I'd like to say THANK YOU to everyone in the Hello Poetry community for all of your positive vibes and wonderful comments on my poems.
"This is NOT Poetry" was a huge victory for me and I am glad to have shared my very first Daily with everyone in the HP community. It was a poem I did not think would become so very popular but I'm extremely flattered and touched that it resonated with so many of you.
So, I say THANK YOU again, I will try my hardest to make sure all of my works are worth reading for you guys. (:
Thank you guys so much!!!
People all around
Music in the air
We're chilling on the ground
Popcorn and coffee
Guitars and Ukes
People sitting in twos
The sounds are warm
Resonant and rich
Filling the air for the sake of the poor
Hearts gathered together
From all walks of life
To find out how we can give more
New connections made
Awesome talent shared
A good cause funded
Now we're more aware
So the garden was filled
Our hearts were grown
God's Kingdom was furthered
So little hearts will know
More love of the Father,
The Author of this show
I attended a lovely music afternoon in aid of a new craft centre in an under-priveleged area. I was inspired to write this, which they kindly published on their website, www.yebo-life.com
...But she refused to let herself fall apart...
...When she awoke her world was broken as before...
...Believing the future and all it held, she wanted to be the one...
...Stuck in the middle, she felt like she was never enough...
...All the whispers *weighed her heart heavy...
*...The longer she knew someone the less they'd know her...
...Shutting herself from her friends and the world...
...She doesn't have anywhere left to turn...
*...Would you believe I am that girl?...
Hyperaesthesia: excessive sensitivity
PSA: this is not a good poem, this is an explosion.*
internal dialogue echoing within my fatty brain, overweight from months of stagnant vegetation.
one repetitive sentence feebly attempts to remove the attackers
“go away go away go away go away”
linoleum floors squeaking as my slippered feet find their grip,
praying that these feet don’t lead me to a kitchen full of knives, hungry to meet the stretch marks striping my newly obese thighs.
i’d rather have scars than these purple proofs of my inadequacy
the familiar hair-band meets my forearm for the first time in an age,
my vegetated brain slowly recognises this pattern from once before and the skills from months of therapy begin to kick in
wondering how on earth i will live for seven more weeks
desperate to make my voice heard
but stumbling into silence as my head slams the wall and bounces off the floor
leaving me stuck in my own harrowing mind,
one that is far too tired, lonely and ill to fight for much longer.
21/6 .. seven weeks and two days to go.
— The End —