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I wanted to sing.
But the world doesn't let me.
I was born mute so I couldn't sing.
I think the world hates me.

I wanted to dance.
But the world really hate me.
I don't really much remember what happened since I was little.
But I do remember when they removed my knee.

I want to draw.
I still have both of my hands with me.
But the world really wants me to never do anything I wanted.
The world ******* me up when I suddenly couldn't see.

Even so I really can't do much anything right now,
I still can use my mouth and speak freely.
But then the world really, REALLY hates me to the core.
Just as I thought, it took my voice away from me.

I am blind, deaf, mute, and I can't even move myself.
Just what did I do to the world that it had almost cursed me?!
I'm done! I'm done! Just end my life if you hate me that much!
Just end my life... and put an end to my misery...

Im begging you...
I think it is better for me to become a doll instead rather than being a human. Dolls had a purpose why they are being made - to be played be children. Me? I don't have a purpose.

PS: The above statement is just a part of the poem itself. Kinda like an intro. Hehe. Seriously. (-___-)
Every person on the Simpsons is sick and they will die.
They're suffering from Jaundice, that's the reason why.
Every fan of the Simpsons will have to nurse a broken heart.
They can say goodbye to Homer, Marge, Maggie, Lisa and Bart.
I'm the bearer of bad news but I'm not trying to be mean.
The people of Springfield have the worst cases of Jaundice that has ever been seen.
I give all of them just six months to live, nine months at the most.
They will die from Jaundice, that's what the doctors have diagnosed.
People will be happy to be rid of Sideshow Bob and MR. Burns as well.
Because of the strangelings Bart has received, Homer will go to Hell.
Everybody in Springfield is very upset because they're going to die.
After being on TV for over 30 years, they can kiss their butts goodbye.
This poem was inspired by 'The Simpsons' TV Show.
She never wanted to be a Mom,
and now her life is nothing but wrong;
What will she tell everyone she knows,
maybe she'll wait until she shows?
The Fetus who slumbers in her Womb,
one day will be running out of room;
She must Abort this one in her,
for shame she simply can't endure.
She makes an appointment at the clinic,
know one must know, no one must see;
She arrives the next day, still so unaware,
that her Fetus is growing, lots of hair.
They lay her on a Hospital bed,
where soon the Fetus will be dead;
The Doctor inserts a clear, long tube,
where it wreaks havoc, within the Womb.
The baby moves away from it,
it feels like she has just been bit;
Upon her face, there is a scowl,
it's much too late to turn back now.
The hose clamps on to her very, small hand,
the Fetus can't cope, nor understand;
It pulls the hand right off the arm,
yet Mother thinks she did no harm.
Next it grabs onto her hip,
and her tiny leg begins to rip;
Emersed in pain, she pulls away,
she'll not live to see another day.
At last it latches onto her head,
the heartbeat stops, this child is dead;
She smiles, her reputation intact,
a conscience is one thing she lacks.
I watched a video on a live abortion.  It had such a sorrowful impact on me.  My prayer is that these words, while graphic, may save but one baby's life.
She walks to grade school,
sack lunch in her hand;
Dressed in old, tattered clothes,
that a Flea Market had.
She hangs her head low,
don't want them to see;
The bruise 'neath her eye,
which is now blue and green.
Her shoes do not fit,
they're too large for her feet;
So she stumbles along,
then falls to her feet.
Since her lunch yesterday,
she's had nothing to eat;
She sheds a small tear,
which runs down her cheek.
Children pass by her,
they point as they laugh;
And under her breath,
she lets out a gasp.
She despises those bullies,
for the things that they do;
So she quickly runs home,
grabs a gun from Dad's room.
She rushes to school,
she'll make them all pay;
So she guns down nine children,
uncontained is her rage.
A teacher subdues her,
wrestles her to the ground;
Her killing spree's over,
yet she makes not a sound.
Nine children lay dead,
everyone is in shock;
They all learned a lesson,
No one's to be mocked!
 Aug 2018 Robert Carroll Spear
I heard a man today claim
that life is like bubbles caught in the rain
any day now ours will fade
and leave behind whatever remains

It rained in Toronto today
rained on pavement and on road
rained on garbage and on stone
rained on children and of old

Umbrella's of yellow and green
shelter the schools from hurricanes obscene
a little tear from sharpened sleeve
will open up a wound to heal

Stacked on boxes of holes inside holes
an echo chamber with no place to go
cast away boat alone on the shore
will open up all new kinds of pores

And when it rains, it rains hard
all the umbrella's been scared by a shard
the boxes are all now to discard
if only there were a bubble like heart
The rain has plenty of mercy
it washes mud away from the cold

The rain has plenty of mercy
it reveals the garbage painted in gold
Can someone please stop me from pouring,
out, and out
I'm afraid I might be emptied soon from crying out,
loud, so loud

Please let me find some peace of mind,
self, myself
Let me put this thing off, put it on the furthest,
shelf, rusted shelf

I'm so tired, so worn out,
letting, always letting
My veins are bruised from all of it,
fretting, all the fretting

Aren't you fed yet?
from the blood, so much blood
It starts to become one with
the mud, grey thick mud

I'm fed up with your decency,
irony, oh the irony
Full and fat of life's endless travesty
tragedy, it's a tragedy

Let me out of lying honesty,
don't talk to me, don't talk
I'm sick and tired of this car,
I rather walk, I will walk

I'll get somewhere eventually,
probably, mh, surely
Or maybe I'll get hit by one again on my way there,
pleasant thought, purely
The sun sets on the little huts
Made of mud and roofs thatched
The African child
With smiles on his face
He hasn't a cause to worry
Running to and fro in the scorching sun
Lost in the midst of tall trees
Humming to the gentle breeze
He is a happy child

He is oblivious of the hard truth
That a sad future awaits him
Full of challenges and misery
Little does he know
Those smiles he once had
Widely drawn on his face
May dissolve into frowns of anguish

Committing neither an offence nor crime
There may come a time
The beautiful fantasies
The hopes, dreams and aspirations
Everything he once believed in
May come tumbling down

Nevertheless, he is relentless
There is a ray of hope
In this utter darkness
Full of vigour and energy
By might or magic
He will fight his way through
He is the African child.
Telling the tale of the underprivileged Africa child through poetry; from personal experience and encounters.
I got tired of being called a hillbilly from the sticks.
So I built a time machine and traveled back to 1776.
I intended to see the signing of the Declaration of Independence.
This was a fantastic historical moment that needed my attendance.
But my time machine landed on Thomas Jefferson before the document was written.
The document wouldn't exist that gave America independence from Great Britain.
I accidentally squashed Thomas Jefferson so it was left up to me.
I wrote the Declaration of independence so the USA could be free.
You may have noticed a few changes that I made.
One of which is that it's mandatory for me to get laid.
I proved that I'm not a hick who is slow.
I wrote the Declaration of Independence nearly two and a half centuries ago.
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