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SANA 1d
WHAT HAPPENDS TO THE POET
when he completes to tell the story ???
does he live eternally through the poetry
he already wrote or does he vanish just like his words
SANA 2d
YOU MAKE ME FEEL ALL THE
"BUTTERFLIES"
BUT SUDDENLY YOU WILL **** THEM ALL
Everyday I walk in the rain
The rain of tears from endless pain
Hiding the pain behind a smile
Not seen the sun in a while
Morning brings the rain again
Only the storm is hidden within
No cuts or bruises to show as symptoms
Everyday the internal pain beats like a drum
The only symptom is not wanting to live
From hidden pain no one can see to believe
Bea Rae 4d
Beginnings are daunting
Endings are depressing
But the in between is deserving
SANA 5d
how can i say this
if u want u can stay if u don't want then leave
but i do hope u stay!!
Sadie 5d
I wish my existence could be as poetic as my subconscious,
As graceful,
Elegantly dancing through life,
Like metaphors on a page,
Rain filling puddles,
Mud filling cracks,
Swaying arms of willow trees.
I think that I used to be that way,
I appear to be in the hazy happiness of my memories,
But I don’t trust my mind.
I look back on a life lived in pastels,
Baby blue skies,
Blush pink cheeks,
Sage green eyes,
Lilac dreams.
It’s all daisy chains and braids,
A freckled face,
Ferns and worms,
Rolling clouds and running streams.
I wonder now if those memories are just dreams,
Did they ever really happen?
Was I ever really happy?
Or was it all just manufactured to protect me,
A safety blanket,
A quilt handcrafted by my mother?
I wonder now if my life is just an amalgamation of stolen moments,
Memories stitched together by glorified nostalgia,
Fabricated by a veil so thin,
Made entirely of imagination,
A fictitious eulogy written by me as a child to remember the life I wish I had,
A life I’ve never lived,
A tortured poet trapped in a painfully privileged portrait.
Who can I trust if not myself to remember my own life?
I grew up cold,
Stuck in the rain with a broken umbrella,
With stormy eyes and a stormy mind,
Deep greens and blues,
Scarring scrapes from the sharpest scraps of misery.
I was born in the image of hatred,
Generational distaste that I inherited,
The quietest violence,
Gentle wrath buried beneath the softest reflection.
Tell me I’m beautiful,
Oh, how sweet,
Tiny and weak.
Admire all the lies I’ve told myself to stay alive,
Hiding my agony in metaphors,
Tucking it neatly between stanzas,
A great illusion,
Fallacious lines describing a person I'll never be.
Styles 5d
Lost without your love,
I am broken,
beyond all,
repair.
Bea Rae 6d
Why would I break you

When I am entirely

Broken myself
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