A letter to my future selfDear me,Hello my dear I hope you’re well, but I suppose that’s for time to tell.I hope you’ve aged with a beautiful grace, with no wrinkles on your face.I hope your smiling as you read this, I hope you’ve took your time and succeeded.Are you still writing? In your therapeutic way? For I know it keeps your demons at bay.How’s your family, I hope it’s grew, changed a lot from just being you?I know you’ll be more confident than you what you where before, I hope those common things don’t seem such a chore.How’s the view from your window, I bet it’s of the sea. Or somewhere very beautiful where I know you’ll feel so free.I know things are better than they ever were before, I know you’ll be strong through all the things that make you sore.I bet you seen all the sights and more than you ever dreamed, I know things will be so beautiful than they ever seemed.I suppose you’re busy, with you’re happy lif
My dear friendMy dear friend, I know it's been so long.Please forgive me, I was wrong.But I want you back, can we start again?When we're together I forget the pain.I'll let you lead and then I'll follow,I need you back, I feel so hollow.I miss the memories we used to create,Our relationship was truly fate.I hope my dear that you feel the same,Will you be the spark to my flame?I'm sorry that I went away,I miss you more, day by day.But as I write it's clear to see,My dear friend poetry you've came back to me!
One of those nightsIt's one of those nights were my eyes won't close,were tears keep dripping down my nose.It's one of those nights were everything's wrong but I can't explain why,When the light burns out all I'm left to do is cry.It's one of those nights were I panic at the slightest sound,Were under the air I feel like I'm drowned.It's one of those nights were I can't seem to breathe,Were I choke and I heave, I just want to leave.It's one of those nights were I can't stop thinking,I'm slowly falling, I'm drowning, I'm sinking.It's one of those nights were there are no lights in the sky,Were I feel grounded when I just want to fly.It's one of those nights were everything comes back,All the dark thoughts that shroud your mind in black.It's one of those nights were I'm too scared to dream,For once it's ends, I'll wake up, and scream.
The fame gameShy and quiet, is what you are,Yet is see you dreaming to be a star.Basking under that radiant spotlight,Smiling as your lips gently dust the mic.I see you glow as your passion flares,You melt all fears, you have no cares.But tell me now as your growing strong,Never missing a note in each and every song.Was it really necessary to change your name,Will it really gain you fame?They told you that your own wasn't cool or acquitBut your stage name doesn't really seem to fit.The wig and make up are a good gimmickBut for you I don't really think your with itI'll admit I'm happy for you,But as far as personalities go I think you have two.The fame monster seems to be growing insideYou can run but you can't hide.And the fact that your acting like you're hot shitYou're getting there, but you're not quite it.Watch this space.To late I've seen enough.
Can't be savedBound by pain, torn insideWorrying feelings are coming alive.A storm is forming inside my heartI can't breathe, I'm falling apart."Come help me" I scream as I fall from the skyYou reach out to catch me, then wave goodbye.I can hear your laughter ringing in my earsI can hear the demons whispering my fears.I try to call out, in a desperate pleaBut I know you can't save me.I want to go back, to change it allIt's all to late I've started to fall.I never even said farewell,As I fall to the gates of hell.I cursed myself, for that is trueThere's so much more I wish you knew.
The song of the Magpie One for sorrow, two for joy. What once was joyful, is now just sorrow.The bitter taste of today, is stale for tomorrow.A heavy drowse of a now distant past,Faded memories, of passings so fast. Three for a girl, four for a boy. There once was a girl who fell in love,Who had a heart as pure as a soaring dove.She met a boy with a heart of gold,Hard, metallic and awfully cold. Five for silver, six for gold. She was promised silver, diamonds and stones,Yet all she received was brass, ash and bones.She found the gold, in the best of others.Giving love and strength to her sisters and brothers. Seven for a secret never to be told.Lies were formed and secrets keptSerpents whispered while she slept.She let nothing bother her, had struggles a few.Though legend says for joy, you must see two.
