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Death was a promise just out of my grip
A rhythmic beating in my heart,
it was an unanswered prayer, and I was ready to slip
Hanging from the pieces of me, ripped apart


I’m desperately trying to prove myself to you
Trying to show you that I’m worth it
But no matter how hard I try or what I do
...you just don’t give a ****

I’m fighting against these words you say in haste
That I’m nothing, just built of wrongs
I keep feeling as if I am a waste of space
because I've been thrown away like trash for so long

The night has become my haven,
A place I can rest in peace
But morning just comes much too soon
And in my anguish I am already deceased


I’m not good enough for a father that beats his own
And I guess i’m no good for you too
I am nothing, I am just all alone
no matter what I do

The graveyard calls me to come where I am known
To sleep among the dead
How death would be my only home
It echoes in my head

Why can’t you love me
Everyone is imperfect. Imperfection is just a state of mind.

The idols that you adore have imperfections. Maybe it's a little pimple on the nose or a simple scar from their childhood on their knee.

Everyone has flaws not just you.*

Go and ask random people outside one imperfection they have. Everyone will tell you a flaw they have and if they hesitate then that means that person isn't proud of himself/herself. Everyone should have pride no matter if it's a bad or good thing.

Don't think something as imperfect. Think of the flaw(s) as a unique characteristic for every individual person or thing.

These flaws make you unique or makes you YOU! So be proud of that no matter what anyone says!
(Had to let it all out. Too many people calling themselves ugly or imperfect in my life.)
I tell myself that I am beautifully bruised.
c
I met a wilting ***** by the roadside,
she was barefoot and drowned by the riptide,
she said,
that had swallowed her up
over the course of her time.

I sat down beside her in the rubble,
hubble, bubble and a load of trouble,
she said,
that business must come first,
so she doesn't waste my time.

I told her I was just another waste,
another scrap of food without the taste,
I said
that I would stay with her
and live without clocks and time.

She waved off kindness with her ruined hands,
she knew not love but customer demands,
she said,
no man has kissed me since
my father ran out of time.

We talked for hours more in summer heat,
she was hungry but she refused to eat,
she said,
to find beauty I must
keep thin and defy all time.

At night she stumbled back onto her feet,
for some loose-skinned man she'd promised to meet
she said,
“tonight I have found love,
as if gifted from all the stars above,
but the city bells have begun to chime
and I'm afraid love cannot stop the time.”
c
 Feb 2014 Shanay Love
Marigold
I hate it when they call me cute,
or pretty.
I am so much more.
So much ******* more.
I could destroy you.

I am an intelligent being,
capable of many things,
i carve my path in life;
I do not search for your approval.
I do not need your validation
of my outward appearance
to feel accepted.
I am aware of my own self,
and all that I possess,
so much more than 'cute'.

Save me from hearing
your stupid compliments
None of what you say to me,
has not been said
to every girl before.
From the innocent purity of white
To the hopeful friendliness of yellow

The emotional tenderness of pink
The elegant femininity of lavender

The passionate strength of red
The warm flamboyance of orange

The natural generosity of green
The royal nobility of purple

The peaceful serenity of blue
The durable simplicity of brown

The reliable dignity of gray
Or the deep mystery of black

Whatever your true colours are
Be proud and let them shine!

© Raphael Uzor
Every color has a negative side too
But I believe in seeing the good in people.
So I focus on peoples' strengths
And try to downplay their weaknesses.
 Feb 2014 Shanay Love
Johnnie Rae
She once expressed the feeling,
of blood pouring from her skin.
Self infliction. Something held dear,
to those who don't realize,
they have the potential to heal.

She once told me, she didn't know how to feel,
so she coaxed the feeling from her bones,
in the form of blades, until her skin itched,
from all the unneeded attention.
Cracked, and bleeding,
hurt pouring from her overly expressive eyes,
she masked the pain, walked among us,
as just another misunderstood,
stargazing child.

Her name became stitched into constellations,
for her eyes never left the sky,
unless to stare down at her tiring feet,
and hope to be transparent in her depression,
to people standing on street corners,
seemingly inviting her to join them.

She knew she'd someday board a bus, and consciously leap into the unknown.

Her minds limitations would no longer hold her down.
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