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Jasmine Mar 2015
I wish sometimes people would consider me,
What I think and feel,
What my emotions might be.

I wish sometimes they would stop and think,
The reasons I say and do what I do,
But no, all you think on is you.

I wish sometimes someone would care,
Instead of just walking on by,
How much longer can I hide my despair?

I wish sometimes that someone might realise,
All these smiles and laughs...
They are simply lies.

Copyright © 2015 Jasmine Bryony Holmes
All rights reserved.
Jasmine Mar 2015
Broken down, pieces of my soul,
Scattered around in my head,
Hoping and wishing the world was less cold,
That I might lose this feeling of dread.

Sorrow, howling from deep within,
All selfless acts thrown in my face,
I have to just take it on the chin,
While my hope is lost in the human race.

Pieces of my broken heart,
Scars that cut me deep,
My wounded mind is torn apart,
And I'm thrown upon the trash heap.

Society tells you 'Don't let them judge',
What else can you do but sit,
Waiting upon your name dragged through the mud,
To be alive you feel unfit.

You did it, well done,
You finally broke me down,
Wow you finally won,
Turned my ever bright smile to a dimly lit frown.

Why do you behave,
In such a nasty manner?
When all I do is try to help you,
You just throw it back in my face.

Well no more,
I refuse to be treated as a lesser being,
A punch here and there and a cut to the skin,
How are you blind to what I'm feeling?

Well no more,
No further words shall pass,
You won't hurt me again,
I'd sooner walk on broken glass.

Well no more,
You won't win again,
Take your silly ideas of victory,
You will cause me no more pain.

Well no more,
From this day on you aren't worth my breath,
You won't break me down, you know the score,
Now we'll be in living death.

No more.
You do not win.
You know the score.
I've got a pretty thick skin.
No more.
I am the one, to sustain my grin.

Copyright © 2015 Jasmine Bryony Holmes
All rights reserved.
Jasmine Mar 2015
The deepest connection,
You can ever know,
The connection of two hearts,
A love you're able to show.

A cut that is deep,
A scar that is wide,
They allow you to keep,
Your ambition and drive,

The deepest connection,
A central glow,
The deepest affection,
That allows you to let go.

Of the pain of the past,
The turmoil you suppress,
A pain you are rid of at long last,
Free of your distress.

The deepest connection,
You can ever know,
Is that of two hearts,
Always let it show.

Copyright © 2015 Jasmine Bryony Holmes
All rights reserved.
Always remember to tell them that you love them. One day they may not be around to hear it.
Jasmine Feb 2015
I've made some pretty harsh mistakes,
But none like this before,
Its like I've shut out all the light,
Closed every single door.

My life has become a lie,
All the pain I must hide,
The fakeness of my smile,
But no matter how hard I try.

People won't let go,
Of wrongs you've done,
Beg for mercy,
But they all keep on,
Cry your tears,
Just dont let them see,
In essence,
Be just like me.

Copyright © 2015 Jasmine Bryony Holmes
All rights reserved.
Jasmine Feb 2015
Eyes blue like the ocean,
A calming effect they have.

Greener than emeralds,
A passion swimming inside,
They take away my heartache,
And all the hurt I hide.

Your smell, touch and taste,
They make me go insane,
Ease all of my troubles,
Allow me to love again.

It burns deep inside us,
And nothing could ever go wrong,
For once after all the worries,
I feel that I belong.

A time,
Passage of it is slow but fast,
You help me forget,
The pain of the past.

For you,
My love I would give the world,
I, at last, can open my heart,
Happy and content,
And now our adventure starts.

Copyright © 2015 Jasmine Bryony Holmes
All rights reserved.
Happy Valentines Day people! This is for my wonderful partner Stuart. He means more than life to me, and I couldn't love anybody more than I do him. So he is the inspiration for this poem and basically the inspiration for me to carry on with my life no matter how difficult it gets. I love you!!
And thanks to all my subscribers and people who view my poems, its nice to get a little recognition for my writing <3
Love you all!

Oh...if anyone can help with a name that'd be rad too!!
Jasmine Dec 2014
Puppets on a string,
And the master of the game,
Pulled around as dolls,
On the endless string of pain.

Puppets on a string,
Lack of inspiration,
Rolling around to the beat of others music,
Never free from constant frustration.

Puppets on a string,
Nothing left to gain,
And this will always remain,
Always remain the same.

Puppets on a string,
And the master of the game,
Pulled around as useless dolls,
On the endless string of pain.

Copyright © 2014 Jasmine Bryony Holmes
All rights reserved.
Sorry I haven't been around for a while guys! Just seriously lacked inspiration.
Jasmine Oct 2014
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to ****** and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
     So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the ****-ends of my days and ways?
     And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
     And should I then presume?
     And how should I begin?

          . . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? …

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

          . . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep… tired… or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
     Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
     That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
     “That is not it at all,
     That is not what I meant, at all.”

          . . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old… I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
This is not my poem, hence why the copyright logo is missing. This is one of my favourite poems :)
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