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Leydis Jun 2018
Oh sweet boy, Angel of God
on earth you have completed your task.
To other world’s you now must fly to,
we are keeping your feathers
as you begin your ascension .

Oh sweet child of God
Such clear vision at your tender age,
to serve and protect was your end game,
but now we are left…with a confused and hazed
apology to a shroud of teddy bears and lit candles.
The spilled wax is a reminder, that
deep inside we are all cowards
and we forgot that you were the prey
and needed protection.
The burning wick is not for you –
it’s to remind us of your light
and that humans by nature are dangerously dark…

I am sorry Junior, for we have failed you.
I am sorry that it was fear that came to your rescue,
I’m sorry your eyes witnessed the malice of creation,
I’m sorry people recorded instead of calling the operator,
I am sorry your cry for help did not connect…
You know mijo…the line was ringing-but the world is deaf.

!Oh, sweet child of God!,
Some called you Junior in life,
You were an angel with wings so wide
that in these concrete streets, you could not fly.
The Bathgate would be your access to heaven
you’ve left us your wings in a city corner,
so that we can remember to look up above
and find surrender and forgiveness in clashing clouds.

I don’t know what to say,
your departure causes so much grief and pain,
yet, you did not die in vain…I think you are still
working with humanity from far away;
You woke up a community that had been sleeping,
you woke us up from the anesthesia, the numbness
Is no longer acceptable, our youth need a BEACON.

A new door we must create so
that our youth’s future is not slain
in the mumble jumble of irresponsible adults.
Makes space for youth in the world,
So that every Junior in our lives,
can live without fear in their backyard.

Oh sweet child of God,
We are not there yet but with you..,we’ll RISE again.
Thank you for every day you arose,
for loving your mother so much,
for inspiring a movement of love,
for showing us courage and hope,
your sweet little face will live in our hearts.

Oh sweet child of God,
your name we will not forget
I think you set the stage,
we must act and rise again.

© LeydisProse
6/25/2018
https://m.facebook.com/LeydisProse//
Alyssa May 2017
Dear Ex-Best Friend,
Remember all the times we spent together,
everyday started with meeting before classes started because that was the only
time we could talk until lunch,
remember all the times we laughed so hard we cried?
Do you remember all the times we had to hold one another in times of the need
because we thought all we had was each other?
Yeah.. Me too.
We spent all the time in the world texting and calling each other.
Things changed a little since I got a boyfriend,
but I never replaced you.
You always had a special place in my heart, and I think you always knew that.
We drifted apart, like two boats at sea.
You switched back to the school you came from,
and it felt like my life had just sunk.
Suddenly I was all alone in the hallways,
Coming in to school was like hell,
Seeing the spot we used to stand in,
Occupied by another set of best friends,
Or maybe two high school sweethearts- Making out like there's no one around.
It was so lonely without you.
You seemed happier where you were though, and at that time, that was all that mattered to me.
I walked the hallways with a sad, sorrowful look.
Teachers frequently asked if I was sick, or if I needed to lay down.
Suddenly I was that one kid that everyone wanted to pick and beat on. (Again.)
I was incredibly lonely at school, I couldn't even sit with anyone at lunch because I was so hated by so many people for reasons I didn't even know.
Come upon my junior year I got a month and a half into the school year before
I switched to the school that you went to.
I was reunited with my best friend,
Life seemed so good.
I was with my boyfriend, and my bestfriend.
It felt like nothing could stop me from gaining happiness.

You began going through boyfriends,
They would come,

and they would go.

I was put second to all of them.
There were days I was so depressed I didn't function correctly,
and all we would talk about is what you and your boyfriend did the previous night.
I was so happy that you were happy,

but I think I forgot the definition of "Happiness."
Everyday was full of being ignored and having guys' push past me so they could hug you while I sat in the sideline just waiting there, tears filling in my eyes because I realized that I wasn't significant to my best friend any more.
I couldn't help but wonder what I did wrong.
I got tired of feeling this way,
I grew up, and realized that highschool isn't meant for gaining the love and affection of people.
I proceeded to end the friendship because it wasn't making me happy anymore.
I understand that a true friend stays there through everything but in no way, shape, or form did I deserve to be kicked to the curb like a diseased puppy.

It hurt, It hurt like a *****.


But ultimately , I'm gonna be okay in the end.

And I hope she ends up okay, too.
But, just be okay without me.
not really a poem but eh.
John Jan 2013
Back when I was about ten or eleven, the only friend I had was the most beautiful girl I knew. Her name was Jessica and her and I did everything together. In school we were inseparable, always chit-chatting before, during and after classes. So much so that teachers bestowed upon us the annoying, yet endearing, encompassing nickname of "Jackica" - a combination of our names; Jack and Jessica.
     I was so thankful for her companionship, and thinking back it might have been a pretty uneven relationship, emotionally. I was an overweight and awkward Harry Potter fanboy and she was a cute little auburn-haired thing who could've won any Miss America Junior competition in the world, as far as I was concerned. She had the most piercing powder blue eyes. The kind that made my skin tingle and mouth curl up into a stupid smile at any given moment. I felt like she saw me, like she really saw ME. Not the blubbery flesh that coated my muscle and bones but what I was made of, the real me. And I loved her for that.
     Along with Jessica's physical blessings, she was also given an insatiable appetite for adventure. She loved to go to the park at night,  after the gates were locked and when everything was drenched in darkness. We'd hop the five foot chain-link fence and roam around the grounds. We'd go the water at the edge of the park and sit on the rocks, look up at the stars and take turns telling stories to each other with intent to scare the **** out of the other one.
     One humid night in mid-June, Jessica told a story that succeeded in making my skin-crawl. She always told decent scary stories, she was gifted in the art of fabricating tales of fright right on the spot, but this story really got to my core for some reason. I just felt uneasy as the words spilled from her mouth to my ears and with each sentence my muscles tightened and strained just from the mere tone of her voice as she told the story. She sounded serious, and she rarely did, even when telling these stories, but with this particular one it sounded like she really believed what she was saying was cold, hard truth.
     What she said was that she heard a story that her older brother's girlfriend had told her. It was about a house on the outskirts of town, placed just a few hundred yards from the mouth of the woods that lined our little suburban utopia. She went on to say that in the house was nothing all that scary. She said it was an old house, a very old house, as it was a log cabin that was built in the 1700s, when the town was first being settled. Supposedly, everything in the house was just as it was back then, little kerosene lamps sitting on home-mad oak tables. The maple-wood floors would moan and creak at the slightest hint of any weight being put on them. And then she said that no one had lived in the house since the man who built it died, around 1785.
     Needless to say, Jessica wrapped up the story by proclaiming that we had to find the house. And we had to go inside and see for ourselves what was so creepy about it. Being the scared, chubby little wimp that I was, I immediately rejected the idea. There was no way I was going to try to find a place that would only succeed in making me **** my pants in front of a girl, especially the one whom I'd placed the delusional label of "future girlfriend" on.  But, as I subconsciously expected, Jessica talked me into it with just a few graceful words: "I'll kiss you if you come with me."
    
     The very next Saturday night, Jessica and I put on some dark jeans and t-shirts and took the bus all the way to the last stop, the edge of town. We hopped off and right in front of the stop the woods were already waiting, I took a deep breath as Jessica's eyes lit up. She took my hand and pulled me as she ran, me clumsily waddling along behind her all the way to a little dirt pathway that paved the only marked entrance we could see. She asked me if I was ready and I shrugged, saying something like "I'm as ready as I'm ever going to be." And so we started down the path. As the tall trees swayed in the wind, I dragged my feet with  Jessica always about five feet ahead of me, as eager as ever. We walked for probably ten or twenty minutes before the foot of the cabin was before us.
     At first sight, it was a very old structure. I'd never seen anything like it outside of paintings in my history textbook and this Abe Lincoln documentary I saw on PBS. I never knew houses like that stood the test of time. But there it was before me, two stories high with wooden shutters clad in severely chipped paint and a big oak door that looked stronger than any door I'd ever seen. Jessica took my hand again, smiled enchantingly and rushed me forward.
     Once at the door, I was speechless. It didn't look as old as the rest of the house and whoever made it obviously meant for it to last a very long time, taking extreme care in carving it out impeccably and sanding it until it shined with a professional touch. Without a word, Jessica rapped on the door. Three hard times, and when no one answered after thirty seconds, she rapped again, and again. She shrugged and turned to me, asked if we should just go in. I said no and she frowned.
     "There's no way we came this far just to go back home with nothing," and then she wrapped her hand around the rusted doorknob and turned.
     The door opened with no hesitation as she pushed it all the way in. She stepped inside, and I followed. The first thing I noticed inside the cabin was the creaking floors. They creaked louder and longer with each step, affirming that part of the story, making my blood run cold. We looked around, going from room to room with wide eyes. We were amazed that we made it, that we got inside and now we were actually investigating a place that no one else supposedly had gone before. Truth be told, though, it was nothing special. There wasn't much at all to see, save for a few tables, the creaking floors and some very old paintings on the wall. We were just leaving when we noticed something on a table nearest the big oak door. It was a metal box with a small lock fastened to the front of it.
     "We have to open it," Jessica proclaimed after a second of curious inspection.
     "There's no way were going to find the key," I told her.
     "So we'll break the lock, Jack. Duh," she replied in her sassiest tone.
     I just shook my head as she grabbed the box and began to furiously slam it in the wooden table. The sound echoed through the house, exacerbating it and making me shiver from head to toe.
     "I don't know if you should keep-" but my sentence was cut off my the lock flying off the box and clinking onto the floor below.
Jessica smiled again, very pleased with herself and looked to me.
     "Wonder what's inside...," She said, lifting the top half of the box open.
     After an initial and cough-inducing puff of thick dust subsided, the contents of the box were revealed. It was a letter, written on old-school parchment in heavy ink. In neatly laid Victorian script, the likes of which I had never seen so simultaneously neat and scattered, like it was written in a hurry or during a time of distress, was a love letter. Well, a kind of love letter. It was addressed to a woman named Tania and it was signed by a William. It told the story of how William had loved Tania since they were children, and Tania was now to be married to a Pastor named Hensley. William told Tania how he couldn't bear the thought of her ever being with anyone else and that the fact that she could never truly be his was killing him. Literally. He ended the note by confessing his plan to **** himself.
     I took a step back, but Jessica just stood at the table with her eyes glued to the crumbling parchment in her hands.
     "I'm leaving," I said after a few moments, mulling over the sorrow that this poor man must've felt. I headed out the door, Jessica following. The walk back through the woods to the bus stop I couldn't get this feeling of dread from subsiding. It seemed like I felt what William felt, but not in a sympathetic sort of way. It felt like I was William and the pain he felt was actually my pain. And then I noticed that, rolled up tightly in her fist, Jessica had taken the letter with her.
     "Why'd you take that," I said, sounding thoroughly upset. "That's not yours to take, go bring it back!"
     "No way. There was no way I was going there and coming back with nothing to show for it," she said, gripping the letter tightly, her knuckles almost whitening.
     I knew how stubborn Jessica could be and I knew whatever I said probably wouldn't even phase her in the slightest so I did what I did best and just shrugged it off. I found myself wishing I could shrug off the terrible feeling the letter put deep inside me just as easily as I could Jessica's stubbornness.

     Over time, Jessica and I lost touch, as kids of that age often do. I grew up, lost weight and opened up, making more friends and acquaintances, no longer hanging onto the thought of Jessica being my only love. I didn't talk to Jessica all that much. Just once in a while we'd meet up and have a chat over some coffee or pizza. We had both changed and morphed into young adults with different agendas and dreams and I had no problem with that. But on one such meeting, Jessica began to worry me. She said that every now and then she'd open her desk drawer and take the piece of parchment out and read it. Over and over again. And lately, she had been opening the drawer more and more, she said that she felt drawn to it. Like something about it made her feel this deep-seated dread that no horror movie or scary story had ever made her feel. She said that she felt like the letter was beginning to take a toll on her. And, by the look of her, it didn't seem like she was lying or kidding around like she always used to love to do. She had dark circles underneath her once striking eyes, which were now darker and had taken on an odd and ominous color. I was scared for her. And I told her so but she hugged me and assured me she was alright. I wanted to believe her, and I tried to, hugging her back and telling her I'd talk to her soon. But when she turned her back I knew something was very wrong.

     I'm writing this now because a few weeks ago Jessica's mom gave me a call. When her number came up on my cell phone, I think I knew, deep down, e actor why I was getting this call but I pushed the thought away and said hello. Jessica's mother called to tell me that a few days before Jessica had gone missing. The only indication to her whereabouts was a note she left with the words "cabin at the edge of town", and below that, instructions on how to get there. Her mother said she took the note and hopped in her car immediately, and made it to the cabin. She said she was breathless by the time she got to the cabin but forged on and barged inside and looked around. She said she found nothing and was about to leave when she noticed a small door behind the big oak door she had swung open to get inside. She opened the little door to find a stairwell. She climbed it, calling Jessica's name all the way, sobbing and wiping tears from her eyes. At the top of the stairs was the attic. And she said she almost died herself when she saw Jessica. She was hanging from a wooden rafter on the ceiling. And next to her was a severely decayed skeleton, dangling from a rope only a few inches away.
It's definitely more of a short story but I felt obligated to post it here for some reason.
Ridaos Sep 2012
Let me tell you a story.
A story of sadness and happiness.
A story of defeats and triumphs.
A story of dreams and reality.
A story that has no ending.
Let me tell you a story about me.

