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Little house
Timeless street
Childhood garden

The scent of your preschool playground after a storm on a Wednesday in may

The distinguishable noise of your parents' doorbell

The weepy feeling looking at childhood photos and knowing you'll never get those moments back

The melancholy moment you realize the book you're reading was your favorite bedtime story

The second the atmosphere shifts and you're suddenly thrown back to memories of your mothers embrace on a stormy night

The suffocating feeling of revisiting tales thinning at the ends as your recollection slowly fades

The slipping grip of what once was that will never be again, slowly turning faded and acid washed until its nothing but a feeling you cant put a name to

Nostalgia
AS Jul 16
Life is not free,
it comes with a cost just to breathe.
The expectations not to be emplaced on the seed.
Judged for how they choose lead.
Punished for how they believe and chose to breed.
Marked and abandoned,
for choosing to see and to move away,
to reject disgusting displays.
To be shown disdain for following their own way.
Blamed when they choose not to stay the same.
Cost of the invisible chain,
placed on the terrain of birth.
Dependent to the pain,
to the mother who reined.
Tossed away when finally mirrored the destructive game,
patience snapped and apologised for the same way the birth-maid acts.
Distanced to detach,
to move away from the shame.
A promise made when a little babe,
to never be the same.
Shocked on the way,
they pushed patience down the drain.
Enacted by refusal to be the *****,
to take the blame and defend the endless plague you enrage.
Expected to be thankful,
guilted to stay in line.
Manipulated every time they attempt to  fly.
Co-dependently wrapped,
to give meaning the way in which your life lacked.
An ear to smear all your hate,
fear and tsunami tears.
Flooded in your pain,
you  the victim and to take no blame.
Born a parent in the early days,
cleaning and protecting you from the dirt you spurt.
From the countless monsters in which you learnt.
Sadness,
that you ever witnessed that level of madness.
Not to be kept to your past tense,
to swallow and drain with your inner hallow.
To clip their wings,
as for only you they can sing.
To demand,
offended when the glove is on the other hand.
To not poison others land or be offended when they flee.
When the hunger to find serene,
**** dry for too long.
Came to a point,
grief hidden within the earthly core finally exploded.
No longer naive,
willing to adore or ignore.
Needing to breathe,
to speak,
to burst out what has been hidden underneath.
To truly breathe,
to find reprieve.
To heal from the demons which deceived.
To unfreeze the mind,
from all the other monsters you missed slip by.
Not to be told that I lied,
because it breaks your ******* pride.
Not to be hissed at or dismissed,
for what you missed.
Life has been,
was what I owed,
for being brought up and given food.
The basics to accept the rudeness and being clueless.
Don't give birth if your child does not come first,
don't let them bleed to feed your own needs.
Recognise they're a child,
not a friend to take care after you've gone wild.
Not to be confined in places they seem wise.
A child is a gift,
not someone to heavy lift.
Not to manage your whims.
As a child do not owe,
no entitlement to treat them low.
Rid of your countless rules,
the one's incredibly cruel.
Those only practised by the few,
the ones who spread the blue,
to those who surround.
Unable to find stable ground.
Life should be free,
in this way you see,
it cannot not be.
Children deserve to breathe,
not to have them mentally disciplined onto their knees.


© 2018

Abigail Sheard
Poetry is my release, a place to reveal and heal.

I am very lucky that my anxiety and depression no longer fully control me, it has taken a lot of hard work though to get to this point.
Cress Rosario Aug 2014
Looking back at the smiles that once shared
Faces that once brightened with love
Memories of the past we wished that could last
Laughter in our hearts we still hope to come back

Looking back to the years we could climb those trees
Running through the open field, shouting, "We're free!"
Had those million laughs when we got dirt on our faces
Realizing that our friends are dirtier than us

Looking back to the days we were young and loud
Looking back to the happiness that we almost forgot
george glass Dec 2015
my childhood was removed from me
inside of a blue mustang
and what remained after that
I tried to barter off the highest bidder
but I grew,
not up,
but forward
further away
slowly releasing
hands of defiance
fists chock full of hopeless words
like anger, the flavor that aches the bone,
the cold kind,
more barren than the green of Christmas lights
glimmering off the icy veneer of a white picket fence
overeager, in the apathy of theatrics,
to ***** off the remainder
because the empty feeling that followed
might one day
make a decent poem
Wayward Jul 30
I was born out of fur and cotton,
With eyes that were shiny, black buttons.
From the store rack, I always watched the distant tree.
But one fine day, this little girl picked me.

My owner handled me with great care.
I was, after all, her beloved teddy bear.
I seemed to be her biggest comfort,
When she couldn't sleep or she felt troubled.

Years passed by and so did my time.
The little girl didn't need her teddy when she cried.
As I lay with the other toys in the attic,
I realized that my short life was quite tragic.

"Mr. Cuddles! Your child's best friend!"
But who's going to care about me in the end?
I played my part. I stayed with you.
But in the end this is what it came to.

