset's just a herald of the lonely nights
I spend alone with the memories of what was,
The memories of you and what could have been.
But you're gone and all I have now are ghosts.
The Wordsmith Jun 2015
Of all the stars, none shine brighter than your eyes,
Their freedom is more liberating than that of the skies,
Of all the roses, none glow deeper than your lips,
Their seductive red tinge draw me in closer for just one more kiss,
Of all the moon light's rays, none is fairer than your skin,
Smoother than silk and more precious than mink,
Of all the lullabies, none is sweeter than when you sing
Your songs of freedom and love, of a goddess and a king,
And of all the agony in hell, none hurts deeper than your kiss,
Especially when I remember you're no longer mine, but his.
The Wordsmith Mar 2015
Don't play with broken toys, Mama used to say,
They're twisted and rotten, leave them be,
They'll rob your soul blind, and leave you that way,
Till your world no longer exists, just you wait and see,
Their wind-ups are broken, and their springs are twisted,
They'll bleed you dry, and leave your heart blistered,
But your porcelain flesh was unblemished,
And your springs worked just fine,
So I played with a broken toy, and when I was finished,
You bled me dry, and my world was no longer mine,
I fell for a broken girl, and now my heart is coal,
I fell for a broken girl, who broke my soul.
Tongue-tied, he holds his breath
Inhaling the air like it's crystal ****
Tongue-torn, he bleeds it out
Love stains on his mouth
His heart bleeding for her
His glass eyes stop and stare

To him she's his only way out
From himself and his paper skin
Cause these tears are wearing him paperthin
His love, his heart he's lost control
This love, this heart he's lost his soul
I wrote this poem with my incredibly talented friend- Benedict
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