April 3d
With words, a war can be fought
or peace brought
With words, a heart can be healed
or shattered beyond repair
With words, inspiration can be cast around
or self-esteem, drowned
Words are magic and weapons;
they unite and divide
Though their creation is without cost,
yet their effect never is

Words tell me about you,
tell you about me
and us, about our world
My words are something that can stay with you even when I am gone.
Let my words affect you positively. :)
  May 15 April
I could never tell you
exactly what's going on inside my head,
so I'll write instead.
Drown my thoughts in paper & lead.
Keep my hands alive,
and my expression dead.
What happens when the good girl goes bad
like the spoiled milk she left out
because I couldn't seem to get up.
I think it was something about acknowledging that I'm alive, I'm here.
Wouldn't it all be easier if I wasn't?

When the good girl goes bad
because she worked her ass off on that paper and only got a C.

When the good girl goes bad
because the world doesn't treat her right,
but I guess it must because that's
how come I'm the good girl
not my depressed sister sitting in her room;
not my other sister running around, destroying everything I had to work for;
most definitely
not my other sister who always seemed to be your favorite but is now smashing plates in our backyard 'cause I guess that's what happens if you get too close to you.

When the good girl goes bad,
you get angry because
I'm supposed to be your perfect child
not supposed to be
your screw up child
your lonely child
your lazy child
your anxious child
not supposed to be
your good for nothing child
your dysfunctional child
your doesn't give a fuck about anything anymore child

When the good girl goes bad
your life falls apart,
because clearly
you had enough to deal with already,
because clearly
this is all my fault,
because clearly
you don't have the time to face your good girl
because clearly
that's all on me.

When the good girl goes bad
because you left her out on the counter all those years, sitting there to rot.
And I know that you can't waste your time putting it away 'cause you never cared for it anyway,
but maybe you shouldn't have bought the milk if you didn't want to drink it.
And I know that the milk should take care of itself
but I tried and that only works for a couple of years
before the good girl gone bad falls far off the counter, spills across the floor,
and the only thing left is to throw that nasty old milk away
because your bread, eggs, and oil need more attention
and it's just too late for the good girl.

When the good girl goes bad
because she never asked to be the good girl
or maybe I did, I don't really remember,
but not like this.
I just wanted to be loved
but little did I know that
the good girl just sits there
keeping herself afloat,
but the boat can't guide itself if it wasn't given eyes.
The boat can't patch itself if you tell it that its still brand new
when really its old, broken, and covered in holes.
You shouldn't put a boat in the water if you know its going to sink,
but I guess you only really need a couple good boats so you can just toss the good girl.

When mama's little good girl goes bad
she feels guilty
because she was told she'd always be
the good girl.
Though its hard being the good girl when you don't have any windshield wipers for your tears at night.
But the tears at night aren't supposed to exist
I'm still mama's mother fuckin' good girl,
please pretend I haven't gone bad.
I added to what was originally posted. I was having some technical issues and decided to just post what I had before, but this is the full poem (5/16/18)
  May 15 April
I want to be a poet,
Studied like Keats and Shakespeare,
For my writings to invoke love, sadness and fear,
For classrooms to be filled with my spilled words,
More exciting stuff than multiplication and surds,
For entire essays written about my verbalisation of life,
To let them know my truest pains and strife,
So people know how I feel about ‘her’,
For them to learn, to me, her identity is a blur,
To make my perfect family proud,
To have the world to know ‘Jack Youd’

Or am I just a lonely poet,
Writing words never to be read, embraced and felt,
All my words, wisdom and woes,
And yet people will never know it.
i want to be a poet. JY x
April May 15
The days were idled away,
resting in my armchair near the sunniest window
My favourite song was the gentle hum of the laundry machine
and the rhythmic passing of cars on the street
The high notes were the sirens, the horns and the hollering
To someone unaccustomed, it could be less than therapeutic, but I was a city girl,
and this was home.
April May 15
The sunshine was sweet,
a nectar bestowed to the bees by each fragrant bloom
It was the gift of sun
that rendered each moment so rich,
so buoyant,
conjuring the wands of green to rise skyward
To me it was a symphony of colours,
one that brought the sensation of dance to my bones.
~Angela Abraham
  May 15 April
I wonder
Not about things others may
As clothes
Bank accounts
Not that those aren’t relevant
But perhaps not significant to me

Instead I wonder
On the movement’s of invisible characters
The words of individuals who don’t think enough of themselves
The thoughts of those I care for

Sometimes I don’t know how to wonder
On who I want to be
How to feel this emotion they call ‘love’
Why others could feel it for me

Some things I don’t have to wonder
As how fortunate I am
To have those I can call family, both of blood and without
And of them being much more important
Than I could ever hope to be

I do wonder
On change
Over those I wish to protect
About who I need to help
I wonder about it all
Held until ingrained
I wonder
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