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rw weaver Jun 19
The first time I showed my grandmother my poetry,
she looked me straight in the eye and said,
"You know poets die young."
I tried to push it away for years,
just crazy words,
from a dementia-suffering old woman.
Now I can find the truth in the words.

We are a community of wandering souls,
looking for a place to call home,
looking for someone to love
that will love us back.

We're a group of people who hide pain,
who shove it into words,
as we cry silent tears,
every day becoming heavier
under the weight of the world.

No wonder we die young.
Tompson Jun 2020
I got the name of a machine gun
I'm the bad one of the family
I'm the one who do drugs for fun
I'm the one who likes to play with guns
I'm the one who's gonna die ******* young
I'm the one who's gonna make my family's name have blood


Such a shame
For a beautiful girl
With a beautiful name
Lauren Osborn Jul 2018
Minds White
Souls Missing
Hearts blank
Cold, lifeless wind through my hair
Looking down at the glorious new world
The moving blurs racing like chariots
Scars are bunnies wanting to bounce away
Sorrow flowing fast through my veins
The time of sharp pains of his hands recurring
Glass bottles smashing, skin dripping of disappointment
Off I go to the colorful, hard sea
10, 9, 8
Guess they’re too late
Written at 15 years of age.
gray rain Apr 2016
Electric guitar
I won't go far
Or travel the world in the back of a car
I'll end up cremated in a jar
This is for all the musicians who die young.
I wish to die young,
I wish to die tomorrow.
If I could buy a gun,
I could wish away my sorrow.

— The End —