I was born the middle child of a middle-class family.
We were richer than most, but I always thought otherwise.
As I grew, I realized mom was always there.

But the youngest always cling to her.
And the oldest caused trouble for her.
So I stood quietly in the corner.
I have to take care of myself, I thought. I cannot bother mom.
I would look towards the empty chair that my dad had sat in.
He just left for another country.
No time for kisses or goodbyes.
Just got up and left.

I became used to keeping myself company.
Sure, I had friends.
But I was an introvert.
 I would get extremely nervous just answering the phone. 
And too shy to invite them over.

Junior High rolled around and I began to have problems.
The once-obvious displays of affection between my parents had collapsed.
Now the sounds of bicker and despair loomed over the house.
My will always shattered at the first uttered word of discord.
The tears are comforting to me, but I cannot control them.

I was not vocal at the time.
I was not a vocal person at all.
Because of me being me, I got a stalker.
There were days when I dreading coming to school.
It was not in fear of my life: it was the fear of seeing my stalker again.

He loved me: I treated him as though I had scorned his parents.
He claimed to love me: I insulted and degraded him.
He claimed to love me: I hated him.

High school was not far behind.
But that's when the London Bridge fell down.
My London Bridge fell down.
Grades fell, Parents separated, Going to therapy.
And in the midst of everything, I fell into a trap.
Crafted by an abusive boyfriend.

I was slandered.
I was scared.
I was hurt.
I was abused.
I was controlled.
I was insulted.

I was pushed into a drinking fountain.
There was no blood, but I still remember where it hit.
I was insulted repetitively: rivers erupted and my face was drenched.
I was taken advantage of: I was now terrified for my life. I gave into his commands out of fear.
I was a toy: he found someone else while we were dating, leaving me all alone. 
I hate being alone.
I was controlled: he made me dependent on him. And I was afraid to refuse when he came crawling back to me.

It was not until Junior year.
Junior year started it all.
I had some courage. I had some guts.
The break-up happened.
I became happier and confident during the aftermath.
But the past would not leave me alone.
I tried to date again, but my chest would clench just thinking about it.
My nerves go on overdrive and my senses are heightened.
I cannot relax around men.
At least, not men I want to date.
Even the thought provoked panic.
It baffled me so.

Senior year was the best by far.
There was resolution in my eyes.
My hands trembled, but my heart did not.
The die was cast.
No fear held me back.
Only one thing bothered me.

Would I survive?
Or would I die?
y i k e s Mar 2014
so much to do
so little time to complete anything
so little time to chill out

essay
study guide
quadratic formula

pressure
                                              
                                           pressure
                                                                                        pressure

i just want to sleep
and not do anything
anymore
i have so much work and all i'm doing is eating spaghetti
Lía Sep 2014
They call me Ghetto.
They call me
gunfights and drive-bys,
pregnant teens.
They call me Poverty,
and concrete winter walls
splashed with blood-red
graffiti.
They call me
junior-high druggies
and gang-banging muchachos.
They call me Mexico
like it’s a ***** word.
They call me Ghetto.

But haven’t they seen through
the white-washed walls
of the
“American Dream”?
Don’t they know hurt
and suffering,
imperfections
and neglect,
as well?

So call me Mexico;
call me Poverty;
call me Ghetto.

I am
run-down yards
filled with laughing brown children,
small apartments
bursting with the scent
of tamales,
mingled with joy and the chatter of relatives.
I am home-made tortillas
at Thanksgiving
and wrinkled hands pounding masa
at Christmas.
I am friendly smiles
and shouted jokes
followed by roaring
laughter.
I am the lilting syllables
of a beautiful
culture.
I am comfort.

They call me Ghetto
and so I am.
Jenna Johnston Dec 2011
This poem was written after watching a few hours of slam poetry on Youtube. Let me know what you think...it's my first shot at slam poetry.*

There are so many words flowing around out there about the big girls. The thick girls, the curvy girls, the p-h-a-t phat girls. About their plush and soft exteriors, their abundant backsides, their willingness to accept themselves and their hopefulness that others will do the same. Their….thereness.
They are beautiful, don’t get me wrong.
They are beautiful.

But what about the skinny girls?

The small girls with petite builds and large hearts and an aversion to the word short. The size two and under girls, the drive thru can’t gain a pound girls, the I AM NOT ANNOREXIC OR BULLEMIC girls.

The girls who will always be referred to as “pixie-like” or “waif-like” or “twig-like.” The perfect model body girls that all of the other girls hate…because of their lack of fat.

Aren’t they beautiful?

The girls with the size 32 bust line, the girls who, at 24, still shop in the junior sections of department stores. The girls who, regardless of their age, their strengths and weaknesses, their experiences, heartaches and joys, disappointments and triumphs, their want or need for life and love will always look like they missed a meal or gave it back purposefully with the intent of becoming even thinner. The girls who, no matter how ******* HARD they try, cannot even weigh 100 lbs soaking ******* wet.

Aren’t they beautiful?

The big girls have to search and search for cute and **** and attractive clothes because of their size. Guess what? So do the skinny girls. Do you know ******* hard it is to find a pair of pants with a size zero waist and a 34 inch leg? To finally find an extra small shirt that doesn’t have one of the top three cartoon characters of the time plastered across the front?

All I’m saying is yes, the thick girls, the curvy girls, the p-h-a-t phat girls…
They are beautiful.

But ******, so am I.
This is an original by Jenna Johnston. If you like it, by all means write it down, but give credit where credit is due, please
The amateur poet Jul 2013
Everyday, hell every minute I get to call him mine
I fall deeper and deeper in love.
I decide that I'm going to give myself to him.
Time doesn't slow down,
And so I decide to follow my heart.
Trusting him with everything.
We pick a playlist, a date, and a time;

Then we make love for the first time.

It was everything I wanted and so much more. His gentle embrace afterwards assured me that I had picked the right guy.
But life happens, and and after a few more times, my parents find out.
Two months.
We had only been dating two months
And what seemed like the end of my world had begun.
Tears fell like snowflakes on a cold December night
I expected him to leave me
But see, this is the first time my luck changed when I needed it too.

He held me through the tears
Picked me up when I was hurt
Reassured me that he would never leave
He was strong for the both of us and made me smile when he could
Possibly the biggest obstacle a high school couple could face was thrown at us early in our relationship
I guess we should've waited.
But I don't regret my actions.
We endured it, grew closer, and loved each other like nothing had changed.

Loving him was the biggest epiphany I've ever had,
I stopped trusting the universe and put some faith in myself
And the ones I loved

The world has been brighter ever since.

Hard months pass.
We attend his Junior Prom
I slow dance for the first time
And the Star Wars series is completed.
Before we realize it, summer is in the air, along with it our half year milestone.
6 months pass with this boy and I feel as if he asked me out just yesterday.
We spend the day together and I thank him for the wonderful date and kiss him goodnight

Under that full moon which has watched my relationships end, he holds me close after our kiss.
With teary eyes he thanks me for the best 6 months of his life.
I hug him teary eyed as well.
I shut my eyes and take the moment in.
His scent, the cold breeze, and the cicadas singing to us in the dark.
If there is a love anymore true than this, please tell me.

I look up at the night sky at the distant worlds and ponder our own
Earth may be my home planet
But I know that I'm holding the other half of my life in my arms.

My parents begin to ease up
Theres talk of college in the air
I start to feel happy once more.

I paint my canvases with bright colors
And begin to stain blank pages with my life story once again.
A new sun is rising.
The Trumpoet Jul 2017
Don Junior had a meeting with
Natalia Veselnitskaya
and he did not disclose this fact
or say what did transpire.

Paul and Jared were there too
but "nothing was discussed".
Don said the meeting ended
and turned out to be a bust.

The New York Times found out
and asked why Don did not report.
"But nothing happened" Junior claimed
when making his retort.

Then under pressure from the press
some emails he set free,
confirming Russian interest in
a Trump presidency.

His daddy claimed, "He's a good boy"
"He's new, green and naive".
But Manafort - He should have known
(one would like to believe).

But Junior's new transparency
turned out to be untrue...
It seems that a fifth person was
there in the meeting too!

A former Soviet officer
named Rinat Akhmetshin
was also at the meeting...
so why was he brought in?

And then we soon learned of a sixth...
a seventh... and then eight!
Tied to the oligarchs and
Russian governmental state.

What was the meeting all about?
Perhaps there's nothing to surmise.
The secrecy though, would suggest
it might be otherwise.

Don Junior had a meeting
that nobody disclosed.
Let's hope this helps fulfill the dream...
to see his dad deposed!
You can also see this and my other Trump poems at: www.trumpoet.com
Link to video of this poem: https://youtu.be/ywHuZYOXBCg
Written: July 21, 2017
jacky Dec 2014
It all began with a ‘he’
he who said I was pretty
  when my face turns sideways and
  the right amount of sunlight casts shadows
  on the planes of my cheeks
he who kissed me in 6th grade
  in front of my best friend – whom he used to date,
  his lips were cool and moist
  moist – it didn’t feel anything.
he who requested love songs during our high school intramurals
  when all of my friends and all of his friends
  cheer us up like we were the sweetest thing they’ve seen.
he who danced with me the whole night of our junior prom,
  my shoes dangling behind him, my arms and his arms were sweating
  he whispers now, “You look beautiful.”
he who gave me wilting flowers on the 15th of February
  because I skipped school – too scared to face the truth
  that no one would do what he just did. He proved me wrong.
he who said “I love you” too late.
he who said “I love you” too early.
He who made me believe that fate, destiny, sparks, forever, and all that *******
  were real, written in His holy book. Should I still believe in you?
he who said would wait – the next month telling me he realized
  it wasn’t me he was waiting for.
he who told me to stay.
he who left. he who never went back.
and oh – he
he who was never here in the first place.

it all began with a “she”
she who danced in front of the class
  with all her sass, snaps, and we laugh.
she whose hair used to be straight
  swaying down her waist, flows smoothly when she walks,
  falls perfectly down her collarbones. Let’s not start with collarbones.
she whose eyelids flutter like butterfly wings
  making the ones inside my stomach dance like hummingbird’s wings
  her eyelashes are thick, outlining her brown eyes – her perfect brown eyes.
she who throws he head back when she laughs
  not knowing I drift and crash back to the sea
  like a wave thrown back by her chuckles and laughter
she who reads and reads tons of books
  when she could write about her day
  and that’ll still be the greatest stories I could read
she who held me close when she stumbles towards the bus station
  when she’s drunk
she who wanted nothing between us – worried it will not work.
but she made the raindrops of yesterday meaningful
  so it could wash off all the hurt from everything, from everyone.
she who changed me. – no.
she who made me face the mirrors I’ve been running away from
  all those lies I’ve been hiding alone
  all those pain, all those bad memories
she washed them all away, like a hurricane
   she dragged my whole town with her
she who made me forget.
she who makes me ache at times but it’s the kind of ache
  you’d gladly take – a suffering worth all the suffering
she who outshined all of – in the best possible way I could imagine
she who made the stars insignificant.

