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Phi Kenzie Aug 2018
A voice of the sun
Eyes that shine in the moonlight
Oh crap they saw me
Don't spackle the bowl you nasty troll.  Did you think your mommy would clean it up?  Ah ah ah...don't say a word just grab the brush before I make you drink from your cup.
Lizzie Jun 2018
I've never been great at poetry;
The process always fails for me.
While mister Poe and Shakespeare last,
My writing ends up in the trash.

Their writing style, lost with age,
Their wisdom hid in ev'ry page,
The glory given where it's due -
These are things I cannot do.

My writing's forced; theirs doth flow.
I say it blunt; they say it slow.
Those areas that bless and move
Are places where I can't improve.

So why, with my lack of skill,
Do I keep on writing still?
With such a hopeless case as this,
You'd think I would already quit!

There was a time when I did -
My desk was shut; my pen was hid.
Then something occurred to me
Which changed it all instantly.

If Dr. Seuss had Shakespeare tried,
And Mr. Poe glorified,
And given up in dismay,
We wouldn't have his books today.

So keep on writing how you do
With that style unique to you.
Put your mind into use
(You just might be another Seuss)!
Connor Feb 2018
Where do our souls go
when  our bodies die?
Are they reincarnated
and reused
or are they awaited
by he who would have abused
them?
Do they go upstairs
to God's room
sitting in waiting chairs
patiently for a new identity to assume?
Oh! How I wonder what occured
to the souls of those before us
and if their safety was assured.
What a topic to discuss!
This poem is pretty ******, but I'm bored so..
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