I began to writeI began to write a verse filled with spite, filled with anger and utter betrayal.I began to write how I was truly hurt and all the wrongs that had been done to me.I began to write to protest on everything you had done, to shame you, to blame you.But as I began to write I seen that nothing worked, that I had filled the page with a vile and hateful verse.I had seen that what I had began to write was the beginning of a fight, a beginning of a war that would only hurt both sides.So instead if fighting fire with fire, I extinguished the flame, and made a white flag for my soul.I took a step back from my fiery attack.And I began to write this.
Take a walk with me.To the end we shall go, were ever it may be,Take me down the path less travelled, walk me through the sea.The broken glass of crackled hearts, were bare feet may tread,Along side the river of the dammed, the water coloured red.Hollow bones and bullet holes litter the sandy plain,Dried blood is the mark that only death may reign.Yet here we stand in fire and smoke,Drowning in it's gentle choke.One inhale,and off I'll sail.To a valley of eternal bliss.
My WingsMoving on to better things, I'm so happy I found my wingsNo need for tears, no sinking fears.A burning passion comes in roaring fashion.A smile I bear, free without a care.No broken hearts, or scaring marks.I'm moving on to better things, no more rocks upon my wings.
dukkhaPleasure got distracted by stomach pains.
Thy Own PoisonTo willingly ingest the dark poison that has been handed to thee, to allow it to fill thine up and pull thee under, is a fool’s doing, and still no more noble am I for the action than a common thief, he who takes what he wants and bids no thought to those whom he hath stolen from. For it is I who has cast the pain upon the unsuspecting victims, dragged them into the dark lair of the hunter that feeds off of pain, the hunter that hands thee thine own poison for an attempt at redemption. Death or damnation, but is death not thine own damnation in itself? Death can not reverse thy wrongs nor can it bring thee any peace, for thy place in death is none other than the hell I wish to escape while living. His poison I shall drink anyways, for death by thy own willing hand seems better than death by anyone else’s.Yet they will mourn, and cry why shall I in response. Hath thou not felt my nails digging into his back? Hath my venom soaked words not struck deep enough? Do they not fea
if we were all made of paper and the air was goneShe breathes the smoke in and it warms her, just enough so that she can focus on other things, like how her hair hangs limp and tangled around her shoulders, how just the tip of her left pinky toe is starting to poke out of that hole in her sneaker. The bench is stiff and cold under her, and the world surrounding moves in startling color. An old woman clutches a large purple shopping bag. A skinny man in a suit talks loudly at thin air, one hand poised on his left ear. She watches and she inhales, quietly. Smoke curls around her head as she breathes out. It licks at the horizon. The bench rocks and she feels a weight in the air next to her. "I'm going to die of lung cancer, and it'll be all your fault." She smiles around her cigarette in response, but doesn't turn until she has a mouthful of smoke, blowing it out slowly and deliberately, feeling somewhat dragon-like as she does it."You can leave," she says. "If you want." He won't.The boy sitting next to her shrugs
The Haunted HouseI have seen many things in my life. From the happy newlyweds to the aftermath of their divorce. I have seen many come and go, but one thing has remained the same throughout- secrets. As my inhabitants invite others and throw parties, I watch them all. The masks they all wear to the sour truths they keep when they are alone.My windows are my eyes; my walls are my ears and my doors are my hands. I am the overseer, the watcher that only speaks in floor board creaks. The keeper whose scars are shown through cracks on the walls and whose bruises seep through the blood stained rugs.Now I am empty, only occupied by ghosts whose deaths remain a legend. The kids walk by me, daring each other to enter my realm. To them, I have become a horror story and, perhaps, rightfully so.And it seems I am nearing my end as the adults have decided to tear me down- an oracle of wisdom from my many decades of standing tall. They think they have lost their use of me. And thus, I must beware and prepared for
