#excell
Has this become my life?
Writing poems that few people take their time to read
Looking at the walls, windows, and shadows hoping to see light
Waiting to have a social life again
Has this become my life?
Waiting anxiously for a friend to call or text
Knowing that I can only count them with one hand
One hand because there are restrictions set upon my life
Has this become my life?
Talking to thyself in the middle of the living room
Listening to music and thinking of what could have been
Looking at thyself in the mirror and controling the tears
Painting my face with no ocation just because I'm bored
Has this become my life?
Overthinking each past situation
Realizing every mistake with agony
Looking at the sky and screaming why
Has this become my life?
Whispering to myself that it's all gonna be okay
Meanwhile listening to others enjoying the outside
Trying to be better in a bubble
Being judged by every single present mistake or action
Has this become my life?
Being the center of attention at home
Driving to doctors here and there, there and here
Getting labs done every once in a while
Has this become my life?
My entire future lying in the hands of others
Proffessionals determining which pills I should pop
Parents restricting my social life
Listening to every opinion of what I should do with my life
Has this become my life?
Bursting into tears in my mothers arms
Accepting only professionals and mom to unburden me
Denying help from others because the anger exceeds the forgivenes
Has this become my life?
YES.
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 9:05 PM UTC
My poems are better when I'm hurting
I can connect more with people and bond through the pain
My poems are better when I'm hurting
Everything is seen through tears and lust
My poems are bad when I'm happy
I see everything in a positive way
I find no critics to say
My poems are bad when I'm happy
Usually writers connect through life experiences (the bad ones mostly)
My poems are bad when I'm happy
No one likes to read a perky girl's poem
My poems are excell when I'm fading
I see the moon and start talking about it
You see the loneliness drives me to this
My poems excell when I'm fading
I talk about lust and people suddenly recall old memories
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 9:33 PM UTC
It is the ink propelled with mold and feces,
And the grandeur of dogma littered with arrogance.
The persistent deconstruction of ideals covered with dust,
and yet it screams openly to the audience of deaf.
Forbidding irk come with forbidden shadows beyond it's own screech,
And the scatching of the chalkboard has friendlier tone than unoriginal scribes of embellishments.
The act of taken lives from people who do not deverse your pardon need not be your tropies,
For those actions of hate deserve no love or pity.
For this is the land of united people of places and hope,
For you can not divide us with words,
Or sword upon freedom.
The vigilant light shall warm us,
Your hate will only fuel us,
You shall never silence us.
For we shall live for the dead,
And their memories will not be forgotten.
We will defeat your hate with our compassion,
And we will prevail where you so sought to undo,
For love will defeat your prideful destruction.
Say good bye to your yesterday,
For no song of your will be heard but in the mist of ocean,
And our choir will muddle your preformance.
For your last act stood as an epilogue,
And ours has become the prologue.
Have you truly succeeded?
I think our cheers shall resonate the true answer.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 11:57 PM UTC