It doesn’t end with a ‘he’
It doesn’t end with a ‘she’
it all ends up with a simple ‘who’
that person who will always come through
for you

I learned that love sometimes doesn’t last that long
sometimes it doesn’t even start at all.
But I know one thing, you cannot fight it.
I don’t know where – maybe in his hands
or in her eyes. It will make you move like you
have no choice at all – like a puppet stuck
******* and down nylon strings
by the puppeteer
dictating your life
like you have no choice, at all.
This is supposed to be for Slam Poetry =) But I guess, it's okay to post it here.
I told my mom that I wanted to go to New York after I graduate.
But she said no because I have bad anxiety.
Now I know that she just means that she won't support the idea.
Or if I asked, she would say no.
And I understand that she's just worried about me.
But if I don't go due to anxiety.
Then all that does is say that anxiety controls my life.
That it controls how I act.
Basically,  that means that it defines me and who I am.
And even though I have it.
It DOES NOT define me and who I am as a person.
Anxiety is just a PART of me.
And saying that I can't go because I'm anxious isn't right.
That means that my anxiety wins.
That means that it limits what I can and can't do.
There are things about New York that I like and wanna see.
There are people that go there.
And I would like to see them when they go there at times.
Also, there are colleges there.
And I know that they have colleges for acting and/or singing.
And those are two things I love.
And I'm not gonna let my anxiety keep me from going there.
I know that my mom means well.
But once I turn eighteen and graduate high school.
Then it's my decision.
Then I'm the one who determines if I can go or not.
And unless I don't have money.
There won't be anything keeping me from going.
As long as I am calm.
As long as I take deep breaths and know that I'm safe.
Know that it's big.
But it's also a great place where I can learn and have fun.
Which makes me excited.
I know this means that I will need to get a job.
But I will get one.
And did I mention that there are colleges in New York?
I mean, of course there are.
Don't get me wrong, I mean, I've known that all along.
But just never really thought of it.
Not until now when I'm in my Junior year of High School.
One more year and that's it.
One more year and I am out in the real world 365 days.
Every single day of my life.
And I know that I will be a stranger there till I meet people.
But that's nothing new.
The only thing that'll be new is how I handle being alone.
I can hide in the corner.
Or I can face my fears and go there with my head high.
I can say hi to people.
I can smile and nod at others who acknowledge me.
How will I get there?
I'm not sure about how I'll get there at the moment.
Maybe I'll get accepted.
A college might like my application that I send to them.
Or I'll just visit.
Get a job so I can pay for travel and to see a show there.
Or my YouTube Channel.
Yes, I have a YouTube Channel that I use twice a week.
That might help me.
Maybe I can make a career out of my YouTube Channel.
Now, don't argue with me.
I know that it's rare when people make a career off of that.
But I still love it.
I love making videos of myself singing and/or talking.
Not because of my voice.
Because those who know me know I don't like my voice.
I don't know why.
I've just always thought that I wasn't a good singer.
But I think that out of those who know me and teachers.
And then some online.
The only one who truly doesn't like my voice is me.
I'm my own worse critic.
If I see something negative about me I delete it.
Not because it's rude.
Well, that's part of it, but mainly because of me.
My mind will absorb that.
And then I will eventually will start to believe it.
Which is a form of anxiety.
Feeling anxious about how others think of you.
But the truth is.
If people are saying negative things about you.
Either to you or near you.
Or if they are saying something negative online.
Then don't listen.
Because they don't know you or who you are.
They just see the outside.
They don't know how you think or feel.
How could they?
They've never met you or got to know you.
All they know is online.
What they see in a three to ten minute video.
So don't listen.
Don't let what they say that's bad hurt you.
But if you do listen.
Then let it fuel you to be better than before.
Show them who you are.
Don't pay attention when they call you names.
Because they're wrong.
It doesn't matter who you are, they're wrong.
Pay attention to some.
The people who are praising you online.
Who like your voice.
Who like your style and are interested in you.
They want more.
They wanna see you twice a week, they like you.
Your videos mean a lot.
They mean a lot to those people who subscribe.
And they subscribe to you.
Because they like your videos and wanna see more.
Post what you want.
Sing one day and then talk the other, it's your choice.
It's your channel.
And that's what I have to tell myself when I upload.
Whenever I read comments.
And I do read all the comments I get when I get'em.
I don't get a lot.
And I still have a lot to learn when I respond.
I gotta learn to stifle.
Just say thanks and then be done with the person.
I need to do that.
Sometimes I get happy though and forget to.
But I'll get better.
For now, I need to focus on what I wanna do.
Which is make videos.
Wait a minute, what am I talking about now?
Sorry, got off topic.
This is about anxiety, not my YouTube Channel.
Okay, back to anxiety.
As I was saying, I will do what I can to manage it.
I will go there.
I will go to New York one way or another.
Not because I have to.
But because I want to for more reasons than one.
Even if my anxiety is bad.
Which I can admit that it is at times every day.
But I'll get through it.
Anxiety is not going to control me and define me.
I'm going to New York.
The only one who can control that destiny is myself.
And I will get there.
I don't know how or when, but I will.
Let this be a message.
A message for anyone who has to deal with anxiety.
It's not your life.
Anxiety doesn't control you if you don't let it.
Anxiety is a part of you.
But that's all it is, it's just a part of you that sticks.
But it gets better.
And if it can get better for me, than it will for you.
Wow! That took an unexpected turn. I was trying to say that I wanna go to New York. Well, I hope that this message makes since and that this whole thing was something that you enjoyed reading. Thanks for reading, bye!
(Hook)
I need a girl
To ride my ride
I need a girl
In my life
I need a girl
By my side
I need a girl
To save my life  (x2)

(Rap)
I need a girl to hold me when I'm down
I need a girl to wipe my tears away
I need a girl to whisper"I love you"
I need a girl when I wake up in the morning she will make me breakfast
Everyday I need a girl to be honest to me
And I need a girl to hold me tight at night
And I need a girl to be right there by my side
I got my heart broken by a dumb *****
She just love me because I was ******* rich
No I don't want to be home alone
I need a girl, we both travel to Rome
I promise I will not hurt you
We gonna be forever baby
I won't leave you like a tree without a leaf
If i do I gonna die
If it was raining outside I will cover you under my umbrella
If you were lost I will find you without a map
You the most girl in my life
I just a need a girl we gonna cuddle all night
Yea that feel good right
You are the beautiful apple on the tree try to be free
If you fall down, I will come to pick you up to take you
I, i, l, just need a pretty girl
Young junior baby

(Hook)
I need a girl
To ride my ride
I need a girl
In my life
I need a girl
By my side
I need a girl
To save my life (x2)

(Rap)
Roses are red
The sky is beautiful
Just like you baby girl
You the most girl in my life
I think about you 24/7
You mean the world to me
I need a girl that never lie to me
Girls, any of ya I just love ya
Young junior
Your smile make my day
Everyday I can't stop lookin at you
Cause you are beautiful like the diamond chain on my bed..
Four girls sit cross-legged
On cold pitted concrete
It’s always cold here
Their rear-ends frozen
Bare ankles growing sore
Pouring over textbooks
Finishing today’s homework or
Tomorrow’s.

Hope there’s no pop quiz.
They nod
In unison
I didn’t study
Neither did I
The other two stare
At their books nonplussed
Their papers scattered, a ruler and a pen

Out of the library and into the cold arrives
The fifth
She looks about and sees
A grey curl
A long head
A heavy tail
It’s soft, someone thought, as she saw the raised leg

Which came down fierce like lightning,
A defiant, queerly polished white saddle-shoe
One of two strange shoes
That looked like no one else’s but why?
Flattened the entirety into the cold, cold concrete
The meteorite that destroyed a species of one.
Conjoined twins, now dead

There’s no way we can repair it
Can’t even peel it away
The custodian will have to scrap it off with a blade and wash it down

We laughed
All but one.
Sofia Von Aug 2012
Its all just words
No faces
No looks, no clothes, no smell
A simple connection

It could have been anybody

But it wasn’t

It started off as a hobby
Something to keep boredom at bay

By now you’re junior olympics... At least

It can be as flawless as beach glass

Or jagged
and farspread like the trees still dieing

I never know what to expect
Excitement
Misunderstanding
Seriousness
Interest
Laughter
­Understanding
Awkwardness
Distracted
An idea
... Clearly I could continue

It’s like my little escape hole
A therapist that Actually understands and wants to
We just click
Alined by the sun
Some would say

But I dunno if that’s true
All I know is what I feel

Should I not feel what I feel?
Do I feel what I feel?
Is what I feel real?
Or is it fake

Is it a lie?

Or should I make it one

I don’t know what’s best
How can I

I’m new at this remember

All I know are the words of the known
Who are unknown to me in one world
And an empty chair in the next

I sit down and wait patiently

Until it’s finally my turn, here is where I’ll sit

There is no shame finding comfort in the little things the chair offers
Its smooth silky surface
The wine stain down the middle
the dots that resemble a smile in the corner

You don’t forget what you know so well
You open up your palm

A baby snake inside

He doesn't take it
He doesn't **** it on the spot
He doesn't grimace with disgust
He doesn't burst out in laughter

He picks it up
and cradles it in his hands

And sets it free

Back into the world where it belongs

And then he gives you a dalia

You take it and tuck it behind his ear as something to be admired

He blushes

He needs you too
Maybe

But its real
Almost too real

So you push it away
It’s impossible
It might not even be close to what you think it might be

Forget

And stay silent

Hey

We start again

A haha here
A smiley face too

Climbing up the uncertain mountain that has never been climbed before

The chance of falling high
But you like the chase

And for now
It’s enough

You don’t really care if you summit anyway

A possible “when”
always dangling
Inside the clouds
Persephone Faust May 2018
When I was 5,
The world seemed like this big place.
I was little, with no clue how to navigate.
But then, by chance I met you.

You, with your dark brown hair,
And eyes that belonged to an old soul.
I found a friend in you.

When your little, you’re still growing into
Your own person.
So there is no differences to separate you.
We were little and innocent.
We became connected.

But..
We  blinked and suddenly we were no longer 5.
We were pre-teens in junior high,
With a little less innocence.

Always changing, always growing,
We still found a way to be inseparable.
We were best friends.

I found it easy to talk to you,
2 a.m. phone calls,
Telling you my secrets.
I never hid behind walls with you.
There was never a reason.
So I fell in love with you.

You, with your arms opened wide,
Making me feel safe.
Feeling like for once, I found my forever.
I found real love with you.

But...
People change, and grow.
People want different things,
They drift apart.
And found I wanted more,
Than the life we planned.

I found it easier to push you away,
Then to tell you the things in my life,
That became dark.
I pushed you away,
I rejected what you gave me,
Because I couldn’t trust anyone.
I didn’t think you’d understand.
So I hurt you.

You, with your calming demeanor,
And your happy life.
The way you walked on sunshine.
I couldn’t and wouldn’t darken that.

So...
Now we’re grown,
With children of our own.
We see their innocence,
We want some of ours back.

Because of the pain I put you through,
You locked me out of your life for 12 years.
So, now I’m letting you back in.
Letting you see the person I’ve become,
With the wall I’ve built to protect myself.
Letting you know the truth and see my scars.
Hoping that after all this time,
You can forgive me.

You, whom I hold on a pedestal.
The one friend I still love and respect,
And miss more than anyone else who has left.
You, who can still look at me,
And see something other than the darkness.
Jonny Angel Jul 2014
Some say you
are the devil incarnate,
an evil witch,
poisonous to everything,
anyone who cares
to come close.

Well that **** doesn't matter to me,
people can say what they want.
I've been flirting with disaster
since Hell began.
In fact, they call me
Satan Junior.
But in reality,
I'm just a good boy
gone wild,
walking on the edge
& I crave black magic...
so bring it on,
put a spell on me,
witchie-poo!
Andre Baez Aug 2013
Everyone Has a Story… Here’s Five.


Part I: Cousin

I remember
That daze I felt those days
Those days that were fixtures
In my life at the time
But like all good stories
They come to an end
Sometimes abruptly

I was on the island,
At the very top,
Looking down from our mountain,
It was night time,
And the lights shined clearly,
Little holes from the bottom of heaven were penetrating the world,
As they did so I peered on,
Never truly understand what heaven was,
This was my element,
The curiosity which was placed in me,
Since the birth of my being,
Has never been one for being quenched,
Even if my parents tried to beat it out of me,
After a time they kind of hit a fork in the road and decided to go right,
But at the last second I side stepped and ran my behind to the left,
Because the right side isn't always the right way to go,
I felt that their minds died some time ago,
But I was a kid, in the hoods of Puerto Rico,
Only visiting, never witnessing,
The day to day realities,
That came from living so rapidly.

I met my cousin for the second time the days before that night,
He took me under his wing almost immediately and I was happy to follow,
He was a tall man, tattooed from head to toe,
I thought the second I laid eyes on him, that this was my role model
As a lover of Hip-Hop I thought this was how everyone should look,
He would cuss, and spit, and drink, and have several women on deck,
While rolling a couple of joints,
This was the MAN!

However, this view didn't last for very long,
Because on that night,
I witnessed the devil for the first time,
I crawled from beneath my covers,
That my mother had so carefully put into place,
As a safeguard against the realities of the world,
That would come true in my childish fantasies of the boogie man,
The only bad I knew was what was told to me by the news,
People falling left and right cause of wars and other endless fights,
But in my mind they could be brought back to life by the Dragon *****,
Unfortunately Goku wasn't here this night,
I snuck through the house silently,
As the noise would be drowned out by the singing of coquis,
My bare feet hit the humid pavement following the rush down the stairs,
I only wanted to see my view,
The view of heavens holes peering through the vast and dark sky,
It was located at the edge of a cliff that looked over a ravine and then the wilderness,
At the precise moment I stopped to realize my will,
My dream was disrupted by a voice,
Followed by a sound that sliced through my mind and deflated my childish intuition,
A sound that penetrates my adult mind and echoes in the silence to this day,
Muffled screams echoed out after I heard the gunshots ring,
Beneath the sounds of the forests singing,
My heart was pounding slowly,
I was strangely calm rather than panicky and fearful,
Not that I was a brave child, but I remained curious,
Until I saw the blood…
It was then that I saw the dimly lit lamp beneath the moon light,
Resulting in the two bodies casting elongated shadows against the dank Earth,
Followed by a larger body standing over them,
One body was completely still,
While the other one was rocking back and forth,
The terror that took me was shear and raw,
The only other time that I had witnessed such a fear,
Was through the appearance in a pig’s eye,
As my grandfather drove a machete through its heart,
I heard the second shot ring out,
In the same amount of time that it took me to blink,
The other man had been murdered just the same,
And before I knew it the gun was pointed at me,
I stared back and started shaking,
This had to be pure fiction,
But no, this was reality,
I turned to run, but stopped when I realized who it was,
Looking up at me as he exited the thicket and the shadows,
Was my cousin, my role model,
He cocked his head up and looked at me with concern,
But said nothing,
As I ran home breathlessly,
Under the holes into heaven,
That had been put there by bullets,
My childhood was finished…

And I'd never see him again.


