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Caitlin Jul 2014
What I like most is not the flowers
not the rising sun
or the falling moon

What I like most is not smiles
or fun
It is not the few looks of love
neither the looks of admiration

What I like most is not summer nights
or school days
It is not snow or rain

Now even though i like and even love majority of what I mentioned,
This is what I like most;

*The moment before a performance or rehearsal
Where we are all ready for our director to speak and instruct,
And we are silent.
Right before we take that first breath to begin the song,
Where we all feel connected, through Music
I am missing these moments now, during the summer, where all of the band kinds go our separate ways, but only a few more weeks before band camp!!
Hannah Anderson May 2014
Loving you was
the most
exquisite form
of self
destruction

but I did it
I did it anyway
I wanted to reach
and touch
the flame
to bite
the fruit
to see
to hurt
and I wanted you to fix it
L Marie May 2014
Why is it that the one who loves you most
Is always the one who can hurt you best?
You heal me like no other, yet inflict wounds
So deep, they don’t compare to the rest.
Your electric touch shocks me back to life
While your magnetic kiss draws me in.
The power rushes through my blood;
I’m an addict to your sweet medicine.
In exchange for my forgiveness, come
On and take me over, for I surrender
To my desire; I need your love more than
I care to have shared you once with her.
Daylight 4U2C May 2014
People diein' on the streets.
****** puddles at our feets.

But we could be a family.
We could be a whole.
We could be together.
But no one could be cold.

If we could live on an island,
no hate,
no guns,
no war.
We'd look back and wonder,
what was it all for?

People diein' on the streets.
****** puddles at our feets.

Gangs,
tempts,
nudes,
exempts.

We sit at desk,
eating or eaten.
we laughed at or laughing.
beating or bleedin'.

We know the truth, but call it cruel.
The cruel one is we, the blind fool.

People diein' on the streets
****** puddles at our feets.

Who shot the most guns?
Who then killed them all?
Who didn't mind a casualty?
Who could be responsible?

"Not me!" we cry,
"I'm a good soul."
But even if we declined,
can I be told where they go?
No one WANTS to die. For someone to do it, there will be an opponent. A THREAT.    That's what this poem is about.

— The End —