pk tunuri Feb 5
You're the bravest I've ever known
I don't know what's hurting you to moan

When life was a problem, You stood tall
When there is a problem in life, You shall not fall

Stay strong my friend
Hard times are meant for the pain to end
We all face Hard Times.
Though it tries to knock you down,
all we have to do is "STAY STRONG".
Skye 6h
Watch her stand alone
As they beat her to the ground
As they force her head under
As they force her to drown

Watch her stand alone
Watch her crumble, fall apart
Watch her climb her way back up
Fingers bleeding and covered in scars

Watch her stand alone
Watch her struggle to breathe as broken bones force their way into her lungs and the blood in her eyes makes it harder to see

Watch her stand alone as on lookers point and stare at her disfigured face and her shattered soul-like-grace that's changed her into someone she's never wanted to be

Watch her stand alone
As years of torture claim their place upon the only heart she's ever known sitting slightly to the right of where its home should be

Watch her stand alone
Then watch her rebuild and grow
Watch her turn into a beautiful fighter who's smile burns brighter than any you have ever known

Watch her stand alone
William Wallace was a Scot
and worked with what he got
played the game of war
and lost everything, and more

Through history and beyond
Scots have and will respond
with mobs of battle spend
fighting unto the end

Ever in the mind
the tune, the song, reminds
where and what, you've been
fighting for kith, and kin

Down through the ages
past all the fools and sages
at every gathering, tattoo
the Scots are tried, and true

The song not just a sing
the possibilities it brings
every time it stays, as
Scotland the brave
and the black bear play
Ya love the pipes, or ya don't :D

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cil2w1B-qOY
Grace Jan 9
You know the type.
She's probably called something like
Isabella. Rosalie. Ginevra.
and you find her in the sort of novel where
she's outdone by someone called something like
Jane. Agnes. Lucy.
She's remembered in criticism as
Trivial. Silly. Foolish.
She's defined as Shallow. Vain. False gold.
She's analysed as the mirror, the contrast or the foil
and you're supposed to vaguely dislike her.
She'll reaffirm to the reader that the heroine,
whether she be plain or beautiful, is always, in the end,
Rational. Independent. Brave.
She reaffirms the heroine as someone who
learns and grows
while the silly girl is left looking at herself in the mirror.

The thing is sometimes I feel more like the silly girl,
the girl who needs a hand, the girl who reads books
and wants to believe the stories.
Sometimes, I'm looking in the mirror,
chest deep in my own trivial, silly little worries,
looking at the puddles not the lake, and I know.
I know I'd be one of the silly girls,
not the heroine, out there, just surviving.
I'd be one of those silly girls and I hate it - and yet
- what's so wrong with the silly girls?

What's so wrong with the girls who love themselves,
or love the wrong people or love their clothes?
What's wrong with the girls who are
brave but not rational,
independent but trivial,
selfish but practical?

What's wrong with those girls,
because I always find myself preferring
the Ginevras and the Isabellas anyway.
Basically, Isabella Linton and Ginevra Fanshawe are two of my favourite characters ever :)
Found this poem in the notes on my Kindle. I must have written it late at night, then forgotten about it. :) It's a bit lazy and silly and a bit different from other things I've been writing, but I decided to share it anyway.
I also can't believe that one of my most poems on here is me rambling about Ginevra.
Amelia Glass Apr 2013
it wasn't snowing yet, but they'd told us it would.
probably I said something infantile, about how
I could smell it, the frostiness of snowflakes in the
air, because you smiled that knowing smile of yours,
like you were an adult and i was a child and you
didn't have the heart to take my innocence away.

that look always made my heart smile, sadly, and
it also drove me up a wall, partly because it made
me want to hug you close and pity you the
burden of assumed moral superiority, and whisper
that you, too were a child. but mostly because you
were right— I clung to my naiveté while you, you
had already had the good sense to push it away.
it followed you around with sad puppy eyes, but
you knew it and you kept it at arm's length.
you brave, brave soul.

when it did start to snow I wasn't surprised. you
were. you didn't say anything. we were in
a deserted school hallway, listening, removed
from the other kids' cries. we were
delighted too, but the others wanted to run home
early, and we knew the definition
of home better than they. and I can speak only for
myself but it seemed we both wanted only to stay
forever side by side, tucked away in our corner,
me reveling in the softness of love and friendship
and winter, you trying to be there with me but having
trouble leaving your mind, where that sad-eyed
puppy snapped at your heels. it whimpered
but you held your own.

