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If I succumb to the current
of the raging river
would it take me home?
If I let it wash away my tears
would it cease my restless wandering--
when endlessly I roam?
Could I ever hope to drown in
stormy depths?
When I claw and I poke
at things I wont accept?
So I plunge in
awaiting the beasts that shall pull me under
Split me apart
pick me clean
and tear me asunder.
Why did you make me write it
Pushing my pen because you want to fight it
You just want to see my ink spill
And my blood drip into the ink well
I dipped my quill in the bloodguilt
For every man I've killed his poor brain cells
With my alphabetical spells proped up like metaphorical discounts
Reasoning your doubts
With insurance that pays out
Go back to what I've written
And listen to your consciousness
Ask yourself the questions
There is an answer to every lesson
In the message you keep guessing
On each and every word I'm professing
You made me write it
And ignite it to the level
Of excited because you wanted to hear some
Rhythmic words delighted
Into Figments of imaginary
I wrote this down
Because you suffer from not knowing
Why is now
And you weren't cooperating
With what  you knew about
The blood spilling the inks mouth
So you could know how to bettter control your self
For who controls you
When no one knows who
You really are
Soft brown eyes
Shattered like mirrors
Scattered with abandon
What happens when
There are hearts working in tandem
Sharing and loving and growing and
What happens when
One just dies
Probably my final poem from my English class.
Where I'm from, turbulence is arbitrary and the top layer is a dream
Violence and suicide hidden by pastel pinks and blues
A fragile frosted shell

Where I'm from, dark secrets come from a college in Santa Monica
Where someone drank too much
And no didn't work enough
My dad was in custody of the state 9 months later

Where I'm from, we pride ourselves in Edward Rutledge
Who picked up a pen in 1776
How does a single signature outweigh
A blurred auburn plantation in South Carolina
The sweet scent of fat, and the relatives I'm not allowed to meet
The men under another red, white, and blue flag

Where I'm from, pills are passed out like candy
Anxiety, depression, take your pick
My second cousin, she jumped off a bridge
We don't talk about her

Where I'm from, my cousins are bi-racial
I take pride in myself, and will never fall back
On racism, sexism, words that make my skin crawl
Where I'm from, I'll never stay silent again.
This is a poem I wrote for my English class a while ago. Our prompt was "where I'm from" and every stanza had to start with those words. I am pretty proud of my poem so I decided to post it.
Elizabeth Feb 7
I've heard skin described as porcelain or mirrors
Sometimes scratched, but smooth and unique
Well I guess I was left to be heated too long
I can already see my distortion breaking out
Valerie Feb 4
your eyes flick to me-
sapphires twinkling back
at mud brown ponds;
with a mouth like valentine
and heart pumping ichor,
you walk a rockerfeller pace.
your kiss is salt and summer beers,
mint with ice and wine coolers,
tipsy two-hour conversations over traded
war stories of nights we don't remember
leaving me walking up to my room
with grins so big they could fall off my face.
you adore leaving in the morning and
pages in your passport wearing thin,
you like cutting holes into safety nets
and being around you feels like
roaming a tranquil spring garden
planted with emotional landmines
or sitting on a train platform
with no destination in mind-
honestly, i wouldn't have it any other way
because you're my favourite waste of time.
for ross <3
Cy Jan 25
you thew your wine across the room
big mess to clean up tomorrow
watch your toes
it cuts
you scream, you’re mad
i say its okay, we’re fine
calm down jeez
you say we can’t do this
you yell and lie and pass out
we’re good
this didn’t happen last friday
i was worried then
was it the end?
but theres still love here
we’re fine
Elizabeth Jan 23
Complaining about their scores
Saying that I'm calm
You're lying
I'm just more experienced at hiding it
Elizabeth Jan 23
Why are there these jokes
Tying twine into nooses
Resting dinner knives on wrists
While the people who do
Rub their pencils against their wrists until they're
Raw and bleeding
Suffer in silence and are erased as a joke
As someone who has self-harmed more times than I'd like to admit, I encourage all those in these troubles to seek some sort of help, however daunting the task may seem.
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