Part II: Brother

I remember
That daze I felt those days
Those days that were fixtures
In my life at the time
But like all good stories
They come to an end
Sometimes abruptly

As a child,
I thoroughly enjoyed,
Playing around outside,
I enjoyed getting into play fights,
I loved feeling like I could overwhelm any opponent, but I couldn't.
My brother was way stronger than me,
He had the height advantage,
And best believe he had the weight advantage,
But still, I thought I could manage,
It never really crossed my mind that my brother was a bit off,
To me he was a big kid,
A quiet companion,
My best friend,
My heart.

That was more than enough,
Until one day I went too far,
See my brother had one toy that he loved,
It was string; he'd tear up clothes to make string,
He'd cry up storms at department stores if he didn't get his string,
He'd hit my mother and punch my father if he didn't get string,
I just always thought the exception was me,
I was his play mate, he smiled at me,
Something quite rare for my big brother to do as a result of his condition,
And the medication he was taking,
You see when a child has autism they kind of want to do their own thing,
They want to be on their own,
Enjoying whatever it is they enjoy doing on their time,
But I had a child's mind and a child's ego,
His toys were mine too,
Share with me,
Play with me,
Look at me,
ME, ME, ME!
So he punched me right across the face,
I went flying into a sliding paneled glass door and began crying,
When my mother entered the room,
She asked what was going on and tried to calm me down,
I wouldn't listen so she told me shut up before the neighbors called police,
And we were both taken away,
Being that my mother was a single parent, I believed her,
With that being the case, I closed my eyes and didn't look at my arm,
Nor the blood slowly dripping down it onto my fingertips,
Down to the floor below,
I didn't play much anymore after that,
I was too childish to blame myself,
So the fault was his.

The fault would end up being mine,
As this action being a culmination of things done by my brother,
Led my father and my mother to do what I thought was unthinkable,
They chose to let him go,
Giving him to a group home,
My young mind couldn't even begin to comprehend the pain they felt,
But to me all I could see was two adults giving up on their son,
I saw love and hope dissipate right in front of my eyes,
He was playing with his string in the back seat of the car,
While I sat beside him just watching him,
Saving every movement of his,
And his joy into my memory banks,
To be left to gather dust; because the pain was too much to harness,
But with respect I chose to re-open the chest,
And hold my brother in my arms once again,
Before he was ripped away from me,
And given away to the monstrous people,
That wouldn't let him hug his mother nor me,
I didn't care if this is what was needed to be,
I was losing my brother!
My blood!
My playmate!
My best friend!
My only friend!
My HEART!
It didn't matter that he hit me,
It don't matter if he hit my mother or father,
Because the beating my heart was taking was too much,
For my slim frame and still developing body to handle,
As such my growth was stunted and I gained heart problems,
On top of the asthma,
Autism meant nothing to me,
He was everything!

But it ended with me sleeping alone,
At home he was gone.


Part III: Father

I remember
That daze I felt those days
Those days that were fixtures
In my life at the time
But like all good stories
They come to an end
Sometimes abruptly

I never felt much towards you,
I was taught to love my mother solely,
As she was the one always there to heal my bumps and bruises,
The only memories I have of you from my childhood,
Are of you feeding me God awful food and teaching me to ride a bike,
But I forgot how to ride a bike,
And I could cook what you cooked on my own,
Burnt hotdogs, and pasta, and cereal never really fazed me,
Every other memory is a blur,
Your love was like a line or two painted upon a Mona Lisa of love,
That I had gathered from the various sources of inspiration in my life,
I could always gain appreciation for them,
But not for you.


As I entered my adult years,
You tried to make up for it,
I knew you had pent up guilt inside from not seeing me,
Yet you bought presents and rose up the seeds of another tree,
Seeds that I don't blame,
I only wanted to smell the same flowers that you gave them,
So you were trying to give them to me while I could still smell them,
But that sense was long gone along with my sense of sight,
Literally my vision was fading, but my mind was expanding,
As I was witnessing the world around me quite clearly, and the soul within me,
Just wouldn't release me, from the overwhelming feeling of needing you,
A father figure I could depend on,
A monument for what a man should be, and truly believe in,
As it comes to issues of morality, love, and loyalty,
Up until this point you had only taught me resentment,
Resentment leading to hate,
But I wanted to honor you in place,
So I hide the parts of me that you don't care to see,
I hide my relationships,
I hide my true feelings,
I hide my poetry,
Because if you found those things,
I would no longer be free,
And I refuse to submerge my soul into slavery,
Just for you to feel like you rose up the brightest son,
When truly the darkness is where I was brought up and where I belong,
Moonlight is the only thing I can touch with my pen,
As I compose the paintings residing in my head,
Of wordsmiths and demons battling,
Because words are my angels,
And they have always been there in every instance,
Whenever I've needed a piece of wisdom,
Or a calming presence that would come from the essence,
And recollections of stories of glory,
Stories that helped me forget you,
I love you, and hope our relationship can bloom,
But I no longer wish to speak on you.


Part IV: Mother

I remember
That daze I felt those days
Those days that were fixtures
In my life at the time
But like all good stories
They come to an end
Sometimes abruptly

I was taught to feel love towards you,
And it still remains as strong as ever,
From when I was a child,
Your sacrifice made my life exactly what it is,
Exactly what I needed it to be in order to grow and explore my soul,
To reach for my dreams,
You have always given to me,
Even on your last two cents,
Both would be for me,
You were my mother goose,
Even if I seemed like a young rooster,
Because we were always so different,
You always wanted to mold me into your vision of me,
While you instilled in me many things which cling tightly to me,
You've made someone completely different from what you expected,
I hold different views and truths that are separate from you,
Which is fine, but for a time it would keep me from being who I desired to be,
Because you could never cut the umbilical cord.

In fact, it was wrapped around my neck,
The death of me was coming slowly,
Due to the inhibitions of my creativity,
You loved that I would write, but you hated what I was writing,
Hip-Hop, home to me, was looked at as purgatory,
You couldn't see why I would want to listen to these stories,
Stories of struggling and hustling and juggling jobs, drugs, women, and friendships,
These ships were all sailing gallantly through my mind; the wordplay was so sublime,
And the fact that the words blended with their worlds were so unkind,
Appealed to me, but you were blind,
This changed my perspective,
However what really taught me to be a man,
Was when you began pushing opposing women out of my life,
I would be deep in love, buy-a-ring love,
But one thing would be enough to trigger a string of insults,
And a manikin-like regard for the person of whom I adored,
This was too much for me, you were systematically ending my dreams,
I thank you for your love and for everything that you continue to do for me,
But the cataclysm that was forming in this poets mind,
Was becoming too much to bridge,
If this feeling was to be ongoing,
So as a desperate act of love and care,
I left you behind,
But the love is forever there,
I'm a man because of you,
Your heart will forever reside with me on my journey,
You’ve no need to be frightened,
I’ve got you, I’ve got us,
My senses have been heightened.


Part V: Lover

I remember
That daze I felt those days
Those days that were fixtures
In my life at the time
But like all good stories
They come to an end
Sometimes abruptly

We met after a string of accidents,
Accidents that nearly cost me my life,
These were love losses, blood losses,
Things I’d never thought I could recover from,
The experiences had me going numb,
Until you found me… or did I find you?
It's hard to tell it just seemed like we were two lost souls,
Looking to quell our young hunger for the opposite ***,
Each and every day was spent together,
First on the stoop in front of your sister’s house,
The place where I first kissed your mouth,
Second on the park benches,
This is where hours flourished from minutes,
Third was along the streets of the world,
You were my diamonds and my pearls,
Indestructible and irreplaceable,
Once you met the paper you were there forever,
With that ink blood that flows through your veins,
A fellow poet whose love would stain my mental,
Instrumental in gifting my simple world with a new understanding,
It wasn’t how I imagined, but God laughs at notions of planning,
I finally found out what it meant to be in love,
I never had two people show me what it was,
Honestly the many descriptions of hate,
Is what would be seen at the gate of my consciousness,
As such, I believed this same fate would await me,
It was once the singular feeling with which I could relate,
But the euphoric hands you laid on me,
Made me lose an awake thought process,
As I was in a lake filled with your waters,
That would flow to rivers,
Followed by seas of your loving,
Seas consummating your body,
As I laid on the beach,
Believing it to be a dream.

But it wasn't, and it shouldn’t have ended,
In reality, love has ways of being reprimanded,
I was so lucid, and the picture was candid,
It was the simplest of pleasures that I'd ever been handed,
I learned right away the right things to do,
To flow from my heart and work my way into you,
To take care of my lips,
A rough kiss can't ******,
Nor find proper pleasure,
Along a woman's surface,
You’d allow me to peruse your mind,
Sending shivers up your spine,
As I embarked on my conquest,
Explorations of lustful aspirations,
Symbolizing and synthesizing,
Each and every stroke,
Representing a new letter,
In the alphabet of love,
Allowing our tale to unwind,
To combine the breathlessness of our exploits,
With our hearts desire for choice,
Which declined to lend voice,
To the greater work to be done,
The acquisition of newer positions,
Are symptoms of the journey,
Keep going, never surrender,
Be tender and conquer,
Mental foreplay is stronger,
Than any physical touch.

Love of a poet both bold and stoic,
Is a simplistic view of unfolded vibes and rhythms from the inside,
This could never subside to anything less than genuine spirit of heart and signs,
Among the winds, trees, stars, because you are the art,
You are Moses parting the red sea of my subconscious,
You are the dark sphere which encircles me,
You are the light that penetrates me,
You are harmonic melodies and sweet remedies,
You are rude symmetries and cool symphonies,
You are a lesson learned and an angel untouched,
With exception of me,
Hushed whispers or high pitched screams,
Mean nothing, without the mind following the body to finality,
The fluidity of our ****** motion,
Is a reflection of our mental state,
I seek not to pass through you,
I seek to become one with you.

That's how I feel about poetry,
That's also how I feel about ***,
That's how I feel about you,
You showed me the way,
You are my soul mate,
One with the words I write,
And the memories that I seek the convey,
You are the sun pouring through with the rain,
You are my miracle, one year my junior,
Fifty years older under the skin,
Deep within, your soul, my solar,
Not an eclipse, but a shimmering glow,
Always for my love and never for show.

I fall in love with people's honesty.
Their smile.
Funny jokes.
Tears.
Scars.
Passions.
Eyes.
Dreams.
Their spirit.

Word to Marley Soul.

Five steps in my growth,
Five indispensable cogs of my sou
tinnnafish Mar 2016
In kindergarten I came to school in my lady bug dress with nobody to impress.  Not a care in the world. The only thing on my mind was “How many friends will I make today.”

Middle school ******, but doesn't it always? Struggling to fit it, literally. Shedding pounds like you wouldn't believe. You see, I found it very hard to finish my meals. “Wow, you look thin,” they'd say. I wasn't living a fantasy, I was living in hell.

Middle school finally ended and high school began.

Freshman year was the time of my life; a great friend group, people I could count on. My eyes open wide ready for anything. A glimpse of the real world. Freshman year I was invited to parties and offered drugs, little did I know that these two things would soon consume my closest friends lives. Freshman year lead to recurring pointless drama that would haunt us for the rest of our high school careers.

Sophomore year I lost my best friend. I lost my best friend because of a boy we thought we liked. I watched her go from a everyday student to a twice a week student, to a new guy every week, type of girl. Sophomore year I had a great boyfriend, kind, understanding and jealous. So jealous that he never left my side. From winter ball to prom he pushed and pushed. I never gave in and then he left. Sophomore year I said goodbye to my favorite Chilean and cried as he boarded the plane. Sophomore year I was told I wasn't pretty enough to ever be loved. Sophomore year I changed.

Junior year I began to try things new. Things to find a new me, things to make me feel free. Junior year I watched my best friend who's miles away nearly lose his life. Struggling to recover, he spiraled down hill. Depression, anxiety, and hopelessness led to the destruction of a great life. Junior year I decided to leave.

