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A Tree is such a wondrous thing;

The wind hides for brief moments

In the safety of her branches,

And the Cardinal finds a place to sing.

Her leaves paint the country side,

With colors that are never the same;

Stoic, she stands in a winter's night,

Watching the snowflakes glide.

If only she could tell her tales;

Oceans of time have passed her by.

Her twisted look and wisdom gained,

In the stormy nights and windy gales.

© William Power 2012
War
A war lashes out inside of me
One side will fight
While the other does flee
With every move I make
I am prodded with fury
I jab, I dodge, I rush forward
Only to be thwarted
To be turned away
To be deserted
I'm left in the dark.
My anger lights a match
It soon catches the trees
Until everything is on fire
And I cease to breath
 Jan 2013 undefined
John Keats
IN a drear-nighted December,
   Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne'er remember
   Their green felicity:
The north cannot undo them,
With a sleety whistle through them;
Nor frozen thawings glue them
   From budding at the prime.

In a drear-nighted December,
   Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne'er remember
   Apollo's summer look;
But with a sweet forgetting,
They stay their crystal fretting,
Never, never petting
   About the frozen time.

Ah! would 'twere so with many
   A gentle girl and boy!
But were there ever any
   Writhed not at passed joy?
To know the change and feel it,
When there is none to heal it,
Nor numbed sense to steal it,
   Was never said in rhyme.
 Jan 2013 undefined
Mikaila
Yet
 Jan 2013 undefined
Mikaila
Yet
It's not over for you.
Life will find you something wonderful.
It can't be over for you.
You haven't begun yet.
That is no beginning, love,
To have happiness for but a breath,
And spend all the others gasping like you're drowning.
No,
It's not over for you. You can't die yet:
You haven't lived.
I've lived the dark nights of the soul,

When darkness creeps as black as coal,

The fear wraps thick around my skin,

I crawl and scream for dawn's bright grin.



The day brings peace and I soon forget,

How in the night lives my regret,

Yet the bell, I know, will ring again,

The night will show my fears—my sins.



Relief I seek yet never find,

The years, the fears, control my mind.

And if a God there truly be

Will he ever set me free?



The dark it comes like thick black smoke,

Across the floor—my demons float,

And in my bed I sit and stare,

It grips my mind and claims its lair.



So until when the sun will rise,

The fear and pain will scar my eyes,

And if a prayer I do not sing,

Will Gods redemptive bells still ring?
 Jan 2013 undefined
Zach Gordon
I'm sick of this empty sympathy.
It's the small things that count like the gift you gave me.
Uncle, if you can hear me
I just want to thank you for caring.

It's got everybody feeling sorry for me
but I don't want a ******* pity party
What more can you ask of me?
I'm so ******* sick of apathy.
This is a long paragraph, but it explains a lot about this poem. I was diagnosed with diabetes when I was  12 years old.  While sitting in the hospital scared and upset many friends and family came to visit and everyone had the same thing to say, "I'm sorry," but it seemed so apathetic. I remember thinking that I would have rather they just didn't say anything, because I was sick of it. My uncle who died two ears ago from cancer came to visit me and I remember him walked through the doors of the room the hospital had me staying in and he just had a grin on his face and he handed me a bag of sugar-free candy, I didn't even know they made sugar-free candy, and he gave me a hug and said he loved me. That meant the world to me, I'm ******* holding back tears just typing this right now.  Sugar-free candy has these things in them called Sugar Alcohols, which at the time we didn't know what they would do to me.  Turns out that if you aren't used to them they will just give you bad diarrhea.  He didn't know that, and when he found out there was sugar alcohol he immediately felt guilty about it, and on his deathbed I was visiting him for one of the last times and he decided to apologize to me for giving me that candy, because he thought it could have killed me.  Seeing how much pain he was in and he still apologized to me destroyed me, I tried so hard to tell him how much that meant to me, but I couldn't get the words out through crying.  Even if that candy would have killed me, I would have died happy knowing people loved me.  It truly is the thought that counts and I know he was thinking about me. I just pray he knows that. I love and miss that dude and I regret far to often I didn't tell him that.  This poem is just a small amount of what I was feeling that day.
 Jan 2013 undefined
Tom Orr
gun unslung
hanging by his side
swaying with his step

his step thorough
leaving sand behind
floating like particles of dust

dust now forgotten
as his step imprints
upon broken glass

glass shatters more
crumbling
like the cities of Israel
beneath the feet
of falsely declared gods

gods that now drive the mind
with intrepid pace
towards the unsuspecting

the unsuspecting victim
of such malice
that can only be embodied
by death

death
only defied by those
who can truly consider themselves
wholesome and true

and yet the truth struggles
to stop this relentless growth
of pride and self righteousness

and thus the marksman
raises the gun to his target

his breath steady
his heartbeat in his ears

a resonance that he despises
his imperfections are his enemy
And if not to be perfect then what else?

he pulls the trigger
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