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 Jun 2014 Willow-Anne
Megan Grace
breathe.
because you know what you
do when someone ***** you
over? you calmly take your
heart out of their hands
and leave. you think maybe
you'll sew it back on to
your sleeve but not now, not
today. you put their things
in a box (their cds, their
shirts, their books, their
notes, the little things you
picked up on your dates)
and you put it on the
highest shelf in your
closet, because someday
you will want to remember
them, maybe. if you don't
want to remember them, you
give them the box, you
donate the box, you throw
the box in the river. and
you breathe. because you
deserve better. you deserve
someone who doesn't consider
you a fallback, a plan b.
you will be someone's plan.
you will be the only plan.
you will be my-god-what-
was-i-doing-before-you-
walked-around-that-
corner. remember that
you are enough.
breathe.
I will be okay.
 Jun 2014 Willow-Anne
Anonymous
It's strange isn't it?
That writing can be a cure
But also a disease;
It takes our weakest moments
And swallows them whole
But it also sprouts new ideas
And pants seeds of creation
In the pits of our souls
 Jun 2014 Willow-Anne
Anonymous
You ceased to exist the second your footsteps became inaudible
No matter how many times I read my journal full of our memories
It didn't change the fact that you were gone
Writing didn't make you last forever;
It only showed me how little 'forever' really is
 Jun 2014 Willow-Anne
Anonymous
I crave words more than a hopeless romantic
Craves the touch of another human being
 Jun 2014 Willow-Anne
Anonymous
I can’t hear what you’re saying anymore

Because you all sound the same

What happened to originality?

When poems didn't always reference the sun, tidal waves, and ever abiding seas?

What happened to poems filled with truth, artists that don’t lie

It seems that all art work sounds exactly the same; love, pain, suffering, and then you die

Why can’t you spit the truth across your pages

Why can artists no longer write things about the past ages

How hard is it to let the ink spill-

In such a way that tells what you real feel?

All the ******* lies convincing people your art is... “art”

Well, it’s no longer original, it no longer comes from the heart

Your mind is your own, if you just be yourself you’d see

Not all artist “dot their I's and cross their T’s”

It’s sloppy, its raw and it’s real, breathe truth into your words

Because all we really are is words;

what you speak is everything that’s heard.
Under the standard of fortune
Stands the soldier alone.
The sun is hiding over the dune.
The winds of change are blowing....
he is cold as a stone.

Tormented by the  past
He tries to break the ties
The bitterness away he casts
The demon of sadness
crawls back inside him.
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