I am from stories Stories and fantasies woven by my cousins and I With characters we built on ourselves In worlds of our own, the only rules of our making
I am from hurt From chronic depression and panic attacks Too scared to be open or to not be alone With parents who cared, but didn't know what was wrong
I am from care From a therapist after four years of needing one From connecting to people as lost as me, holding their hands Being an anchor in the hellscape we share
I am from being ***** Having a crush on my best friend and not knowing where to go Not feeling the label of "woman" fit Scared to be hated for being myself Hating myself
I am from acceptance Accepting myself as I am And leaving those who could not accept me Making way for the person I want to become for myself Rising to be my own
I am from stars From looking up with wonder every clear night From never seeing a sky that wasn't beautiful And if the sky can be so open and free Then maybe so can I
I am from myself, and the story I write Hoping one day to be healed in mind Hoping to someday find the sky and stars in someone else Regardless of gender, or anything else I will be okay and I will be happy
I had to write a "where I'm from" poem for one of my classes and this kinda just happened. I have a weird history, I guess.
Once a proud father, A builder, a family leader. A spawner of a new generation. Lost to the trials of aging, A time faded away, A mind still intact, Never aged a day past 40 A body giving up, Forced to standby and watch yourself, Lose your abilities To the reaper.
If I a chance to travel back through time and space to a time and a place of my choosing It back to fifties and sixties I'd go where life was so much simpler when there weren't the pressures of everyday life we were able to enjoy growing up as kids Then we moved Into the sixties new fashions bright colours pretty girls In their mini shirts could brighten one's day Time of so much change Incredible the sixties was a wonderful time sometimes think we'd be better of not moving on with progress stayed In the sixties frozen In time well I would be happy For the time I now live In there no difference between working day life struggles I'm now retired but there no difference Its just the same continuation of my working life struggle What was the point of those working days to retire to nothing complete and utter waste We should never have moved on from the sixties well that the way I see It bring back the the sixties
Just some thoughts while passing my day my feelings
where do you escape, when you're trapped, when you're held captive, by your own thoughts, where do you hide, when you're exposed, and all your feelings, are on the floor, where do you run, when you're chased, by your worst nightmares.
you must write them on burning buildings as screams and smoke fill the air like a brilliant masterpiece of a Renaissance art you must write poems while your heart is breaking and your tears soften the ink on the page you must write poems while driving a car As the excitement of avoiding a head on collision floods your mind with adrenalin and excitement you must write poems on mountaintops swimming in the ocean or staring up at the night sky you must write poems all the time you must write poems while you die
My true love lies some where a long way from here, another life perhaps I'll admit I like to think that way about Helen then her passing doesn't seem quite as final maybe she made to where she was heading the last I saw her alive I truly hope so
Hope Helen Made To Where She Was Heading The Last Time I Saw Her Alive
i'm just so angry, frustrated, mad its so constant, it builds up, fast i hate it, you know it, i do need someone who cares, it used to be you what happened dad? where did it all go? did you forget how to love? to show the emotions i know you had.