Tatiana

Tatiana Sep 2014

Why do some feel the need to steal?
Does it make them happy
knowing that their work,
isn't their own?
How can you sleep at night,
when you've been taking
the hard work of others
and stating it as your own?

Who do you think you are?
Do you even know yourself?
I think not.

Why you may ask,
because you can't even post your own work.
So how could you know who you even are
if you have to steal others work
and claim it as your own.

I think that's sad.
So very sad.
You can always ask for help,
but you should never steal.

No one would look down on you
if you ask for help.
But if you steal,
then i'm sorry for the horrible backlash
that you will receive.

Actually,
i'm not sorry for that backlash.
For what you have done is wrong,
so very wrong.

You could have posted the poem,
and then state that it was someone else's.
Give credit where credit is due.

But you didn't.

And now i'm angry.
I'm so very angry.

I'm writing with a vengeance now
so you better watch out,
whoever you are
stealing poems.
You do not deserve the lovely comments on those poems,
because they are not yours.

So either take down those poems,
or say who originally wrote them.
Because they are not yours,
and they never will be.

It is so selfish to do such a thing.
So selfish to steal.
All you care about is what you want.
Not what the other person feels.

But **** am I furious,
so angry that it is so difficult
to write this.
So very difficult.

For you stole a poem
that one of my friends has written,
and that is unforgivable.

You mess with my friends,
then you're messing with me,
and I am not someone
that you want for an enemy.
So I suggest you stop now
before this entire community
stops you.
...
No one respects a thief.

I don't like thieves and selfish people.... That's all I have to say.

Tatiana Sep 2014

The Start of the Pain

The boy gets tripped the next day.
I watched him fall again.
The fall disorients him.
It's terrifying to see him so still.

He gets up quickly this time.
He's shaken and scared, isn't he?
The boy glares at his attackers slightly swaying.
He doesn't show his pain.

The other kids start to speak.
Oh God, why would they say that?
The boy stiffens.
I can't watch this anymore.
The boy's eyes are hurt and he never responds.
I'm going now.
I'm gone.

The boy tries to pick up his books,
but they keep escaping his grasp.
The books are being kicked,
and ripped apart.
He loved those books.
He loved his work.
But they were being destroyed,
piece by piece.

He manages to pick them up
and leave this mess.
But the words follow him,
down the halls
and into his classroom.
Everything is being destroyed,
himself included.
He sits in his seat,
in pain.

I saw him pass me in the halls,
I couldn't help it,
I followed him.
He walked into my classroom,
I didn't even know we shared this class.
I saw him sit in his seat,
I walked by him to get to my own.
I saw his eyes,
and it pained me to see,
that he is just as haunted
as I used to be

**** he's in pain
*...But it's the start of someone else's pain all over again.

Each poem won't be written the exact same way, i'm kind of experimenting how I want to write them. But they will all end the same. The words in italics are the thoughts of the other kid that was mentioned in the first poem. :)

Tatiana Aug 2014

The Day You Lost Your Mind

It was a good day.
It was a happy day.

The sun was shining
and the sky was so blue.
There just wasn't a cloud to be seen.
You walked in a beautiful park,
where there was this giant tree,
that stood tall
and proud
in the center of the park.
It's foliage was a deep green color,
and a slight breeze made the leaves quiver,
seeming to dance with excitement.
For summer was here once more.

It was a great day.
It was an interesting day.

You walked right up to the tree,
you stared at it.
You remember when this tree was planted.
How long ago could that have been?
You could hardly remember.
But it was beautiful now,
grown up and in it's prime,
like someone you know.
Someone who deserved to be here too.
But where were they?
And you wonder where your memory has gone.

It was a lovely day.
It was a ruined day.

Summer time many years ago,
you were there
and so was she.
How much have you forgotten
about the thing that ripped you up inside,
piece by piece.
Until you were nothing but a quilt,
torn apart at the seams.
You had to sit down now.
As the memories flowed back to you,
growing steadily stronger
like the wind blowing the leaves.

It was a windy day.
It was a tortured day.

The wind seemed to pick up,
leaves were falling off the tree,
spiraling downwards
to join you in your sudden misery.
You were crying now,
but why?
Where is your mind now?
It's as lost as she is,
as lost as she was.
You know you won't get your mind back,
just like how she will never return,
won't come back to this world.

It was a rainy day.
It was a terrifying day.

