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Creator Sun Aug 2019
They said that the pen is mightier than the sword.
I never would have underestimated it had I thought
That the words you said would hurt so much.
So much that I cannot think.

Cannot feel.

You and your short biting tongue.
You with a cannon for a mouth.
You who chooses your words to hurt.
You who said, "You're worthless."

Worthless, ugly, fat, deadmeat.
Why do you all hurt so much?
Why do you cause tears to run down my face?
Why do you feel worse than a punch in the face?
Why do you make me want to end
My miserable, sorry, uneventful life?
Why do you hurt so much?

Tell me, why do we learn language?
When it can be used against us?
I've personally never been attacked like that in my life, but I'd heard enough about verbal bullying. Many times, it can feel worse than being physically bullied. I hope that everyone can be patient and kind enough to choose better words to be said, better words to be written. I hope that all of us can be a Canadian stereotype, so that the world looks more warm and inviting.
Creator Sun Aug 2019
Her mouth twists into a smile.
A couple of hours later it becomes a frown.
It looks a little lopsided, doesn't it?
One arm is longer than the other; and faster.

But she doesn't care. Nobody does.
She smiles and frowns all day.
For she is but a servant tell,
the true master of the day.

Time.
It reaches out to us.
Tells us what to do and when to do it.

Time.
An age old foe.
For no one can escape it's cages.

Time.
A fabrication of the mind.
It traps us all in it's never ending orbit.

Time.
It's just like a dime.
Our future depends on how we use it.
I've picked this word to write a poetry about today since I'd gone off schedule due to falling sick. So here's a poem about time and its servant. clock. We all have the same amount of hours a day, so why are some people able to keep everything on track while others fall to vices such as procrastination? I've been watching a few Ted Talks and the monkey one stuck out to me. Also the paperclip for a house. Anyways, I'll end the note now and get on to writing another poem. I do hope that you enjoy a new experimental writing style I've used!
Creator Sun Aug 2019
Do they see me?
Do they hear me?

Can you see me?
Can you hear me?

Am I here?
Do I exist?

Those are just some questions that run through my mind,
Everytime they look away, don't respond, don't acknowledge;
I wonder if you know that I'm here,
But you just don't care.

They never do, do they?

Can you hear me?
Have you ever felt isolated? Like when you've been ignored by someone? The sad thing is that I'm sure that all of us have felt the feeling of loneliness before.
Creator Sun Aug 2019
Loneliness is but a thousand words,
A solitary figure, nothing more,
something less.

He will never be complete on his own,
yet he cannot break through the bars of his own existence!

He exists to be lonely,
yet he can’t exist without others around him!

The others that surround him, ignoring him;
The others that surround him, that haunt him;
The others that surround him, that don’t notice him;
The others who exist just to place emphasis

On his pitiful, meaningless, excruciating existence.

He is not alone in his situation,
but he is alone.

He will forever be alone.

Unless someone breaks him free.

-SLJ
Ye, found my first poem, submitting/publishing it now.
Creator Sun Aug 2019
Death takes many forms.
He can be harsh and cruel and cold
Or kind and merciful.

He takes people away,
Usually when the time comes.
Sometimes, the people even gave their permission for him to take them away.
Some even initiated it. Some were unaware of it.

Those were the ones that he truly mourn.
He mourns the absence of a bright-eyed child
In such a deep dark world.

For when the death knell strikes twelve,
A new world begins.

He watches as others try
to manage without the one taken away.  
He watches as they try and save
The ones that were taken away.
He watches as they call upon divine intervention,
Going so far as to ruin their lives,
Just to give the ones they love a second chance to live.

He wanted to wipe their warm tears away.
He wanted to hug them and feel as the fight in them went out.
He wanted to take them away to a faraway place where they won’t hurt no more.
But it was not time for him to do so.

He waits until the end of time.

He is inevitable and yet he waits.

He may strike suddenly, but still;

He waits.
I have personified Death in this second poem posted onto here. It seems that the first publication did not go through, so here is another one of my works written in boredom in literature class.

— The End —