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August 12, 1993

This is the third diary I have written in
This diary must be famous
So maybe oneday
Someone will hear or at least read my story
By the way my name is Sarrah
Weird spelling right?

August 13, 1993

Just heard some bad news...
I'm pregnant
I can't believe it
16 years old and pregnant!
The "father" is a dead beat
Ran after I said I might be
I can't keep the child
I don't know what to do

August 15, 1993

I wrote my first poem
One of my friends said it would help
Didn't really
I just wrote and wrote
I almost wrote a book
I wonder what I'm going to do with this child
Aborting it would be painful
Giving it up is almost impossible
Having it is unlikely
I have so much going for me

April 20, 1993

Found out one of my friends loves me
He knows I'm pregnant
He said he would help me
He always has a plan
Maybe I can be happy with him
I don't know
I don't want to bring him down
Diary...what should I do?

April 23, 1993

Still no reply?
I forgot I'm asking an inanimate object
To answer a question
I was forced to ask because of my stupidity
I have poor taste in men
I'm now called distastefully
Sarah the 16 year old pregnant *****
My boyfriend is really annoyed with it
I hope I can love him as much as he loves me

April 30, 1993

I cut myself
The girls at school keep harrassing me
I can't take this
I forgot how many weeks I am now
I just want this baby out
I don't want it
It's causing to much stress
Diary...help me please

September 18, 1993

I lost you for a while
Can't believe you were right here
Underneath my bed covered by my favorite shirt
That now I can't wear anymore
I look like a cow
School is horrid
I almost beat one of my teachers with a textbook
He called me "Sahcow"

September 21, 1993

I just got dumped by the man I love
He said I didn't love him enough
That I was wieghing him down
I can't believe this
I haven't stopped crying since 12 last night
Why does everything have to go wrong with me?
Am I that broken?
That big of a **** up?

September 29, 1993

I have just successfully planned my suicide
The title of this diary says "Diary Of Broken Souls"
It should say "Diary Of Suicidal Souls"
I just read the other 402 other entries
That many people...dead...murdered...by cruelty
Might as well join them
My ******* is just about the same

October 8, 1993

Halloween is just around the corner
And with it comes my death
No more baby
No more mother *******
No more father crying at the sight of me
Well the tears will be for a different reason now
I'll write my last entry on Halloween

October 31, 1993

Today is the day
Finally coming to an end
I'll **** this baby first
Swallow a **** load of pain killers
Throw in a couple anti-depressants
Noose is tied just perfectly
I have it hanging over the school entry way
A little memorial for the girls at school
All the students actually
Who have called me names
Criticized me for this ****
Well good bye *******
Sorry Diary you didn't get to know me
I'll be memorialized in these pages
Somebody will know what it's like
To be 16, pregnant, and depressed from all of it
She lent down beside me
And whispered my name
Told me my life
Would soon not be the same  

I stayed there till dawn
And ate up her words
That the love that I had
Is not what she deserves

And all night around us
the nightingales sang
But how can I look
When I can't understand

Her tone so sour
But words so sweet
A lot to say
is a lot to keep

And if she does love me?
Well I don't have any proof
If I look into her eyes
Maybe I'll find out the truth
if god can sacrifice himself for his people's sake,
then i can sacrifice my somewhat well being to help the man that started this all.
for what feels like eternity now, the unbreakable grip i have had on his god ****** heart
had gotten tighter and tighter
to the point where it has become
something so opposite of a stress ball,
more like a therapy for the ill minded.
there are permanent indents of my own ****** clenched fists in his chest
from the many times i have screamed and cried begging to ask, "is this what you wanted?"
his voice only lingers with echoes of my misery but he still laughs at every single word that escapes my mouth.
i hope you read this and if you do,
look at the bruises on your chest and tell me, straight to my tear-dried, sober face that they do not burn after reading each word of this time wasting piece of trash.
consider this a eulogy for your mind and eyes.
i yield all my time to your blank stares, and stuttering breaths.


- m.n.
i am so sorry for this, i am going through a rough time and i had to let this out
And your body swayed red with fire.
And reminded me that passion exists.
Still. In this age of prothstetic souls and bones.
Your two feet walked like steel on earth.
Solid and understanding.
And the power that came from your eyes,
was purple with regality and a soft blue
that comforted me and the ungraceful body
I was given to call home.
Your body kept swaying red with fire.
Never ceasing.
Showing me that I have the same endurance
within me, too.
And someday when I'm stronger,
my body will sway red, too.
And our passion together will burn the brightest fire.
May 20, 2014
 May 2014 Juniper Deel
JavNiv
Money where you're mouth is.

Today on the telivison screen,
They where talking of the economy,
But the man who was talking,
About graphs and statistics,
Had the money in his pockets,
So what would he have known,
About it.
I wrote this poem while watching the news at a hotel a man was talking about the economy and school systems yet he was the one wearing a nice suit and tie
I believe
that One who cannot handle
One's beliefs being challenged
did not arrive at them by genuine means.
Their beliefs be not authentic,
but are, rather, artifacts of people
who "know better."

Better; prithee,
better for whom?

I believe
they've been conditioned
to believe in such a way;
Pavlov's Dogs, but via spiritual food;
hence such unwillingness
to discuss the reasons:
they know them not.

They were merely imbued with such zealous belief
as if, hypothetically, by some socially sanctioned cult,
rather than encouraged to think for themselves,
arriving at authentic philosophical conclusions.

But, then again,
authentic philosophy is impossible to control from the outside, in.

Aye, *there's the rub.
This is about no particular school of thought, simply the unwillingness to philosophize about one's own philosophy.
It just so happens that many schools of thought exclude personal philosophers. Hence my distaste for them, and hence this write.
I fall for songs I find my name in.
Simple melodies that speak to me,
Like your eyes, when your lips are closed.

I'm amazed by words that have no meaning,
And those that tend to mean the world.
Give it up, sit next to me. We're getting old.

You're not my sunshine, but my rainstorm,
Suppressing my thirst, as I lift my chin to you.
Your kisses smear my face with cold chills.

I'd like to stay forever yours, dear.
Sitting underneath your arm in bliss,
Getting lost in every song and every kiss.
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