and slowly, we built up moments like this one.
we wallowed in each other and in the coziness
of cloudy days. we read good poetry and
heard good music and took photographs as we
discussed life from our  softer world.
there were moments of such pure white happiness
that they came full circle to being sad,
simply because I knew I would never be that
happy again, and I was not wrong, and I didn't
want to be. and we had
sad moments, too, never ever think I am not
happy to be sad with you.

and slowly, too, your innocence knew its
defeat, and sat obediently at your feet,
and we shared things.
but I was a child, and a weak one at that, and
God knew I was not as strong as you so she
gave me no great suffering to speak of, to
share with you. no way to reciprocate the
vulnerability you gave, and that in
itself was suffering for me.

I regret that I was not good at saying things.
that while
you had to be your own adult and push childhood
away, I clung hopelessly to mine as
I discovered me and watched it slip
from my small hands.

among the plethora of reasons I can give for
bitterly hating sunny days is the
way the sun slanted through the window and lit
up your eyes and swilled particles around
your face like fairy dust on the day you reached
out and pulled my lanyard over your own neck.
look, you said, content. almost proud.
I'm wearing a bit of you around my
neck,
and you wove it through your
sunlit fingers, eyes bright. you tugged on it,
lightly. that's what love does, it strangles
you. and we all want it.


and I gasped at the way that word sounded,
so harsh in such beautiful sunlight on such
a soft face. but I don't want to strangle
you
. I said that. thoughtlessly,
instinctively. I regret it every day. in that regard,
you gave me a strength, but it's no german shepherd—
you are so damn strong.

when your ache tugged and tugged at you,
tore you from reality, or brought you closer to it,
it slipped its finger into that lanyard knot. loosened it.
I could have reached out right then, as you had when you
pulled the sun-soaked string over your head, and
tightened it. tightened us. been a friend.

I didn't tug the knot. if you run.
when you run,
I know that two grown dogs
will follow after you, blocked
from the sun by your receding shadow.
Lynnie Defelice Aug 2017
She slid between the shadows,
of the walls in every room.
She hoped the sun wouldn't crawl her way,
as she cried for the moon.
She's learned to hide amongst the paint,
slipping in its depth.
Watching from the inside,
deceiving her own breath.
It was cold where she walked,
the night with wind so strong.
How could she know this smart escape,
when her heart was just so young?
Well you see, she never fit in,
this weird world of light.
So she fell away from the day,
and slipped from people's sight.
She saw into every person,
that thought they were alone.
They never knew she truly cared,
and from their heads she'd go.
Yet they felt this kinder relief,
when her shadow appeared towards theirs.
She would stand so brave and tall,
as she gave them all her air.
And one day she won't have enough,
she surely won't survive.
But she helped many others,
to make them feel alive-
This poem is about all the people that help others, but the others never realize. This poem is for all the introverts, including myself, who never really talk in public.
Ruzica Matic Jul 2017
pigeons still
wait for meals
by that bench
where Sun once grew
in tufts of gold

girls skipping classes
to window shop
their scarves wild
and their nails chipped

tough boys go out and smoke
and cough and dance
and act brave
and cut their hair
in the dark

and words of a new language
tumble down our tongues
head over heels
tasting strange
but falling into place
after all
O rescue help the boys in dreadful cave.
Those adventurers could meet their demise
Unless in hour of crisis comes the brave;
But one by one emerge and none yet dies,
Unscathed though bruised from historic ordeals,
Escaped the jaws of death. Those left behind,
Our prayers they overcome their perils.
The tears flowing freely cruel minutes grind.
A strange surging water locking them in,
The force push them up to higher chambers.
Upon a mount waited; with anxious kin,
With families, monks believe still embers.
We salute rescuers' courage to save,
And one to God his precious life he gave.
This poem is to the boys and the coach of a football team trapped in a cave in Thailand. But thanks to the rescuers' most had been rescued and one of the rescuers died in this attempts to save the boys. Except a few left behind. Our hope they would be saved and hope all will go well.
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