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(In English, we were supposed to write a poem based off of George Ella Lyon's poem "Where I'm From" and this is the one I wrote)

I am from picture frames,
from Dove and Suave.
I am from the white house on the corner of the street
(far enough from the train tracks, close enough to the park).
I am from lilacs,
from the rose bush on the side of the house,
always humming with bees.

I am from crocheting and complaining,
from Edith, Rachael, and Susanne.
I am from blind eyes with a blue glow,
from "Speak up!" and "Sit up straight."
I am from "Now I lay me down to sleep..."
and old, golden cross necklaces.

I am from Ohio,
turkey, and sweet tea.
From the night my grandparents ran away togethers,
and the glass wedged into my father's finger,
the day god lifted him from the driver's seat.

I'm from the upstairs closet,
sitting beside childhood memorabilia.
Images of faces I never met,
and those I'll never forget.
Bags of animals,
stuffed with imaginary souls,
and boxes of books
which tales will never grow old.
Im from oak trees
Reaching limbs that shade
The sizzling concrete
Tailgating before a game

Im from Sunday breakfast
Family gathered round
Loud music & conversation
Filling the house with sound

I'm from a sprinkler
Placed in the backyard
In the summer time
The cheapest way to cool off

I'm from biting tongues
Southern by a grace
Taught feelings are better bottled up
In attempt to save a little face

I'm from photographs, artifacts and names used
In vain to help my grandmothers memory pull through

I'm from the place
Where music is constantly played
At every occasion, no matter the time of day

I'm from a culture, deeply rooted
Through mardi gras, beignets, and family reunions
Where English occasionally gives way to French
Like a tree. I branch
In every direction
I am from home
 Feb 2015 The Demons Within
Chloe
If people were art,

You would be a page from a child's coloring book
hanging on the refrigerator.
Different colors filling the page.
An explosion of
red, orange, yellow,
green, purple and blue.
Everything leaking out of the lines you were meant
to contain yourself in.
A green sun and yellow grass,
none of it makes much sense.
And that is exactly what makes you
worth looking at.

But if people were art,

I would be a watercolor that got too wet,
and now the paper is wrinkled
and the picture distorted.
The paint bleeding into itself,
as the paper starts to tear.
She seemed so distantly broken.
Haunted shadows lurk in dark corners,
waiting for the slight curve of her smile,
the first sign of happiness,
to attack.
Crashing her world down around her,
I offer my hand to pull her out
of the familiar rubble,
scooping her up in my arms,
searching for safe ground
where the suicide bombers of depression
won’t be able to touch her.
Fear raged through her body
like fever and overdose.
Worlds spinning circles,
colors blurring
and behind
hazy eyes
shallow breaths.
Sticking graves into the tortured hollows
of the chambers of the heart.
She is limb against my body
and I know that standing will not
be easy,
but I am strong enough for you
to lean on.
The backbone that will keep you upright,
for I am one of the few
parts of yourself that you love,
and I have never needed you more.
A screaming ambulance arrives
and paramedics flushing
your veins full of
IV bags with hope.
Clearing the poison of your system left behind
by the touch of demons
who have been haunting you for five years.
But I have known you my entire life.
Small girl, curly hair,
chipped nail polish,
black eye makeup.
I can instantly recognize you
as myself.
Brought together by chance,
in a classroom used as a safety base
for life’s game of tag that kept hitting us.
About ready to quit,
we were offered the chance
to love ourselves and eachother.
And through that discovery, this game
became so much easier to play
once we can double team it.
Quickly developed a love
you do not find in romantic relationships.
A comfort that lies solely in the unbreakable
bond of twins.
Spilled secrets
over steaming mugs
of raspberry tea.
Late night talks and comfort food binges.
We no longer had to speak.
We told stories with our eyes,
and painted murals with mascara tracks,
and crimson tears washed down the drains
from our thighs.
Our weakest moments hitting carefully.
No shorts.
No skirts.
No dresses.
The truth kept behind stained bandages
tucked away in bottom drawers
quietly stuffing our ***** secrets into our laundry.
Red lipstick hearts
on mirrors and
X’s on the backs of our hands,
marking us discounted;
damaged goods.
Returned over
and over again
until insecurity was definite and hope
was a far off dream so
we stretched our clipped wings,
no longer able to fly so we
simply had to learn how to break
the falls.
So we tightened the screws on pencil sharpeners
so the blade couldn’t be extracted in a moment of
weakness,
then poured our heart and souls
into glasses and toasted to our futures.
I want to wrap you in laughter
and sing to you the soundtrack of
the best memories that we had.
You deserve this happiness
and tonight
you are alive
and you are beautiful
even if you don’t want to be.
So take my hand
and close your eyes.
Just listen.
I love you,
just breathe.
 Feb 2015 The Demons Within
Aiman
According to society,
you need to have a flawless face,
pale skin,
skinny stick figure,
long legs,
nice hair,
and attractive eye brows
to be called beautiful