Luba and SashaLuba Praskoviyna Yustineva would never describe herself as a woman of secrets. As a government secretarial clerk she does occasionally come into possession of sensitive documents, but never once has she considered herself a gatekeeper to forbidden knowledge like her counterparts in the Ministry of Intelligence or other such high-stakes offices. She has seen few ministerial assistants and even fewer real ministers, and those have always been by chance; she's really more like a railway switchyard than a border crossing, directing and redirecting traffic from ports unknown to destinations unvisited. The work may be dull, but it is straightforward, and given that she's barely 27 and making triple the minimum wage working 9-to-5, five days a week, her life is, by all accounts, comfortable, and by national security reckoning, reassuringly average.Lounging in her living room armchair she is struggling to finish the last pages of the chapter to her current read while the national news
SummerSummer was homemade lemonade and picnics in the gloaming. Summer was watching the sunset to the music of cicadas. Summer was watching the symphony of fireflies after the sun had fully departed the sky, a million tiny lights floating all around, vanishing only to reappear a moment later.And yet, summer had been none of these things before this moment. But now, summer could only be these things. Forever after, no matter how old I grew, summer would be those things.I spent so much of my life on a ship; summer had always been when we landed somewhere hot. But now, summer was this. I’d probably never have another summer that looked like this. The odds that we would be around again on the right summer day for this to happen ever again were unlikely.It made me a little sad, but at the same time, it made this moment more precious than it could otherwise have been.His hand covered mine. I couldn’t look at him, the moment was too beautiful.“Well, isn’t this as fantas
Der KrueppelIm Folgenden, möchte ich euch meine Geschichte erzählen. Es ist ein bisschen kompliziert, sie euch verständlich zu machen – und ihr werdet auch bald verstehen warum – jedoch will ich mein Bestes geben.Vorab gilt zu erläutern, dass ich ein Krüppel bin. So zumindest, nennt mich die Menschheit. Mein Geist sei ebenso entstellt wie mein Körper, wurde mir immer wieder während meines Lebens gepredigt. So könnt ihr euch nun hoffentlich ein Bild von mir machen.Faszinierenderweise ist nicht jedem Menschen klar, was das für einen Krüppel bedeutet, als solcher bezeichnet und behandelt zu werden. Denn der Krüppel kennt nur eben dieses Dasein und kein anderes, für ihn ist alles, was er sagt und tut völlig selbstverständlich. Jede Bewegung, jedes Wort gebietet ihm sein Geist und Körper, ebenso wie es das bei einem Menschen tut. Für ihn ist es daher äußerst befremdlich als etwas völlig Unnormal
Perhaps I Dreamed itShe stepped into the chilly night and sat beside right there, beside the door. As she lit her cigarette, her face blossomed in the glow of the lighter. For a singular and consequential moment, I saw the blue and vast emptiness of her eyes before the darkness took her again. She had no awareness of my existence, feet away from her, crouched and breathless in her bushes. Although I—a complete stranger—sat there and watched her, I felt as though she was the one trespassing on my sanctuary. I did not call out to her. I made no attempt to warn her of my presence, told myself that it would only upset her, that her trembling hands and quick, short breaths could not take the shock. I know now that it was those beautiful and frighteningly void eyes that had stopped me. My curiosity has always been stronger than my courtesy.I watched her, and she sat, still in the darkness except for the occasional drag from her cigarette. Halfway through her smoke, she began to cry—great, sil
To Be Immortal...I am a female of the human race.And I will be forgotten.I was created to live, reproduce,die and be forgotten. Nothingmore, nothing less. My writtenwords will turn to dust, mymemories will fade.I am my thoughts, my knowledge,my looks, my sound, my smelland my feelings. That is all.Nothing more, nothing less. Mybody will turn to dust, and the restwill fade.I will be sad, happy, angry,relieved and scared. I do notknow when, but I will feel them.And that is all. Nothing more,nothing less. My home will turn todust, and from it all my feelingswill fade.So if I hid myself from sight andstopped feeling, talking, thinkingand knowing. Would Idissappear? Yes, I would benothing. And nothing can notdissapear or die.I am a female of the human race,and I will be immortal.
The irony of the colour redI find it strange how the colour red can symbolise;Hurt HatedSufferingBloodPainAngerLiving hellBut it's can also symbolise love.