Mr. Cuddles, the lonely one.
Who lies in the attic with his fur undone.
The cotton keeps falling out of his limb,
The once happy bear now lays grim.

                                                    -Waywa­rd❤
I attempted personification for the first time. I kind of relate to this poem though. I feel like Mr. Cuddles. And that somehow is my greatest fear. I fear being unloved and forgotten. I hope I got the message delivered in the poem.
lmbf Jul 24
To write someone into existence is to take all one is, who one has loved, how one has chosen to love, and spin it into something new.

Yet writing is inherently selfish. I know that as much. Every time inspiration strikes me I know I am imprinting a part of my soul on every word, every comma I carve about someone and someplace else.

To separate truth from nostalgia - that is a question we have attempted to solve for as long as time itself. In my heart of hearts, I know I cannot do it. For everytime their voices whisper in my ear, begging to be painted into a quick couplet, I have to shake my head like a dog out of water.

Every time I write a simple verse, I have to ask myself if I am writing about the people I know (knew?) or the foggy specters of the people I want to remember. Yet we all know the truth: those recollections grow a little weaker with each passing day. The people we were even months ago have been gone for a long time, and writing them out can only bring back half of our lives back then.

But I'll try. For him, for her, for them, I will try. We haven't spoken in years, but through these verses I will try to preserve parts of the world we wove in that old schoolyard - and someday, the world that arose from a burst of yellow on the bleachers, too.
So that if one day someone stumbles upon these words - or if, perchance, they stumble upon this book - the whole world will know I haven't forgotten.
No, I remember everything.

To separate truth from nostalgia - that is a question we have attempted to solve for as long as time itself. These words are my answer.
After writing for six years, I've come to a few realizations that have helped me mature in my craft. Here's one of them. // Summer Freewrite Sessions 2018
edit; thank you so much for 1.1k reads! it means the world to me.
Savanna Paige Aug 14
I never knew I could love, Love.
B/c as a young girl, Love was..
Daddy’s anger flashing before our eyes.
It was all the cliche lies,
That we insisted on living by.
Like “sometimes you need tough love”
Which usually consisted of..
Beatings for hair brushes left on the kitchen table.
Or Ma’s love for alcohol that made her unable,
To love me..
They way I needed to be.

It was the rule “out of sight, out of mind”
That always tried to turn a blind...
Eye to the things that never really felt right.  
Trying hard everyday to hold tight. 
Like those weave braids that I loved to hate,
B/c the gripping pain kept me up late.
Still, I never dared complained,
B/c I learned early that beauty was pain.
& my hair was to be a crown to a queen,
Taking the spotlight from all insecurities seen..
B/c let’s face it , middle school boys can be mean.
Always mocking my “white girl” name,
Digging up my ***** shame.
Then here came,
The “hot boys” that was full of game.
Always playing w/ my emotions,
Inviting drama like I ain’t already live w/ commotion.
Like I wasn’t already,
Unsteady.

“If it don’t apply, let it fly”
Like Mama said, “never let em see you cry”
But to be honest I was a bit confused,
Then again, slightly amused.
B/c I was taught boys are mean when they like you,
I learned early being hurt was something to value.
One day Ms. Jackson told me “pay em no mind”
But I thought it was only right that they’d, KISS MY BEHIND.
But I said nothing cuz I knew “stay in a child’s place”,
Letting my frustration take me to outer space.

Where there I could fantasize how it feels,
To be head over heels.
For someone who,
Doesn’t have to...
Live 2 lives w/ a chick on the side,
That usually ends w/ Aunt E keying his ride.
****, there I go again , running my big ole mouth,
Telling people “what goes on in this house”.

It wasn’t long before I caught..
On to the idea that love wasn’t what I thought,
B/c that Love constantly resisted & fought!
& it too didn’t seem,
To want to be loved by this thing..
Called Love .

Then came the moment when lost, I found,
The most beautiful sound..
Of a heart beat living within me,
I was chosen to be..
His mother, & learn of everlasting..
Love that has been contrasting..
My views everyday.
& I must say,
I was going the wrong way,
Tryna find where Love stay.
& all along it’s been residing in me,
Both figuratively,
& literally.

It was a blessing when me & Darelle’s worlds clashed..
Together. & Together we smashed..
Down every figment,
Of what I thought Love meant.
Or should I say what Love was ..
Because...

Now, Love is,
My heart beat syncing w/ his.
Replacing my dark days with light,
Now, Love actually feels right.
It flows out naturally w/o trying,
Taking away my every breath w/o dying.
Life is renewed within me..
Every time I see..
Kamari’s beautiful face,
Watching his incredible soul fill up any space.
& now that I know,
What I know..  
I love,
Love.
If there were a language for walls,

It would mumble,
Per broken jaws.
The sun would shine through fragmented holes,

A windows' lone goal?
To magnify heat,
Til' all was engulfed.

With confirmed dead inside,
None knock, as they've read inscribed:

"Family tree,
Difficulty,
Unavailable."

"Family business,
Buy one,
One comes free,
Fire wood sale."
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