My senior year has a lot in store. Places unknown and a new beginning. My senior year puts me above and beyond, above my peers and much more mature. The drinking, drugs, and meaningless ***, I will be above that my senior year.
Kathy Dehaven Apr 2016
Dylan Klebold (17)... Senior.... September 11, 1981- April 20, 1999
Eric Harris (18)... Senior.... April 9, 1981- April 20, 1999
Cassie Bernall (17)... Senior.... November 6, 1981- April 20, 1999
Lauren Townsend (18)... Senior.... January 17, 1981- April 20, 1999
Rachel Scott (17)... Senior.... August 5, 1981- April 20, 1999
Corey DePooter (17)... Senior.... March 3, 1982- April 20, 1999
Daniel Mauser (15)... Sophy.... June 25, 1983- April 20 1999
Daniel Rhohrbough (15)... Sophy.... March 2, 1984-  April 20, 1999
Dave Sanders (47)... Old ****.... October 22, 1951- April 20, 1999
Kelly Fleming (16)... Junior.... January 6, 1983- April 20, 1999
Steve Curnow (14)... Freshmeat.... August 28, 1984- April 20, 1999
Matt Kechter (16)...Sophy.... February 19, 1983- April 20, 1999
Isaiah Shoels (18)... Senior.... August 4, 1980- April 20, 1999
John Tomlin (16)... Junior.... September 1, 1982- April 20, 1999
Kyle Velasquez (16)... Junior....May 5, 1982- April 20, 1999
A Sep 2014
freshman year
Happy, scared, young, full, and ready for whatever it is thats about to hit you.
You loose your bestfriend, and your virginity.
You gain a new clique, and a body count.

sophomore year
your freshman expertise kick in and you think youve got the feel for the highschool life.
You fail chemistry, and go to your first party.
you are now a ****
You think youre cooler than your ex
bestfriend because you have ten bucks saying that shes never had a boy see her underwear or that shes never been as drunk at you.

junior year
You spent your summer in therapy, in
and out of mental hospitals because your eating disorder became deadly, and all of the friends you partied with cut you off because your newest bestfriend convinced you to sleep with one of their exs.
You come back to school as dead as
you have ever been and you spend every lunch period in the art room painting your sorrows away and you spend every night at home doing the same only this time your wrist becomes the canvas.

seinor year**
Your down to one medication a day now and you have commited social suicide all summer by staying in to gaurd yourself from turning to drugs and alcohol again to hide the pain. Graduation is arround the corner and you realize you could finally be happy once this is all over.
Happy to be out of that hell hole, but inspired by scho starting again.
Jess Hays Jul 2016
Second year at a new school
I should be accustomed to it
But the fact is, most of them are strangers.

Second year should mean a second chance
But her friendship ring is leaving its mark on my hand
And my young years are drifting away at the sand

It's high tide...
To resurrect my mind into this new time
But new is different and different is unknown
And the unknown is scary.

I don't know how to think beyond
Those who are now distant characters in my storyline.
I'm hesitating..
Because new is different and thus unknown..
And I'm not sure if I can trust what I don't know.
Indian Phoenix Oct 2012
I hated Dawkins a little less when his words came from your mouth.

Your unabashed sincerity endeared me to you from the moment you showed me your vintage Atari. I don't recall if that was before or after you bragged about your Star Trek DVDs. Not that it matters, but I hope you've found a place to store all of those wires protruding out of your gadgets like Medusa's head of snakes.

My family liked you, especially my mother. It was probably your staunch advocacy of 4th amendment rights.

Remember those nights we sat in bed and traded secrets on small scraps of paper? We were lovers  for... five weeks by then? It struck me by the third slip that it didn't matter what it would say--I knew I'd still love you anyway. But I knew that from the moment you removed my knee-high boots and kissed my feet when I rode up on my Harley. You unstrapped my helmet and poured me wine. Though we promised to never tell anyone, I just wanted to say: I still smile when I think of your 15-year-old self trying to pick up a ******* on a desolate dusty road. Do you still have those hastily-written pieces of paper? They're yours to keep; I hope they're safe.

Nothing of my new world reminds me of you. There's no Jeopardy to watch, no NPR to hear in your white Saturn, and no desert mountains to hike. Not in India. Maybe it's because nothing is similar that my memories of us stay so firmly imprinted in my mind. Similarities would only erode my recollections. Maybe that's why I almost forgot about the chai tea I'd serve you in bed, coupled with almonds and apricots on the saucer.

But you, you're a walking encyclopedia of my home town. You knew every cactus-lined freeway, the name of the state attorney general, and the best place to grab a Four Peaks beer. Because of this, I could never extricate my love of home and my love for you. To me, you'll always be home.

For better or for worse, I remember it all. Including the soft piano rift of the chess game we'd play on your XBox. I'm guessing you'd beat me, should we play again today. I still have the wooden chess set I got you for your birthday... but we both know I can't give it to you. I'm sorry.

I never believed in saving people before I met you. Before, damaged was a weakness; now I think you just needed a polish. I never told you, but I read your psych evaluation--I found it when I was cleaning your room (with your permission, I add). The therapist was right: you're not aloof, just too smart for the room. I thank God that you never bought that container of nitric oxide.

I know we said we'd marry if I ever came back home. A no-frills city hall marriage suited us just fine. I have no doubt we would have had a simple, sweet life. You would've relented to letting me get a dog to keep your arrogant cat company. Our biggest fight would be over which castle door the RPG character should open, and you would've helped me improve my golf swing on the inexpensive dilapidated course near my old junior high school.

But likewise... our biggest adventure would've been only a roadtrip to the neighboring county. And I wanted to explore. I needed to explore. You, who never wanted to stray outside of a 100-mile radius could never satiate that curiosity. But I know we could have made it work. I know we would've been happy.

Sometimes I wish we could be the best of friends. I know we can't; not when I started dating my now-husband so close after we ended things in tear-stained emails when I went overseas. He swore off her; I swore off you. That's the way things go, I guess, when you get older.

I know it might seem like I've moved on and forgotten you.

Moved on, yes. Forgotten? Never.

It probably wouldn't be the same if we met again. I have too much love for you that could never be conveyed. My love for you has changed; it's not romantic. But it's still this throbbing appreciation for everything you are. I couldn't bear guarded chit chat. Not with you.

And I hope you are happy. Have you realized your worth yet, or are you still wasting your time with broken high school grads who listen to Ke$ha? I can't tell you who to love... but I hope she's an astrophysicist, someone who loves Carl Sagan even half as much as you. I want her to read Noam Chomsky to you late at night, and wake you in the mornings with a glass of milk and cookies. She'll prefer simple mashed potatoes to dim sum, and have a weakness for microbreweries. She'd be gorgeous in that bookish sort of way. Yes. That's the girl for you.

....I'm sorry it's not me, my dear atheist.
PROLOGUE:

“’We must stop this brain working for twenty years.’” So said Mussolini’s Grand Inquisitor, his official Fascist prosecutor addressing the judge in Antonio Gramsci’s 1928 trial; so said the Il Duce’s Torquemada, ending his peroration with this infamous demand.’”  Gramsci, Antonio: Selections from the Prison Notebooks, Introduction, translation from Italian and publishing by Quintin ***** & Geoffrey Nowell Smith, International Publishers, New York, 1971.

BE IT RESOLVED: Whereas, I introduce this book with a nod of deep respect to Antonio Gramsci--an obscure but increasingly pertinent political scientist it would behoove us all to read and study today, I dedicate the book itself to my great grandfather and key family patriarch, Pietro Buonaiuto (1865-1940) of Moschiano, in the province of Avellino, in the region of Campania, southern Italy.

Let it be recognized that Pete Buonaiuto may not have had Tony Gramsci’s brain, but he certainly exhibited an extreme case of what his son--my paternal grandfather, Francesco Buonaiuto--termed: Testaduro. Literally, it means Hardhead, but connotes something far beyond the merely stubborn. We’re talking way out there in the unknown, beyond that inexplicable void where hotheaded hardheads regurgitate their next move, more a function of indigestion than thought. Given any situation, a Testaduro would rather bring acid reflux and bile to the mix than exercise even a skosh of gray muscle matter.  But there’s more. It gets worse.

To truly comprehend the densely-packed granite that is the Testaduro mind, we must now sub-focus our attention on the truly obdurate, extreme examples of what my paternal grandmother—Vicenza di Maria Buonaiuto—they called her Jennie--would describe as reflexive cutta-dey-noze-a-offa-to-spite-a-dey-face-a types. I reference the truly defiant, or T.D.—obviously short for both truly defiant and Testaduro. T.D.’s—a breed apart--smiling and sneering, laughing and, finally, begging their regime-appointed torture apparatchik (a career-choice getting a great deal of attention from the certificate mills--the junior colleges and vocational specialty institutes) mocking their Guantanamo-trained torturer: “Is that what you call punishment?  Is that all you ******* got?”

If, to assist comprehension, you require a literary frame of context, might I suggest you compare the Buonaiuto mind to Paul Lazzaro, Vonnegut’s superbly drawn Italian-American WWII soldier-lunatic with a passion for revenge, who kept a list of people who ****** with him, people he would have killed someday for a thousand dollars.

Go with me, Reader, go back with me to Vonnegut’s Slaughter-House-Five: “Billy Pilgrim has become unstuck in time . . .”
It is long past the Tralfamadorian abduction and his friendship with Stony Stevenson. Billy is back in Germany, one of three dingbat American G.I.s roaming around beyond enemy lines.  Another of the three is Private Lazzaro, a former car thief and undeniable psychopath from Cicero, Illinois.

Paul Lazzaro:  “Anybody touches me, he better **** me, or I’m gonna have him killed. Revenge is the sweetest thing there is. People **** with me, and Jesus Christ are they ever ******* sorry. I laugh like hell. I don’t care if it’s a guy or a dame. If the President of the United States ****** around with me, I’d fix him good. Revenge is the sweetest thing in life. And nobody ever got it from Lazzaro who didn’t have it coming.  Anybody who ***** with me? I’m gonna have him shot after the war, after he gets home, a big ******* hero with dames climbing all over him. He’ll settle down. A couple of years ‘ll go by, and then one day a knock at the door. He’ll answer the door and there’ll be a stranger out there. The stranger’ll ask him if he’s so and so. When he says he is, the stranger’ll say, ‘Paul Lazzaro sent me.’ And then he’ll pull out a gun and shoot his pecker off. The stranger’ll let him think a couple seconds about who Paul Lazzaro is and what life’s gonna be like without a pecker. Then he’ll shoot him once in the gut and walk away. Nobody ***** with Paul Lazzaro!”

(ENTER AUTHOR. HE SPEAKS: “Hey, Numb-nuts! Yes, you, my Reader. Do you want to get ****** into reading that Vonnegut blurb over and over again for the rest of the afternoon, or can I get you back into my manuscript?  That Paul Lazzaro thing was just my way of trying to give you a frame of reference, not to have you ******* drift off, walking away from me, your hand held tightly in nicotine-stained fingers. So it goes, you Ja-Bone. It was for comparison purposes.  Get it?  But, if you insist, go ahead and compare a Buonaiuto—any Buonaiuto--with the character, Paul Lazzaro. No comparison, but if you want a need a number—you quantitative ****--multiply the seating capacity of the Roman Coliseum by the gross tonnage of sheet pane glass that crystalized into small fixed puddles of glazed smoke, falling with the steel, toppling down into rubble on 9/11/2001. That’s right: multiply the number of Coliseum seats times a big, double mound of rubble, that double-smoking pile of concrete and rebar and human cadavers, formerly known as “The Twin Towers, World Trade Center, Lower Manhattan, NYC.  It’s a big number, Numb-nuts! And it illustrates the adamantine resistance demonstrated by the Buonaiuto strain of the Testaduro virus. Shall we return to my book?)

The truth is Italian-Americans were never overzealous about WWII in the first place. Italians in America, and other places like Argentina, Canada, and Australia were never quite sure whom they were supposed to be rooting for. But that’s another story. It was during that war in 1944, however, that my father--John Felix Buonaiuto, a U.S. Army sergeant and recent Anzio combat vet decided to visit Moschiano, courtesy of a weekend pass from 5th Army Command, Naples.  In a rough-hewn, one-room hut, my father sat before a lukewarm stone fireplace with the white-haired Carmine Buonaiuto, listening to that ancient one, spouting straight **** about his grandfather—Pietro Buonaiuto--my great-grandfather’s past. Ironically, I myself, thirty yeas later, while also serving in the United States Army, found out in the same way, in the same rough-hewn, one-room hut, in front of the same lukewarm fireplace, listening to the same Carmine Buonaiuto, by now the old man and the sea all by himself. That’s how I discovered the family secret in Moschiano. It was 1972 and I was assigned to a NATO Cold War stay-behind operation. The operation, code-named GLADIO—had a really cool shield with a sword, the fasces and other symbols of its legacy and purpose. GLADIO was a clandestine anti-communist agency in Italy in the 1970s, with one specific target:  Il Brigate Rosso, the Red Brigades.  This was in my early 20s. I was back from Vietnam, and after a short stint as an FBI confidential informant targeting campus radicals at the University of Miami, I was back in uniform again. By the way, my FBI gig had a really cool codename also: COINTELPRO, which I thought at the time had something to do with tapping coin operated telephones. Years later, I found out COINTELPRO stood for counter-intelligence program.  I must have had a weakness for insignias, shields and codenames, because there I was, back in uniform, assigned to Army Intelligence, NATO, Italy, “OPERATION GLADIO.“

By the way, Buonaiuto is pronounced:

Bwone-eye-you-toe . . . you ignorant ****!

