She earned the title Nine Days Queen,
But hitherto, she was just Jane.
Just Jane, and she had no idea
That when she married the son of a duke,
A plot was forming around her to steal the crown.
A crown she did not yet wear,
But inherited when the King was gone.
She rose to power instead of Mary or Elizabeth
Through an amended line of succession;
She was never meant to be Queen.
The plots and plans and goals of others
Led to the end of Lady Jane Grey.
Mary conquered the throne with little effort
And Jane was one of many to be sent to death
By the woman history calls ****** Mary.
Nine days was the length of Jane’s reign,
Unscrupulous were her advisors.
Just Jane, she had no idea what she was:
A pawn in the games of those around her,
And she was never meant to win.
In English class I had to write a poem about Jane Grey, so here it is.
I miss a specific feeling that I only got in spring 2019.
I cannot pinpoint what it was.
I have reread the same books, done the same things.
But the specific feeling has never returned.
Sometimes I find myself wishing for more;
That I could make something better than before.
Everything I’ve done is a one-time exception;
I face myself with thorns rather than acception.
Surely my successes were merely chance!
Ideas don’t come to me like they did in the past.
People say they see talent in me, I see nothing—
Then again, would I even know I was good at something?
I’ve always thought those long apologizing scenes in movies were overly dramatic and unnecessary,
but oh, how I feel the need to run through the rain to your door and let the words come tumbling out!
if you ever see this, know i’m sorry for letting us drift apart. it kills me still.
I think I like my reflection;
at least when I’m alone.
But when there’s other people to compare myself to,
I find myself avoiding reflective surfaces.
These poems I write, they’re my escape,
though from what I do not know.
My troubles seem to evaporate
the moment I let them show.
I write about love, which is ironic
because I’ve never had a lover.
I used to think maybe I was sick;
for I’ve never longed for one either.
I write about death when I’m feeling down
so I can cry to something new,
but thinking to when I lost real tears,
maybe they weren’t mine to lose.
Even now as I write this down
- my headphones on but paused -
I wonder where my motives are bound,
for I always feel like a fraud.
we sit on the floor
and peel tangerines
and feed them
to each other
i can almost taste
the summer heat
and the foreign
of someone else's
mouth and teeth
like last weeks' laundry
blowing in the wind,
things softly float away
ever so slowly
in a dreamlike state.
so the sun's speckles,
stars, and softer skin
will always deceive me
i never liked summer. it was too full of memories