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Maybe we are poets
Maybe we are doomed
Maybe we are determined
Maybe you're my muse
Maybe I'm a dancer
Maybe I'm a lover
Maybe this is more
Maybe this is less
Maybe I was meant to hold your hand
Maybe I'm just dead
Maybe we kissed
Maybe we messed up
Maybe this is something
Maybe I'm sick in the head
Maybe I'm in love
Maybe I'm confused
Maybe I'm just searching
Maybe I've been lost
Maybe I found comfort
Maybe I did not
Maybe we're meant to love
Maybe we're meant to break
Maybe this will make sense
Maybe I'll never know
Maybe it'll be okay
 Sep 2014 Gwen Johnson
Sir B
See,
everyone is meant for someone
And people find them

But not me
Because i am just evil inside out
Knowing what needs to be done
But not acting on it
Knowing how it should be done
But failing at it

I am but evil inside and out
Just emotions. This refers to things like XC, Homecoming, exams, everything
I've always been told I can't run from my problems
but why can't I drive down the coast,
boardwalking and hanging ten
smiling at hippies dressed in henna
why can't I ascend the mountains
reaching into infinity with palms wide open  
I could hop into Seattle,
feel new rain on my face
kissing strangers reflected in the ***** puddles
or maybe flow with rivers til I found a bear's den
they tell me I can't run
so I won't
I'll spring
leap
slide
crawl
I'll tiptoe over the line
I sometimes have many thoughts running through my head.
The ideas are overflowing the words seem to be flowing off my pen.
Other days I dread, my mind is quiet I am out of ideas.
The add a poem button seems to taunt me.
The writers block it haunts me.
In the silence of my mind I find no comfort.
I want to be brimming with ideas.
I would rather feel some intense emotion, love or devotion.
I can write about Love or loss.
It is tough to feel uninspired.
I don't feel comfortable with the silence of my mind.
One day there was a bright glowing canvas, a pure sparkling white
It was beautiful, but not complete
Then someone came along and drew lines on it to form flowers and mountains and streams, it was more beautiful and it made the natural white look more distinct
Then one day someone else added color and the canvas radiated and became more and more complete, it seemed whole and functional
Suddenly, one day someone came along and slew the canvas, destroying its color till it showed black, and an ugly black
The canvas seems so drab so empty without its color, so lifeless
People refused to help the canvas, refused to anything about the canvas slayer refused to listen to the canvas’ plea
Instead the canvas slayer’s free to roam free to hurt and damage other canvas
Who will restore the canvas?
Who will bring justice?
Why is the canvas slayer free to roam while the canvas feels imprisoned, crushed, victimized?
Why is the canvas treated like a criminal?
When will the canvas feel free, joyful and peaceful?

THIS POEM IS DEDICATED TO VICTIM'S OF DOMESTIC VIOLENCE AND OTHER FORMS OF ABUSE.
I went through domestic abuse in the past and that is why I had wrote the above poem.
Tie rocks to my feet,
So I can walk to the middle of the sea,
And sleep for eternity.
A tiny binder
Filled with paper and pockets.
Yet it is empty.
My brain is empty and void.
Where do I start?
The bad?
The good?
There was no in between.
My hand is shaking,
Heart pounding,
Head spinning.
I can not do this.
It will end the same,
With a tear filled page
Of a goodbye never said.
it can either be
the greatest gift
or the most
painful response.
I haven't been writing short poems lately. Feels good to get this one out.
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