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Harly A Quinn Apr 2015
I have yet to find something good
in saying bye
I rarely say it to my mother or father, friends, siblings,
or people I've just met
I have every intent on seeing
you again, so why
would i say good bye?
So instead i part with
Farewell,
So Long,
See you soon,
It was a pleasure to meet you,
and my favorite;
Love you.
  Apr 2015 Harly A Quinn
g
a crack in her voice
a tremble in her words
a shiver from her body
a tremor from her words
her anger gave her palpitations
her anger brought tears to her eyes
she clenched her jaw
and ****** her fingers

the wall next to her
no longer seems like a wall
it was a punching bag
the blood trickles down her fist
but she doesn't feel the pain
not more than the anger
red hot burning anger
i was just so ******* angry i wanted to throttle someone
Harly A Quinn Apr 2015
I refuse to contort my ways to appease you

      You and your broken ways.

I refuse to change my life to match a broken society.

      A society with an incurable illness.

I refuse to be a plaything.

       A one time entertainer.

I refuse your ******* reality and substitute my ******* own.

      So Go Shove it.
Don't tell me what to do or who to be
My favourite colour, has long since been grey
But I didn't know why, until today
I envy grey, grey doesn't commit
Any strong emotion, well grey isn't it
Grey's not red anger, red hate, or  red love,
Blue sadness, yellow fury or perfection's white dove.
No, grey is nothing, no emotion, no pain,
no commitment, no dichotomies, I want that again.
Harly A Quinn Apr 2015
I Used To Be an Optimistic
Child

Believing everything was black and white.
~~~~
It was the first summer in our new
home.
I was six or seven
My Father needed help in the lawn so feeling
in a helping mood, I went out.
His hands were in the dirt and his forehead
was bronzed.
He waved his arm at a small,
Delicate flower.
Go pull weeds.
Not one to question him while, he was busy,
I went over to inspect the flower- i mean ****
How could something so tiny, even more do than my hands,
be considered a ****?

My tiny mind thought weeds were
dark green and barley clinging
to life, with thorns that sliced at
other helpless plants and animals.
Almost like bad people.

I imagine it was then that
My small mind had begun
to grasp
at the idea that plants and people alike
could deceive you.
My first poem I've posted.

— The End —