former selves in the scribble of some crooked writing middle of reformed books, evolved journals i was in them and now i'm not look into the mirror but when i point at you its me that walks away feeling at
Many hours go by Like a butterfly that tries to fly Unless we attempt with good actions It will never leave us in satisfaction So many hours go by All spent locked in my room as I cry In every tear shed I attempt to **** myself on my bed Countless hours spent As my life turns into a hollow,black dent In every galaxy there is a rhythm All I try to do is fit into this earthly system See, people are extremely, evilly, deviously rude Even when they're supposed to be in a good mood All these hours spent by my bedside Passing DeathTrain and trying to get a ride Words spinning around my misunderstood head I only want to drop down dead Everywhere I go These people interrupting my flow Such simplicity in death All I need is an overdose on ****. Once I had a single friend Sadly their life came to a painful end Many days spent regretting Why even bother fretting? Everyday a chance to grab a gun and **** I'll do it today; its my choice, my will
The silent echo of the night Just one flickering light
Whisper of two friends getting along In the Silence just hear their cheerful song
Like the flow of the ocean They were full of emotion
In the Silent Room I still found him talking to the Moon
...Michael J Fourie
Sometimes when the world puts you down,you just need to take a breath and talk to the Bigman.The light of hope will always flicker whether it is in a light,lamp or the moon.You will find light in your darkness.
there have been sureties not been able to suffer from avoidance; contiguity and octave that when our hands compose they become a cistern prognosis which are visibly shut in there own organs waiting for an unborn character to upset through weakness, and a faltered selfish flavor that jolts into a superstition of your own apathetic disposition
If I am writing about you now, then you have stolen from me something as precious as the gem I was named for-- my voice.
Though, I'm afraid our encounters were never quite as cinematic as Disney's animation-- no tantalizing mist of green shrouding our figures, no sweet harmony evaporating from a frightened, rouged mouth in wisps of golden light, and absolutely no happily ever afters.
See, you've always had a catty flair for stepping all over me like a Just Dance Mat-- yes, I'm quite familiar with the way you toy with others, myself included; and the **** has never defeated the Game Master.
Call a ***** a *****; I know very well that I can't change you or what you did me.
I can't undo the hurt.
But I can reclaim my voice.
Through poetry, I will say all the things I wish I had the courage to say to you way back when in response to your cruel fuckery.
I will expose you for what you truly are-- a petty, self-righteous sea (witch) *****.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!
(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience.)