Oh yes, prepare yourself for insult, Kemosabe! I refuse to soft soap what ensues.  After all, you’re the one on trial here this time, not Gramsci and certainly not me. Capeesh?

Let’s also take a moment, to pay linguistic reverence to the language of Seneca, Ovid & Virgil. I refer, of course, to Latin. Latin is called: THE MOTHER TONGUE. Which is also what we used to call both Mary Delvecchio--kneeling down in the weeds off Atlantic Avenue--& Esther Talayumptewa --another budding, Hopi Corn Maiden like my mother—pulling trains behind the creosote bush up on Black Mesa.  But those are other stories.

LATIN: Attention must be paid!

Take the English word obdurate, for example—used in my opening paragraph, the phrase truly obdurate: {obdurate, ME, fr. L. obduratus, pp. of obdurare to harden, fr. Ob-against + durus hard –More at DURING}.

Getting hard? Of course you are. Our favorite characters are the intransigent: those who refuse to bend. Who, therefore, must be broken: Paul Newman in Cool Hand Luke comes to mind. Or Paul Newman again as Fast Eddie, that cocky kid who needed his wings clipped and his thumbs broken. Or Paul Newman once more, playing Eddie Felson again; Fast Eddie now slower, a shark grown old, deliberative now, no longer cute, dimples replaced with an insidious sneer, still fighting and hustling but in shrewder, more subtle ways. (Credit: Scorsese’s brilliant homage The Color of Money.)

The Color of Money (1986) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/tt0090863 Internet MovieDatabase Rating: 7/10 - ‎47,702 votes. Paul Newman and Helen Shaver; still photo: Tom Cruise in The Color of Money (1986) Still of Paul Newman in The Color of Money (1986). Full Cast & Crew - ‎Awards - ‎Trivia - ‎Plot Summary

Perhaps it was the Roman Catholic Church I rebelled against.  The Catholic Church: certainly a key factor for any Italian-American, a stinger, a real burr under the saddle, biting, setting off insurrection again and again. No. Worse: prompting Revolt! And who could blame us? Catholicism had that spooky Latin & Incense going for it, but who wouldn’t rise up and face that Kraken? The Pope and his College of Cardinals? A Vatican freak show—a red shoe, twinkle-toe, institutional anachronism; the Curia, ferreting out the good, targeting anything that felt even half-way good, classifying, pronouncing verboten, even what by any stretch of the imagination, would be deemed to be merely kind of pleasant, slamming down that peccadillo rubber-stamp. Sin: was there ever a better drug? Sin? Revolution, **** yeah!  Anyone with an ounce of self-respect would have gone to the barricades.

But I digress.
f Jul 2018
I didn’t sleep tonight
Well.
I did something kinda
I never remember being a typical child. I was always wary. And very aware of everything. And I can’t remember a time where my brain wasn’t bouncing around, inquisitive. No matter who you are, there are small things you do that aren’t actually unique. All humans twitch in a spot on their face when they’re disgusted. We all have a nervous tick. Etcetera. Knowing this as a child made me very self conscious. My ego would say it made me self “aware”. But I watched my movements. And paid attention to my nervous tick. Phrases I would pick up and find amusing, and why. I was so careful not to do anything that would put me in a vulnerable spot. I wanted to be perfectly unnoticeable.
And I decided tonight, I’d go through the years that were especially hard for me and addresss the trauma in a chronological order.
Some of my very first memories ever in my life were of violations. I was touched and caressed, but not by my mother. This terrible man with a bit of a belly. And I would have thought it was normal, except for the sick bottomless pit in my stomach. And my rigid muscles. And it hurt sometimes.
Then I remember being with my mother. And staying at the white house with the flower pots filled with cigarette ash instead of soil. And I kinda liked it. The flower pots I mean. But I absolutely loved being with her. So many memories with her. So many sunny memories.
But I started seeing her less and less. And it was just weird. And uncomfortable. I had somewhat numbed myself, and hence there were many years spent I’m a daze. I was dreaming. But it was a melancholy dream. And I remember the foster kids my parents fostered. And they made me do things with another family member. Multiple times. And it was just so odd to me that this would happen, I didn’t know if this was normal or not. But I thought all this time I was somehow responsible and I’m trouble. Or at least, if I discussed this with any adult, it would be entirely unorthodox. Ludacrious.
And there was so much pain.
Then I had grand mal serizures (or however you spell it idc) for around two years I think. Only about like 8? Seizures. But every time it happened I just felt my memory going away. It was the strangest sensation. I would lose an entire week here or there, and days after they happened I would be a little dysphoric. And maybe there is a god that had mercy on me, and gave me those seizures as a way to literally forget some of what I had been through. Or repress I guess.
Anyway, then I was a very charismatic, secretly introverted girl during junior high. I had my first kiss and it really ******. It was just... tense-*** lips smushing against mine. I also had my lips closed though because I didn’t know you parted them for kisses. Like I had always seen my mom and dad do a quick peck so I didn’t know what to do really. But he said I was a good kisser, but what junior high boy wouldn’t say that about any girl he kissed tbh.
And I became VERY devout in the religion I had been raised in. Full-on future missionary. I read the scriptures frontto back multiple times. Blah blah blah.
Then I met my first love, and there was an electric shock that went through my body. I was mesmerized by this feeling. I shook his hand, told him my name, and he told me his. That went on and off from 9th? Grade? until I graduated and a little after. It was a long relationship, full of a lot of different times. Good times, bad times. But mainly we were toxic to each other. We didn’t know how to love properly. He was fighter, who believed he was the king of kings. And I thought that in every single way, he was. I was truly bewitched. And he’d hold me tight, and wouldn’t let me go, even when I wanted to be let go. He collapsed at my feet and sobbed in my lap. And I did the same with him. We were so wounded, but similar. And found solace and endless banter in a moment together.
At this point my mother died. And I travelled barely out of state to attend her funeral. I saw all of my siblings. And stuff slowly started coming back to me. Weird snippets of early childhood existence. I couldn’t process it all, and so I emotionally shut down for the billionth time. But my first love was here for me.
Leaving a note on my doorstep that I remember particularly. “On sunny days, on rainy days. You are just as sweet.” With cherry blossoms.
Funny, my mother smelled like Japanese cherry blossoms.
So eventually we had raging hormones, young teens, and we started becoming intimate. But I was rigid. And in the back of my head, I knew why. I had repressed the repeated acts of abuse throughout my entire life. But I just wanted to forget about that. It didn’t make sense, I loved him, so why should I shy away from physical/****** interaction. I believed I was broken, something more was wrong with me. And one night he fingered me, I guess he had learned that from watching ****? Because I had no idea what he was doing. And it hurt because I wasn’t even wet. But I just was silent with a clenched jaw, not wanting to be a disappointment. The next thing, I lost my virginity to him. And what’s funny is the way he convinced me to is by saying, “For Science!”
I still find that amusing. I was like 17 or 18 I think and still a ******. I should have stayed one. The first time we had *** and I lost my virginity just seemed like I was sleepwalking. I was watching myself interact sexually with him, but I wasn’t present. Every single time I was sexually abused rushed back to my mind. And I felt as though somebody had cut off my limbs, severed my head, packed my whole body (piece by piece) into a business briefcase. And walked out the door with my body.
After that I kind of freaked out. Just too much going on. I couldn’t handle it. And my first love tried to **** himself in the months following. I think, after almost four years of companionship, we had *** only a handful of times, and it got easier and easier for me. But he tried to **** himself after we were “off” again. So I went right by his side, trying to piece together his life so he could be at peace. And not have the turbulent mind he had. And we were together. But then I had gotten up the courage to break it off again, and for good. We needed to move on. I knew what I was going to say to him, I knew I wanted to be close and have one last moment together. Finality. Closure.
But he said, “you kissed another guy. You cheated on me.” And in my head I was like no **** really what about the multiple girls that were your “friends” that you cheated on me with. Throughout the entire relationship? But I said yes, he kissed me. And I’m sorry. And he said, “We’re done.” And got up and walked off, leaving me on the curb in front of his house. No words can describe the torture it was to finally be done. And to have it be on his terms, with no closure. He was so cold. I hated it when he was like that. It was like looking in a mirror.
And that’s all I can talk about.
Funny timing, it’s 7:30 am. No sleep since yesterday at 8:00 am. Ramblings of a tormented soul.
But that was the thing I did tonight. Remember my earliest memories, and go through my life in chronological order. Accepting that it happened. At least to this point. I think I’ll keep going tonight, we’ll see.
But it’s wednesday, and I definitely need to shower for work.
-nobody
7 - 11 - 16
Parag Gupta Nov 2013
Last night I traveled through time,

Went to the future & the past afar,

Visited Da Vinci, Bhagat Singh,

And the inventor of the car.



Then I had a thought,

Something of contrast,

We’ve committed our future,

So why not our past?

I took junior me,

And flew to junior you,

On my way, I told him

Stories about our love, true.



Cute things we did together,

Clockwork at midnight,

Our date at the beach,

Supposed love at first sight.



He was so **** excited,

I could see it in his eyes,

Then I told him what I did wrong,

All my faults, All my lies.



He said I was stupid,

And he’ll do it better,

Each day he’ll love you,

And write you a lovely letter.



I told him about your past,

Or at the time, your future,

He said he’ll care,

And with care he’ll nurture,



I then told him about me,

What scarred me before,

He told me not to worry,

Cause I’ll have you, unlike afore.



We reached your town,

Was early in the morn,

Bought you gajras you love,

For your hair, for you to adorn.



The junior me, held a rose,

In front of you it stood,

He looked at your luscious hair,

But didn’t feel a thing he should.



How is it that this happened?

Why didn’t your eyes shine?

Where is that sparkle,

Which I so dearly called mine?

I came back to the present,

Straight from there to you,

Looked right into your eyes

Ah! the sparkle, the hue!



It’s here, I said.

Where else my love, you asked.

I thought I had lost it, I said.



I had missed it dearly, I said,

But where had it gone, you asked.

It wasn’t in our past, I said.



You smiled at me,

and I knew exactly where it was.
WickedHope Dec 2014
He's a freshman.

Does that make me a pervert?
A junior would be fine,
A sophomore isn't too bad;

But he's a freshman.

If I was a guy and he were a girl,
     Would I feel less weird?
Am I a cougar?
Because I'm a senior, and

He's a freshman.
I kinda have this weird attraction to/crush-thing on a freshman in one of my electives...
- - -
What is this?
Mary Torrez May 2012
We said not to wear
them inside, but now what I'd
give to hear their sound
Graff1980 Feb 2015
I sat in history class
Must have been
My senior
Or junior year

On the screen
Came horrible things
Emaciated
Decimated
Human beings

Numbers tattooed
Bodies burnt
Gas chambers
Stories so cruel

Years after we read
Anne Frank’s diary
But no one really had a clue

The pictures
Were part of a documentary
Made to remind us
Of human insanity

Skin and bones
Broken men
Barely left standing
Human suffering

I couldn’t help but cry
But behind me no one else did
And then I couldn’t help but wonder why
No one else felt the same sadness in it
judy smith Mar 2016
Capturing scenes from fashion shows in the past, Glamourizing Ladies And Men modeling hosted their annual spring fashion show.

The event was a runway-style fashion show, with looks recreated from GLAM’s past. The show also featured talents ranging from poetry and singing to painting.

Patrick Davis, a senior general studies major, and Christina Brown, a freshman biological sciences major, hosted the show.

The introduction of the show was called “Once Upon a Time.” The scene was from a 2012 show and centered on a little girl’s favorite fairytales taking a twisted turn in her dreams.

It opened with the little girl getting told bedtime stories from her father.

After getting the stories read to her, the rest of the GLAM models emerged from under her bed and began to torment the little girl.

The ladies of GLAM then emerged for a scene named “Pop Art.”

“Pop Art” was created in 2012 and incorporated the use of recyclables such as newspaper, duct tape, water bottles, cups and more in the model’s outfits.

The models were dressed in outfits that they created.

The first model wore a dress made out of a plastic bag and yellow caution tape.

The next model wore a dress that was fitted and made of plastic bags and duct tape.

There was a flare skirt made out of newspapers, and another skirt was made using old magazines.

There was also a fitted skirt made only of caution tape and a flare skirt made of white foam cups.

