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She
She is a blush of the summits during the sunrise,
She is the ray of hope in the heart of the failure.
She is the light in the dark life of the jailer.

She is buried deep within the soul of an erring,
She is affable, she is daring.
She completes the incomplete, takes away the complete.

Her laugh, her smile, will take away your tears.
She will answer to thy holy prayers.
She will console, she will hurt,
She will shed away your discomfort.

She is the fragrance of the flowers,
She is the sparkle of the moonlit night.
She is the cause of contrite.
She is the tune of the upright.

She gives, she takes.
She will make mistakes.
She will rise, she will destroy.
She will rejoice, express joy.

She isn't weak or bleak,
Do not question her physique, she is unique.
She will disown, she will deceive.
A girl, a woman, a lady, has always been dominated in the society. They have not been given equal rights as men, and have always been considered weak. In this poem, it says that men are incomplete without woman. Woman are the eternal light of society. They are independent, they are daring, they are unique. Each one, is beautiful. She sheds away all the tears and gives happiness, but she has the power to take away your happiness, make you sad, depressed. She, in every religion, is present, everywhere. In the form of Durga or Kali in Hinduism, or Mother Mary in Christianity, she is powerful, she is ultimately the glory of everyone's life. Whether at night or during the day in the midst of the sweet-smelled flowers, she is present.
 May 2014 Nakedpetals
-KL
Before when I called you,
You would answer with,
"Hi beautiful."
Now you answer with,
"What?"
Before you would end the call with,
"I love you more than anything."
Now you end it with,
"I gotta go."  
Before you would write me love letters.
Now you don't even call me back.
I need a lot of super glue so I can glue our love back.
Because this love, is corrupting...
-K.L.
im screaming at the clock to please stop ticking seething at the moments that won't stop sprinting through oh why are you running away i am crying for the nights that i was not crying i am longing for the nights when you longed for me too i'm searching for the time i've lost because who gave it the right to just ******* run away
i'm sitting here in pieces shattered by a memory
who gave it the right
to just become a memory?
why can't i write about happy things?
i want to tell of love,
of breathless nights, and twinkling stars
of soft grass and beautiful sunlight
but the words will not come
the phrases don't string themselves together
all that i can tell of is the hurt
of the days of being lost and forgotten
of the loneliness that overwhelms me
i know this world is beautiful
but it won't reveal itself to me anymore
 May 2014 Nakedpetals
Kvothe
You are tea,
serene in your surroundings.

                                                  ­                                                         I am coffee,
                                                         ­                        attention always bounding.

Your colour a milkish pale,
creamy optimism.

                                                      ­                                           I am taken black,
                                                          ­                                           bitter cynicism.

Two sugars,
to match your disposition.

                                                   ­                                                      None for me,
                                                             ­             I'll maintain my grim affliction.


                                               We differ so much,
                                                     it's obscene.
                                                  
                                                   But in the end
                                               we're both caffeine.
there's a definite weight in my chest. maybe my heart is just made of lead or maybe it's the weight of my regrets pressing down on my ribcage. i'm laden with disappointment, it rests on my collarbones and sleeps on my shoulders, slowly pushing me six feet under.
i have racked my mind
trying to figure this whole thing out
the staying, the going
the threads we claim hold us here
& the people who've stopped to play a tune on them
i sometimes relate it
to waking up in waist deep snow
in our former selves
the us we wish we could give one another
the children we've sat on the shelves
trapped, like the looks
we leave behind in snow globes
i sometimes imagine ships
dragging the bottom to the sea of "me"
for sleep & pieces of my old self
to sell to the new one
like history doesn't repeat itself
it gets me wondering
if you too want an apology from the rain
or if you dream of burning family photo albums
and wearing the ashes like perfume
if you're anything like me
how i hope god chokes
on memories of me blowing out candles as a child
i know i shouldn't reference my reader  
but don't you know, the only difference
between alone & lonely is you?
that if my hands could talk
the only thing they'd be able to say
is "dear god we've missed you"
and how can you tell me it isn't love
when even the rain refuses to fall
in places where i've kissed you
i remember the day
you found my smile at a yard sale
it reminds me of how you'll leave
i wonder if when you go
you'll tell yourself
the person in the rear view mirror
is closer than they appear
I guess you could call it poetic how by the age of 12 I had no recollection of what happiness tasted like on my tongue. Some would say it was tragically beautiful.
But it was not poetic, nor was it beautiful,  but it was tragic. It was so very, very sad, and that sadness is only doubled now that people see sorrow as glorious.  It is not glorious. It is not strength. It is a lump of iron in your chest and stomach and it eats you from the inside, out and you have no right to think that blood stained wrists are anything other than tragic. So very,  very tragic.
 May 2014 Nakedpetals
Theia Gwen
That girl
Is skin and bones
Takes long drags on her cigarette
Makes funny comments
About not eating
She's mysterious and vague
And she's not real
Eating disorders are not fun,
Or cute, or romantic, or tragically beautiful
There's nothing romantic
About worrying about
Your breath smelling
Of ***** while kissing
Someone you love
There's nothing romantic
About seeing an expensive dinner
Your boyfriend bought you
Swim blurrily in the toilet
There's nothing beautiful
About rotted teeth
And hair growing on your arms
If you think this is beautiful,
You can have it in exchange
For the ability to do basic things
I need in order to live
Like ******* eat  
It's not beautiful
To never feel beautiful
And never love yourself
So when we see ribs on a girl
And you see romance,
I'll see her ribs
As a cage
Keeping the pain in
My bulimia has come back bad again.
I'm not an
honors student or
an athlete.
I don't have
good grades and
I fail all the time.

          Still, I bet that I
    smile more
than you.
I wake up in the mornings to be happy and live for me. No one else. I'm content and aware of what I "should" do. But I really am not concerned.
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