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I planted a flower awhile ago,
by window where little light came through.
Somehow, still, it chose to grow-
so maybe I can too.
I sang a song when I was 3,
About the birds and the butterflies,
About the cartoons that brought joy to me.
I sang a song when I was 3.

I sang a song when I was 8,
About how I love my family,
I sang it off key but mom still said I sounded great.
I sang a song when I was 8.

I sang a song when I was 13,
About how I hated the world and people,
That my favourite color was black and no longer green.
I sang a song when I was 13.

I sang a song at 15 I think,
About heart break and tears,
And how much life stinked.
I sang a song at 15 I think.

I sang a song at 20,
Legal to drink alcohol and have *** as I pleased,
Real friends were hard to find but fakes were plenty.
I sang a song at 20.

I sang a song at 22,
Fresh out of a failed engagement,
I hated the world once again and gave up on love being true.
I sang a song at 22.

I would be 25 at mid year,
I've now found love beyond what I ever dreamed,
So I'm singing this song at 24,
Life gets better even thought at time it's horrible or so it seems.
My own growth comes from a deep realization of loss of life, whether
at my own hands or by another, I’m skewed emotional & left questioning my own intellect, I live until it’s time to go & continue to be proud or apologetic for
my own extreme nature.
Aaron 3d
Look back - my sight was black and white,
A decidedly dividing definition;
“Surely now I see what’s right” –
What a presumptuous premonition.

Fast forward a few:
“All scenes shall shatter.”
Nihilism, not new; just
Cognitive chatter.

Even Nothing now ends
in a burst of ferocious flame;
The love that she sends
renders the Big Bang tame.

You ask what I believe:
As though it’s set in stone;
As though there’s some reprieve;
As though I’ve fully grown.
I'm not great with titles. Recommendations are always great. <3
a sparkle in your eye
a baby girl's cry

how's she going to spend
the rest of her life?

reaching for perfection
fixing her complexion
and sense of direction

society's inspections

her father's aggression
her mother's traditional-housewife obsession

trying to escape their
suffocating protection

became an adult
run away across the country
for a new angle of reflection

trying to forget
trying to have no recollection
of their projections
on her own perceptions

learn who she is
over and over again

question question question

she's spending time making
connections between
the past and the present
Found a photo of myself
From a year ago
Which I sent you.

I hate that person
That insidious smile
Make my heart boils.

He hurt you
Countless of times

He's the old skin I shed
I will never be him again.
Melanin 5d
I have found nothing but happiness in the time that I have been away. In the garden of orchids I learnt to scream in color painting pictures in vivid technicolor.

I learnt to laugh with my tongue sticking out much like this orchid, I wasn't always this happy but now... I have found a wave of calm like no other.

I no longer get mad thinking about you instead when your name visits the corners of my mind. I open that tiny door and mellow in the memory thinking
Wow that once made me happy but that once led me to the ocean weeping my sorrows away

Today I think of you with roses in mind except now I removed the thorns, pruned the bush and smelt the sweet fragrance of joy.

P. S I hope you're as happy as I am and if not I hope you find the kind of joy that makes your toes tingle and your face brighter. I hope you learn to laugh again. I always loved that laugh.
I've been gone for years but I'm not back for long I just needed to show you that I've since found it, joy.
With tenacious tread I seek
The dawn where urban trees drink deep
Of lake water and clear skies. I plant my feet
Only to stumble through
The withering wasteland of my wound.

I walk off the pain
Though each step draws the flames higher
Each breath becomes an act of will
My own heel my pyre.

I set my eye, with rigid strides
Press on toward that golden line.
Maybe a fool: I am my own fuel
As forward motion consumes, I'm vaporized
And my sparks skyward fly.

To ashes, dust
To dust.

Each searing step I take alone
Then in the coals see marks
Of other feet, upward look and meet
Eyes ember bright, fearless
Fingers tracing filaments against the night.

Fire walkers give off the light
By which we find a way
A note or rhyme, a guiding flame
As forward motion consumes, refines
And our sparks skyward fly.

To ashes, dust
To dust
To gold.
Pain is lonely but can connect you with others who have been through it too, and beautiful things may result.
When you call a **** poem victim-y.
Victim-y is the person who makes
Excuses for why they treat people like
An *******.
"I had a hard life, so I'm an ***."
Using excuses for bad behavior.

A woman writing about
How she felt about her body
After she is ***** is not
It is fact.
Not a woman alive who's been *****
Will ever say she's not affected.
That she hasn't gone home
Looked in the mirror
At the body she's had her whole life.
And felt utter shame
Less than who she was before.
Like the good pieces of her
Were ripped away with his touch.
Victim-y is excuse.
Talking about your loss,
As a women.
That is utter strength,
And those who can't see that.
Maybe you're the one playing
Someone called a **** poem victim-y.  Telling her to get over it and stop writing about it.
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