What a ****** up world we live in
Labeling god's creation as pretty or ugly
Who are you to judge they say
but the suicide rates keep on increasing
each day

Yes *******.

You don't believe me?
Well suicide is never just about
killing yourself
To make yourself something less
than what you are--
that too is a form of suicide

Suicide does not mean that
there's no killer
Words are like weapons,
they ****
They leave scars that can
never heal

Don't be a killer. I've warned you.

Next time when you feel like
insulting someone,
Put yourself in their shoes,
what would you feel
if they did that to you?
What if someone called
one of your family members bad names,
wouldn't you feel hurt as well?

Have a heart,
please care about other people's feelings
Got a brain?
well think wisely before you hurt someone
Got feelings?
then you must know how does it feel
to be hurt by someone right?

*It's all up to you.
Dreams don't hurt unless you want them to
Even nightmares coated with screams and quicksand won't hurt unless you want it to.Unless you forfeit all the power you have in the slumber real.

But why should you?
The sun was just enough that day
And not because I could feel it on my skin
No,it was barely visible
But because it merely existed
So too the singing of the birds brought about a euphoric dance within my eardrums
And I pictured these birds in every colour,including some that unicorns only dream about
I appreciated the pavement beneath my red worn shoes and the way gum stuck to it for dear life,afraid to fall into itself
And I appreciated you.
You hadn't said a word.but you were just standing there
And that was enough. Always
Winter is quiet, but always restless.
Irrevocably cold, and deceitfully burning.
Harsh at times, throwing storms of ice when tempered.
Apologetic, as it stews in silent shame.
Unforgiven, and tolerated.
A season which destroys beauty in order to create a kind of it's own.
Decorated, as if the beauty it created for itself hadn't been enough.

I never liked Winter very much,
but I've come to realize we've got a lot in common.
It's a framed picture;
A framed one.
It takes up the wall.
Leaving nothing for anything else.
Sometimes
An image
Says everything it needs to,
Without,
Words.

A brace holds her arm.
It was broke
Just before the last morn.
When she nods,
She says she wants what she wants.
I took her hand too soon - not ready,
Souls to feverish to elope.
Thick clouds form overhead yeah?
Raincoat. Fresh paints. Fresh love.

Another chance.

You know I've had a million chances
To be in The Sun
With you?
We've laughed through a million tidal waves;
A trillion battle cries;
A silly amount of cake or pies.
I've regretted nothing for I've changed identity...
Melded them of sorts....
And If I were to ask my future self
From my past self
The reason for love and how to hold it,
I would say:

"To be. To be thee and the other. To be one in stead of two."

And you'd nod and I'd nod,
And the whispering wailers on thin tree branches
Would sing their old song of indecipherable infinity so,
We'd laugh, giggle, carefree run free,
Take Italian love songs for grants mixing love potions with real potions,
Never understanding place, name, or space.

See the leaf fall.
It rests upon the ground.
We've all got our homes.
What doesn't matter now,
Will matter soon.
We smile.
We laugh.
We enjoy the company
Of the man
Without a hat.

All light comes through and I see the frothing beauty of 2011.
She mentions something I vaguely remember.
She says something like, "When numbers were true,
They all were written with ones...they were all written elevens."
It's true that no one ever really knows what they're talking about

(maybe scientists)

But she mumbled these words
And I knew

I knew

That all is lost for the future but, not
To

Give up.

Because giving up is
Like saying
You're not excited for the next day,

And the one

After that.

And, to be honest,
I can't really relate to that.

Don't ask me

Why.
Rain falling down on me.
I'm enjoying it.
As I mask my tears.
Out of fear that someone might see me cry.

Don't ask me why?
It just might be the hurt I feel inside.

Rain got be blinded.
As I drive.
It might be due to the hurt.
I'm carrying on the inside.
Which is the reason I'm in this inclimate weather.
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