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Apr 2019 · 158
a black box
arden Apr 2019
I was nine when I touched my first gun
It was in a black leather box with gold hatches
A closed lock, made it impossible to open
Not impossible
After guesses of combinations
After what felt like hours
I pulled down
And the shackle broke
Open
It wasn’t long before I fired my first bullet
I was ten
I still remember how my hands curved around the trigger
It barely skimmed the white oversized hoody
Worn by the tall man with guns
Any closer, and his baggy jacket would’ve been
Stained
An old poem I wrote. This isn't true and hasn't happened to me.
Feb 2019 · 430
anything but a poem
arden Feb 2019
my words
are only sentences
nothing more
each word
is made up of only letters
nothing more
and yet
they mean something
and nothing
and everything
my words
tell the story
my own mouth can't
the story
I hide
my words
paint the picture
but my words
are anything
but
a Poem
Dec 2018 · 600
Untitled
arden Dec 2018
It wasn’t
Time to
It wouldn’t
Ever be
Go back
The plane
Lifted
Into the air
Flying
Souring
Across the world
I went
Today

— The End —