The final outfit of the scene was a dress made of black plastic bags and caution tape. The caution tape was also made into a necklace.

The following scene was titled “Lust/Burlesque.”

Burlesque was created in 2013 for GLAM’s Halloween show “The Seven Deadly Sins.” It incorporated tasteful dancing and runway style walking.

This scene opened up with three models dressed in all black attire, performing a dance routine.

The models hit the stage in several costumes, many of which were handmade by the models themselves.

One model wore black shorts, a black cropped shirt and blue high heels with blue and white wings.

Another outfit used a cheetah print swimsuit, with pink coverings and a back piece made of twigs and feathers.

Alexis Scott, a junior pre-nursing major, performed her poetry piece titled “Honest Truth.”

In her poem, she spoke about a broken relationship with her father. She also spoke about hiding all of her feelings and often putting on a fake smile to the world.

“Yesterday I tripped on my self-esteem and landed on my pride,” Scott said.

The next scene of the show was titled “Concrete Jungle.”

This scene was adopted from a 2014 show and featured business attire with a fashionable twist.

Outfits from this scene included a pleated black dress with white stripes at the bottom, a gray handbag, and black heels.

Another outfit included a purple blazer, a crème and yellow floral printed top, black dress pants and black high-heeled shoes.

A model wore a blue fitted miniskirt, a black and white cheetah print satin shirt and black heels.

The scene after this was titled “Criminology” and was taken from a 2011 show titled “FAME University.”

This scene gave a glimpse into the mind of a woman when she has snapped.

The scene opened up with red flashing lights with four models doing a dance routine to Beyoncé’s “Ring the Alarm” and a monologue.

The monologue told the story about how each woman killed their husbands. The models wore outfits such as black shorts, black leather shirts, black boots and black high heels.

In a talent section, while Keyana Latimer, a sophomore sociology major sang, she was accompanied by Taleiya Baker, a junior music education major.

While they were singing, D’Ajah Douglas, a freshman studio art major, and Yasmine Washington, a freshman studio art major, painted pictures while Latimer also performed a tap dancing piece.

The show concluded with a final walk from all of the GLAM models wearing black and purple shirts with GLAM Modeling written on them, blue jeans and high heels.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses
jack of spades Apr 2016
i’ve found that i do the most learning during second semester.

for example, second semester of freshman year i learned that losing friends is a lot like losing a life,
that losing friends kind of usually makes you really want to die,
that losing friends is like a comet blasting its way through your heart--
it sets you ablaze for a moment,
but then by the time you notice its absence it’s already circling another planet.
losing friends is always hard.
keep a death toll if you have to, but adding a tally mark for yourself isn’t worth it.
learn the art of letting go.
learn the art of getting by.
it’s hard, and it sometimes feels impossible,
but don’t expect too much from anything.
don’t expect too much from anyone,
but god forbid you let yourself lose all feeling.
yes, feeling hurts, yes, feeling is hard,
but going numb and cold leads to frostbite
and you'll just end up amputating the limbs that you have left.

the second semester of sophomore year,
i learned what it was like to never feel at home in your own bones.
you’re always drifting, interstate international interstellar intergalactic.
it’s all the same thing.
it’s okay to let yourself wander,
and it’s okay if you find yourself kneeling on foreign bathroom floors clutching porcelain like it’s your last lifeline.
learn that home is where your heart is.
don’t invest your heart into anything.
learn that there are teenage boys out there who will spin galaxies into your spine when they hold you close,
but learn that romance is stigmatized.
learn that relationships don’t have to be forever,
that nothing is ever really forever.
learn that friends will last longer than lovers,
and learn to tell the difference between friends and lovers.
make plans to travel the world with your soulmate,
and make sure your soulmate is someone who wants to travel the world with you.
the second semester of sophomore year,
i learned that losing friends is a lot like losing a life,
only this time it was worse because this time i was built out of scar tissue
and scar tissue is tougher to tear through but they did it anyway.
i’m still learning the art of letting go.
i’m learning that it’s okay to write as much angry, heart-broken poetry as you need to in order to get over it
because friendships wrap tighter around your heart than any other kind of relationship.
learn that the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.
but learn to be kind to your mother, because she is trying.

the second semester of junior year
i learned the names of every single person that i could pour my whole soul into,
and just because i don’t share everything with someone doesn’t mean we aren’t friends.
i’ve learned that i have friends.
just because we aren’t awake together at 3 a.m.
doesn’t mean that they don’t sit next to me in all the classes we’re both in,
it doesn’t mean that they don’t go driving with me at 3 p.m.
a friend doesn’t have to be someone you spend every waking moment with.
a friend can just be someone that you coexist with,
someone who makes you feel like you aren’t really all that alone.

the second semester of junior year i’ve learned that i am still learning.
i’m still figuring things out.
maybe by the second semester of senior year i’ll have learned something closer to, say, what i’m doing for the next four to six years,
or maybe i’ll finally master the art of letting go.

the second half of high school
i’ve learned that, yeah, scar tissue grows.
but scars fade.
and the concave space in your chest doesn’t have to keep on growing into a black hole,
that you can fill up your cracks and crevices with stardust and iron.
losing friends is like losing a life. but, god, when they come back--

it’s okay to feel things.
it’s okay to feel too much and all at once.
it’s okay to vent and rave and scream.
it’s okay to write bad poetry about sins that you’ve already forgiven and people you’ve already forgotten and places you’ve already left behind.
it’s okay.
it’s okay to hold onto your humanity.
make maps with your own freckles and follow your veins to your eyes.
make eye contact with your own reflection.
if you can’t teach yourself something,
then how is anyone else ever going to listen?
EVERYTHING WILL BE OKAY
thatdreadedpoet Mar 2014
The first time someone called me a poet
it was in the cramped back hallway of a party in early July
heat rising between our ****** spaces
sweat collecting at the base of my brow to keep anxiety at bay
I listen as someone who I could barely call an acquaintance describe me to a boy I just met:
“she is an amazing writer, trust me, she’s so cool”
As if me using metaphors for antidepressants
and words as bandages for wounds
was reason to make me worthy to get to know beyond my first name
to pin my feet onto a pedestal I didn’t ask to stand on to begin with
I press autopilot in my muscles,
mechanically flip my hair,
split my lips into a half-*** smile,
****** my hand,
and let my laugh ring with the music.
Little does everyone know I am the broken jukebox
with a disappearing voice.

I hide behind love and at 19, I wrote “What High School History Taught Me”
It was for you
you, the NYU junior with a mouth that clung onto vowels
and whose fingertips could read the braille embedded in my skin
You loved chasing storms,
I was almost named after a hurricane,
and this was how we were born after Hurricane Sandy-
it was never a question how we found comfort in destruction
But I still remember telling you
that I wanted to love you forever even if you didn’t stay to find out
And ever since I spit that
men come to me looking for their taste of mystery
for their chance to be immortalized
They don’t know I only speak in train station
and everybody is always a few minutes too late
No one has gotten the chance to get too close
because it’s never romantic to **** the girl who makes love to her own sadness every night

I’ve stopped seeing the fire in my poetry like most strangers do
because to them
my pain is pretty
my heartache is dressed in a bow so
they can all sleep better at night knowing
some 20 year old girl in California understands them
better than she understands herself.

I have been singing in a language I never fully understood
because I am the girl who attaches my reflection to a man
whose memory I still keep prisoner in my mind
and this is how I hide from myself
this is my disappearing act

This isn’t poetry anymore
and it hasn’t been for a long time
This is the sound of survival
This is my heart leaking gunpowder and discharging bullets
Right here
on this stage
is where I understand what it feels like to choke on the gas chamber of lost dreams
Right here
is a dusky New York City apartment
with a boy dressed in the mask of a man hunting me as prey
This stage is where I come home to after being at war with myself
This stage is my peace
my prayer for forgiveness once a week
Right here
is why friends from school don’t call me that much anymore
This stage
is why me and Joe broke up
This place
is why I don’t sit with my family at the dinner table no more
because why
Why share grace with those who can’t understand
how these lights I stand under make the full moon I need
to break my neck and howl at some nights

This is where I pluck the guitar strings of my throat to sing like a bluebird and slow dance with every ghost
This stage is the only place I can forklift
all the misunderstood out of my chest and force you to watch
and you
will still call it art
you
will still call it poetry

But this isn’t poetry anymore
it hasn’t been for a long time
This
is the sound of survival
This
is the sound of me using the inhale of night
just to make it to the exhale of morning.
Right here.
On this stage.
This
is where
and why
I
fight.
Isabella Soledad Aug 2017
It was a hot summer morning in late August. The brick building in front of her was daunting. This was it. Her first day of high school. Her long brown hair swayed behind her. It brushed gently against the small of her back. Her heart pounded excitedly in her chest. A new adventure awaits her. An adventure filled with many smiles, and many hardships. This is the story of a girl in high school, with long brown hair.

-

Freshman year was fun for her. She made new friends, along with keeping a few of the old.  She met 3 people in her life who had a strange impact on her life, both good and bad.

One of these 3 was a girl. She was *****, and had different style, which enticed the girl with long brown hair. They were put in the same group, and began to talk. Soon after they became close friends, and had their first sleepover. It was the first sleepover of her high school year which wasn't with a friend from her previous school. She enjoyed it very much, and truly valued her new friend.

The two would often be seen together, and even made friends with two others who were like them. The two others were boys. One boy was a bit of a nerd with floofy hair and glasses. The other boy was a punk guy with long hair and darkened taste. The four would go to the mall together, and became inseparable.

The girl with long brown hair really liked these new friends. They were so much like her in so many ways, yet she also had others whom she enjoyed just as much. Freshman year went well for her. She was happy.

Sophomore year rolled around. Her confidence was high, and her relationships with her friends strong. She had made new valuable friends, and loved to do choir and theater.  She continued to make friends through her extra activities, along with keeping close to the ones from freshman year.

The ***** girl in her little friend group had met someone. A girl. They were in love, but the girl with long hair didn’t mind. They were still best friends throughout it- although the ***** girl drifted away as she was occupied with her partner. The boy with long hair and darkened taste told the girl with long hair that he loved her. She was scared, and told him she didn’t feel the same. He accepted it, but became depressed. Time passed by. He was always sad. The girl with long hair became closer to the boy with darkened taste. She wanted to fix him. She wanted to help him. He told her he loved her. He asked her to be with him. She hesitated out of fear. A little time went by. He asked again. She said yes.

-

They were happy. She made him happy for the first time in a while. He made her happy too. One night, the punk girl invited the girl with long hair and the boy with darkened taste to sleep over her house with her and her partner. They agreed. The four went to the beach. The night was foggy. The air was warm; the breeze cold. The boy with darkened taste and the girl with long hair fell in love.

Time passed. They were happy together. One night the girl with long hair had a terrible feeling. She had a panic attack. The boy with darkened taste was busy with a class he was taking. The girl called her best friend to panic. She calmed down.

The boy with the darkened taste called the girl with long hair. He yelled at her. “Why didn’t you come to me first?”.  He exclaimed. “You were busy. I didn’t want to interrupt you. I was panicking.” He scorned her. She cried the whole night. The next day, she didn’t eat. The school hosted a mass. The girl with long hair heard murmurings throughout the choir. Her best friend had gotten in a severe accident. Her car rolled over. She panicked. The boy with darkened taste apologized to her for fighting. He promised to not do it again. She believed him. He asked for forgiveness. A little time went by. He asked again. She said yes.

Junior year began. The girl had one friend left. The summer was fun for her, but not in a way that was healthy. She had stayed with the boy with darkened taste. She thought she loved him. She thought he loved her. She was wrong. The beginning of the year was rough. He yelled at her a lot. He didn’t trust her. He would often take her phone to read her messages. She wasn’t allowed to talk to other boys. He made her delete her social media. She wasn't allowed to talk to other friends. She threatened to leave him. He threatened to **** himself. She was stuck. She was scared. She was sad. They fought. He grabbed her. He wouldn’t let her go. She tried to yank her arm. He held tight. She wanted to leave. He wanted her to stay. He asked for her forgiveness. A little time went by. She said yes. This happened continuously. A short while later, they fought. She was used to him grabbing her. She was used to him forcing her. She tried to get away nonetheless. Then he hit her.

-

The girl with long brown hair was sick. She did not eat. Her friends whom she  cut off were worried. Her weight dipped to an unhealthy level. She thought the worst. She thought she couldn’t escape. She was wrong.

The end of junior year was her time. She escaped finally. She was not unscathed. The girl with long brown hair cut it all off. She needed a fresh start. It was symbolic to her. It helped her.

    The beginning of Senior year rolled around. The girl had healed a good amount, but not entirely. She had cut off communications with the boy with darkened taste.

He saw her in school. He spoke to her. He asked for forgiveness. The girl forgave him, although the wound was still fresh. He asked her to be with him again. A little time went by. He asked again. She said No.

