The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

I might not be the same girl like all those girls you've dated before. I don't dress like others. I have no common taste. I talk thoughtfully. I choose words wisely.

You might not be the first one I have adored. Yet all this time I've been relying on plain amazement of loving without being loved in return. No one has intension to love me.

I am so melancholic. I spent my teenage phase being suicidal. My 16 to 19 times I spent beint attempted to die. I am not afraid of bloods that burst out from my wrist. I don't mind spending days just for crying.

I used to be the outspoken one. But life has its ups and downs and eventually it changed me a lot. I guess I was born to suffer not to survive. That's why I became depressed all the time.

Dear, you know I care or not at all. You've tried nothing, I am just falling. And the more I fall, the more I'm afraid of getting the unbearable pain I can't fathom.

I'm not ready to be drowned once more, crying all my tears away, shouting and yelling to the silence, pulling down my sadness to the utmost.

Dear, I'm just not ready for this. I get myself wrong. Shall I tune a farewell and say good bye all along?

By: Cedric McClester

Three years since Sandy Hook
Yet a mother still cries
Because memories live on
And the pain never dies
But little has changed
You begin to realize
Seems we haven’t learned
What we should despise

Twenty children and six adults
Murdered that day
Amid the screams and shouts
But it wasn’t the guns
So the NRA flouts
In the aftermath of chaos
They’re casting doubts
In between the tears and crying bouts

Nine hundred and ninety-four
School shootings since then
So we must ask ourselves
Will it ever end
Or what will it take
To make it suspend
Having more guns
Isn’t the answer my friend

The pursuit of life and liberty
Is an unalienable right
While that well may be
It’s probably a right
That we won’t get to see
As long as we allow
Bullets to fly free
We lose our lives and our liberty




















Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015.  All rights reserved.

Wouldn't you say,
Wouldn't you say: one day,
With a little more time or a little more patience, one might
Disentangle for separate, deliberate, slow delight
One of the moment's hundred strands, unfray
Beginnings from endings, this from that, survey
Say a square inch of the ground one stands on, touch
Part of oneself or a leaf or a sound (not clutch
Or cuff or bruise but touch with finger-tip, ear-
Tip, eyetip, creeping near yet not too near);
Might take up life and lay it on one's palm
And, encircling it in closeness, warmth and calm,
Let it lie still, then stir smooth-softly, and
Tendril by tendril unfold, there on one's hand ...

One might examine eternity's cross-section
For a second, with slightly more patience, more time for reflection?

yes i admit it
that yes i am an addict
give me something to cling to
and i'll take it to the limit

no i'm not proud
of some of what i've done
hard some days to keep the count
but definitely more than once

and now my latest addiction
seems to be poetry
some have even mentioned
that's not a bad place to be

are they too in denial
are they themselves to far gone
not knowing all the while
they're also playing to its song

with anything once you lose control
and it has control of you
the deeper it is you dig the hole
the more you tend to lose

to me it's a constant battle
i'll be fighting till the end
because yes i am an addict
and poetry, my latest addiction