She was never returning to you,
six feet under,
not coming back up.
What took her away?
Do you remember?
Of course you remember,
it's something you won't ever forget.
The branches above you shifted and snapped,
the wind made them sway,
just like she did,
when she last visited
this tree.

It was a cold day.
It was a miserable day.

You remembered why you never come here anymore.
Too many memories consume you.
It was a summer day as you remember,
and she told you to meet by the tree,
the tree you planted when you both were young.
It was now a beautiful tree,
full of life and green leaves.
You remember seeing her figure
gently swaying in the breeze.
Except she shouldn't have been swaying,
the wind wasn't that strong,
and you prayed to God that this wasn't real.

It was a beautiful day.
It was a traumatic day.

It was the early morning,
the sun was rising,
her figure was glowing around the edges.
It would have been a beautiful sight,
you could have pretended she was dancing,
as she swayed with the gentle breeze.
She had to be dancing,
she always seemed to never touch the ground anyways.
Why walk in reality
when she could float above the ground.
But her feet were floating indefinitely,
and you had to cut her down.

and all that she left behind was a note.

It was a good day
It was a happy day
It was a great day
It was an interesting day
It was a lovely day
It was a ruined day
It was a windy day
It was a tortured day
It was a rainy day
It was a terrifying day
It was a cold day
It was a miserable day
It was a beautiful day
It was a traumatic day
It was the day I lost my mind
...
It was the day you lost your mind too.

Tatiana Aug 2014

The Start of the Conflict

It all started with a trip.
A simple act of a foot stuck out
in the middle of a busy hallway
but it leads to this boy's downfall.

His arms are full of books and papers,
they scatter as he falls.
Everything moves so slowly,
he can feel their eyes on him,
as he watches the ground come closer,
and closer.

Then he hits the ground,
his face smashing the tile
that makes up the school's floors.
Nothing breaks his fall.

He doesn't want to move.
People are laughing,
poking him,
and nudging him with their feet.
Calling him names.
But no one helps him.

How long he has been laying there,
he doesn't know.
But whoever tripped him,
has started a war against him,
and he'll be ****** if he loses.

Through his refusal to move,
he didn't see the one person watching him.
This shy kid,
so very shy.
This kid didn't know what to do.
Watching,
but never helping,
The bell rang and the kid fearfully ran to class.
Looking back at the other boy's shaking form.

But he didn't see this kid.

The boy picked himself back up,
removing himself from the cold floor,
only then realizing that he's bleeding.
Gathering up his now ****** books
and crumpled papers,
he makes his way to the nurses office
through a now empty hallway.
So he can stitch up
his first battle wound.

In his new conflict.
*...Yet he doesn't realize it's someone else's conflict too

A new poem series!!!!!!
These poems will all start with "The Start of the..."
I really like writing these series of poems, so I hope you all enjoy them.
:)

Tatiana Aug 2014

Fear of Freedom

It's interesting to have freedom,
something that one desires fervently,
but now one fears it
as if it were a deadly drug.
And in a way,
it can be.

There is something frightening about freedom.
One realizes that they must take control
of their one short life.
They must decide what their goals are.
Do they serve
a higher purpose?

This fear of responsibility
can weigh one down,
make them feel insecure,
uncertain of what will happen next.
One is in control of their future,
yet terrified of what is to come.

One may want to hide,
and pretend that this wasn't happening.
The pressure may just be too much,
and one may want to end it all,
with a rope,
or a bullet.

But there is so much more life has to offer,
so why end it?
Life will try to beat you down,
so keep getting back up.
Take hold of your freedom,
and love it.

Have the courage to exist

And in the end,
you will be happy.

Tatiana Aug 2014

Recognize It

The will to love,
the will to cry,
can be expressed
by a lullaby.

A lullaby who's notes hum softly,
and whisper of lives
that play so beautifully.

The will to sing,
the will to die,
are always related
when a mourner cries.

A mourner cries from all that is lost,
and screams of lives
that had been crossed.

The will to dance,
the will to lie,
can't happen together
and i'll tell you why.

A dancer has a passion that can't be false,
and holds the truth in her limbs
that can't lie in this honest waltz.

The will to dream,
the will to be alive,
are beautiful things
that can't be denied.

A dream is an innocence,
and it's a ray of hope in our minds
that we won't ever find ridiculous.

The will to survive,
is stronger than one will ever believe it is.
So I have two words,
and two words only.

Recognize it.