Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
To every single person
Who feels as though they are broken
Shattered, shards, scattered across
Corrupted pasts,
You will be okay.

I know there are scars deep within your soul,
Lacerated across your heart
And potentially upon your skin
I know there is regret, and blame,
Disappointment and shame
Burning fires within.
Let them go.

You are beautiful,
At 3 in the morning when you’re curled up
In your sheets, your pillow
Saturated in yesterdays regrets.

You have endured journeys
Others could never even fathom
You shall blaze trails others
Could never even imagine.

Pain does not define you,
Society shall not confine you.


Don’t you forget, lose sight of or regret
That just because you can’t see the stars
It doesn't mean they're not shining.
Random dates.
Random times.
Useless words.
Stupid rhymes.

It's not cool being
less than you can be
so I urge you--
urge you--
to be happy.

Because there was a man
who was a clown
and he danced for the children
as they were being lead
to the gas chamber.
And it was 1943.
And it was
**** Controlled Germany.

The clown wept,
each time the lever
was pulled
and when the children
became silent.

To stop crying,
he told himself
that existence
is just random dates
and random times.
There was no meaning
in reason
and no order
in lines.

All he could do
was all he did know,
and that was to give
happiness
before they'd go.
Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
Said the old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I do that too," laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded, "So do I."
"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
"I know what you mean," said the little old man.
some have skins like the bark of a tree, with names of each lover that has passed engraved in them.
some have hands like the branches of a tree, with veins showing on every little scrawny finger.
some have shoulders like the leaves of a tree, with emerald canopies that shelter souls from a thunderstorm.
some have feet like the roots of a tree, chained to the ground with their heads in the cloud.
written some time back.
 Jan 2015 Paralyzed traveler
AM
I am the thinnest slice of pizza
A warm beer
A scratched DVD
A lukewarm shower

A last resort

I'm what one settles for when all other options have been exhausted
And what is disposed of the moment something better presents itself
You were the only one who was ever real
I couldn't wrap my head around it quite as well as I could wrap myself around you
But it's all close enough
Have you ever lost something real?
I'm not quite sure how this will feel
Because even the fake ones hurt sometimes
Even the fakest ones can leave you wrapped in a dark cloud with no silver lining visible
I wonder what your real storm will bring
When you finally decide to destroy me in your path
A full on massacre of sorts
I'm sure
I'm sure the pain will be just as real as you were
As this was
Is
I'm sure
The same old routine
isn't the same
without you there.
I know we won't have time to drink
We'll have to continue to play
Standing up for hours on end
Throughout a sweltering day
But this is the life of a marching band
At least during band camp
Playing in humid heat
Or during rain when it's damp
Clutching to an instrument
Eager to hit set
But the drum major is taking forever
So they won't call it yet
But we will stand in waiting
Until we hear the chime
That it is time to start
Practicing for halftime.
Sadly, I will not be doing marching band this year.  I'm gonna miss band camp.
Next page