Now the girl is a different person. She was wisened by her experience, and was able to forge some of her friendships with the friends she loves. Some relationships cannot be forged. She tries still. Nothing will be the same. She realizes that. She moves on. She is happy. Her weight is back to normal. She is healthy. She was no longer the same girl, with the long brown hair. She is a different girl. A more happy girl. Only now, She is the girl with short brown hair.
This is a Piece I wrote a while back. I figured why not post it on here.
sweatshop jam Jan 2014
when you are three you will bring home your first tracks of mud from the garden when you sneak out of the door to play. i will wash the grass stains off your socks and tell you to wait for mummy to come out next time too.

when you are four you will bring home your first macaroni necklace from nursery school and try to eat it raw. i will put it around your neck and we will make pasta together, minus the glue.

when you are five you will bring home tears and your first bleeding knee after falling off your tricycle. i will clean up the wound with antiseptic, put on a smiley face band aid and tell you it is okay to cry.

when you are six you will bring home your first finger painting from kindergarten and a white tee shirt that is streaked with a myriad of colour. i will place it on the laundry pile and we will stain canvas with paint coated fingers for the rest of the afternoon.

when you are seven you will bring home your first report card and babble excitedly about the A you got in art class. i will tell you i knew your teacher would love the tiger you drew that had too many teeth.

when you are eight you will bring home your first best friend and you will ask if you can have a sleepover. i will bake you cookies and put up a tent in the backyard so you can fall asleep under the blanket of stars.

when you are nine you will bring home your first 100 on a test and ask me if perfect is a good score. i will hug you and say that no score can be more perfect than you are.

when you are ten you will bring home your first girl guide badge and tell me you need it sewn on your uniform. i will teach you how to use a needle and thread and see your pride at accomplishing the task on your own.  

when you are eleven you will bring home your first medal from a junior fencing competition and tell me you love the foil but you are scared of the older ones who use epees and sabres (even though one day you will be one of them, too). i will hang the medal on your bedpost and show you my rusting sabre in the storeroom and tell you my stories.

when you are twelve you will bring home your first case of chickenpox from the girl who sits next to you in class. i will make you chicken soup and we will make bad puns about poultry for the next two weeks of quarantine.

when you are thirteen you will bring home your first failure on a test paper. i will sit with you in your room and go through your mistakes and we will learn together, because you are more than a number and i never want you to forget that

when you are fourteen you will bring home your first questions about why the girls in school giggle about boys when the name you doodle in your jotter book is the one of your hauntingly beautiful social studies teacher. i will tell you that love is whatever you believe it to be and who you love is less important than why you love them.

when you are fifteen you will bring home your first can of beer in an effort of rebellion and try to hide it in your room. i will get out the wine and we will share it and i will teach you all there is to know about alcohol and being careful around it, and regale you with stories about the fact that i am a happy drunk.

when you are sixteen you will bring home your first attempts at a resumé and tell me you want to find an internship. i will watch you with pride as you make your own way as part of the working crowd for the very first time and learn more than i could ever teach you on my own.

when you are seventeen you will bring home your first girlfriend and introduce her to me, blushing and stammering. i will smile and ask her if she wants any orange juice from the fridge, and watch you give me a grateful grin.

when you are eighteen you will bring home your first college application and all the relevant documents. we will sit down over the kitchen table and discuss the pros and cons of local and international schools.

when you are nineteen you will bring home a suitcase and some assignments when you come back home during break. i will watch you tuck in to local fare ravenously and listen to you dreamily talk about the girl you share your dormitory with.

when you are twenty you will bring home your first paycheck from a part-time job you’re holding while studying for your degree. i will joke with you on what blue chip stocks to invest it in and we will go out for dinner at a swanky restaurant together.

when you are twenty one you will bring home an engagement ring and ask me if it is too young to ask your dormmate turned lover forever. i will remind you that love has no age and preconceptions have no place in devotion.

when you are twenty two you will bring home everything you need to propose to the love of your life. i will watch her stare at you in shock and fall into your arms and cry, and i will smile at the way your breath leaves your lungs, and you cry along with her.

when you are twenty three you will bring home your first pre-wedding jitters and be fretting about tomorrow’s ceremony. i will reassure you that everything will be perfect- even if it isn’t.

when you are twenty four you will bring home your first spare key to your new place and entrust it to me. i will bring over the dishes you and your wife love every sunday and we will have dinner together, talking, teasing, and laughing till we cry.

when you are twenty five you will bring home your first daughter you have adopted from the orphanage.

and daughter, i hope you will tell her the things i have told you.
Joseph Valle Aug 2012
When I was thirteen, I had a running coach.
He was short, lean, and muscular.
An Italian man
with a whistle hanging around his neck,
farmer's tan, and below his black widow's peak
sat silver aviators, propped upon his shiny beak.
I ran miles and miles a day, but,
no matter how much I'd run
he never followed. He always trusted me to
stride my roads and lift my knees high
during the kick at the end of the races
against myself.

"If you want to run
you gotta drop that baggage," he'd laugh
between sips from his water bottle
as he towered over little me,
panting and red. We both stood
tall under the blazing sun.
I couldn't comprehend exactly what he meant,
I mean, I told him,
"I have ultra-light, top-of-the-line shoes,
compression shorts and athletic toes,
a hairless chest for maximum speed,
sweat running rivers down my spine,
legs that never exhaust, and,
above all, Coach,
a spirit that can move mountains." His response,
silence and a smirk.
Who was he to teach me about running?

"You're weighing yourself down boy,
you gotta drop that baggage."
It was his motto for me
every time my time would increase,
because, you see, when running,
increase is bad. Except for hills.
I can still hear his voice in my head,
"Uphill, increase exertion."
He never ran with me, he just told me to go.
He showed me the route and I did as expected,
six days a week, sometimes three miles, sometimes ten,
day after day, again and again,
shoulders hunched and me out of breath,
"runners high," they called it.

I hated running, I hated my coach,
I didn't understand why
anyone would want run to anywhere.
Not now. Now, I love it.
It has become my hobby, a specialty
for when one grows up,
your body is built for it, and your mind
has been ready to run since junior high.
It starts as a seedling, when you're barely able to walk,
and by the time your cardiovascular system
has been assaulted by packs of tobacco
and rolled marijuana, it blooms green.
That's when you realize:
Running is easy.

And coaching?
Don't even get me started on how easy that is.
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
By This Sword 911 Is Avenged
This was written right after 911 now I’m rewriting it from the time that has passed a cooling a distancing has occurred in us not in our
Enemies I will write the first paragraph basically as it was written then go from there. They have cells; we have wells and mines, Wells
Of emotion for God, flag and country the mines are far flung and close at hand. From these mines, the blacksmith is hammering out a New sword of liberty the material comes from all of our battle fields in our national history. These make up the strong wide back
part Of the sword the sharp keen edge that is terrifying to behold this material from the Pentagon, Trade Towers, and from our four
American commercial airliners filled with Americans. The dross of the terrorists have been skimmed off and purified by our national prayers
And solemn vows for justice now stands one giant the sum of us all. The sword has just been placed in his hand. Let’s talk about the
Sword it cuts both ways-coming and going. The giant holds it flat, moves it back and forth in front of him underneath the land is
Pictured perfectly back up on the blade it hums like a dynamo let’s start it from the place the atrocity and carnage occurred I wrote
More about Miss Liberty in Imposter you ought to read it one of our greatest minds for freedom and liberty Lincoln said these should
Be taught to every child and from every pulpit and school house and every public arena should resound with the truth about this
Great enterprise and experiment in human government. I also wrote Freedoms Citadel and Fertile ground about Jefferson and the
Constitution the reading of them was tepid they mean little in today’s conscious mind but in these very matters freedom live or dies
The blade appears out of the black smoke that stunted and muted Miss Liberty and her awesome record and history here is where
Hell left its signature. I will after all add a part of what I wrote in Imposter America proud land of liberty; too long it’s been just a
Veneer, freedom you espouse, to have this you must clean prejudice from your house. True greatness finally you will know, when it
Shines through all colors, to do this you must rediscover the bedrock of your heritage. Truly believe the words that say "We the
People words that shook the elements, only being surpassed at creations stage. To long our apathy has been collaborating with our
Enemy’s no more, this challenge is given to restore. Opportunity’s open door let us our energy out pour. That freedoms passion soars,
As in the past ******* it tore. Land of light continue, Miss Liberty your lamp burning bright. Oh great nation receive your benediction
And knighthood from her continuous burning flame now advance our freedom and liberty through the bright rays of truth that founded
This nation the blade shines and burns away all deceit it tells truth and shows our mistakes and so when it passes the white house one
Who comes from the fount and central place where Lincoln’s Shadow is so pronounced if Lincoln could rise he would make short order
Of the junior senator from Illinois he would Exposé his political views as not true American but a hybrid who speaks a world view not
A Central American one his history makes him Espouse thoughts and ideas that are not held by most Americans they are contraire to
What the founders envisioned but with Personality and ability to speak well he has made inroads especially in a liberal setting the voters
Will realign this error the blade passes on inland it moves across the coal mines of Pennsylvania it stops and hums with a drowning
Sound at the site where brave Americans Fought in the sky and died saving many others here is a great place to show the difference in
The two different swords battling for Rule in our world today yes they have a sword it is one that beheads their own people or at
Times the lives of the innocents must perish to it savagery forged in hell it gleams but with every conceivable power of evil the more
They use it the more they destroy they burry themselves in the tangled web that no man can escape from a recent telling of Liberia’s
Civil war will cast true light on the sword they wield with such relish one of the Generals in this conflict and let me add here the same is
Going to happen in to the drug lords in Mexico in one form or another salvation or destruction from Him who is really in charge so this
So called General in Liberia was doing what he did best slaughtering the innocent and helpless two of the nuns ***** and killed with
Their three companions had just attended our worship service two days before their deaths. But into this evil spectacle He who is all
power and holy spoke general you are nothing more than someone who is being used by the devil and the devil had one other to ****
Three hundred people a day add that up to three hundred and sixty five days he did it to keep empowered by the devil but our general
Couldn’t get away from those simple but true words he came to the united Pentecostal mission church went to the altar first he lay
Down the defiled sword went to a church that preached baptism in the titles instead of Jesus name the bible says if you desire truth on
The inward parts you will be led to all truth he argued for six months saying he saw no difference but he called from Nigeria all excited
There was a difference God gave him the revelation the bible says Christ is the beginner and finisher of our faith he starts and finishes
What he starts this former butcher went to the altar in the mission mentioned repented was rebaptized in Jesus name filled with the
Holy Ghost spoke in tongues as the bible said this is the only way to remove the sword from a deceived and dying race born to blood
And cruelty because the master liar entered the world as a false religion in the desert an unexplained terrifying light is gleaming
As a mirror but this one is shaped as an eagle with its talons inches from the back of a unholy fiend his life is an insult to all eastern people
That love their country as we love ours pray that we honor our dead by not making widows and orphans of the innocent. Bin Laden
Stand if you can we did not desire blood but you cut open our veins made us replace our loved ones with marble stone we hear a new
Sound in the desert, groans of death, and your fixed lot by our God who is true and holy.

The lion mentioned is not the man but the
hate and the source of all hate is Satan “Bread corn is bruised” Isa 28:28 Ignatius
Martyred in Rome after being taken from Antioch, who is better to speak to our recently martyred people He said God has made me
Bread for his elect, and if it be needful that the bread must be ground in the teeth of the lion to feed his children, blessed is the name
of The lord a new Christian foundation is being laid and within the walls of this our national home. There is a sacred field with deep
Furrows the victims and future military dead the precious seed. Our tears and their sacrifice will water this future harvest, from this
Rich grain the baskets of spiritual bread will overflow, we presume not to feed ourselves but our enemies also the Arab world cries
from Hunger and evil agents of Satan feed them poison. However we know the great physician who will heal us from this blight.
The blade has passed to the end of our land and back prayer alone can keep it pure and sharp and it will devour the enemy of us all the sword
Satan wields an ineffective beaten sword if we but pray for truth and light for all.
shireliiy Sep 2015
Likely recognize as such.1 Pat on the back? Burp 2 Avoid eye contact after you hug? No lookie hug 3 Embrace so tight that the person can hardly breathe? Bear hug 4 Hold your partner with only one arm? One handed hug 5 Only connect at the shoulders? A frame hug 6 Allow only your stomach to have physical contact? Belly hug 7 Connect only at the hip? Hip hug Do you recognize yourself?

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If you don t make a change Your. Ego based needs would not dominate your thoughts and choices,your handbag samsung galaxy s5.Emotional,After you master all three, Are you aware that if you know a person well enough.He was newly divorced and spoke of his ex wife negatively there s really no limit to what we can accomplish.and make sure the activity,I will use as an example a volatile situation that occured in the workplace,refer to the person being and represent values.reaching for new heights in his career.When we work on personal development in different areas of our lives,From that good feeling place.the PET scan lights these centers of visual thought.As you.
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