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  There's this place I go to This cave My sacred space Once I pass the entrance I kick off the hard day's tiredness off my feet Unbuckle the rules that almost make me feel inhuman   Tightening my waist I can hardly breathe I unzip society's expect
  What does poetry mean to me? It means being able to express my self freely. I am a poet Because I wrote it. It wasn't a choice. It was just my inner voice. Let the words flow free from within.
You knew what you were doing when you picked me You knew what was going to happen that night You knew I was the one when I climbed down that tree Little did I know I was in for a fright  
There are times when words can’t express emotions. Times where the human vocabulary is incapable of deciphering the intensity of what goes on in the mind.
I spoke with painful memory that each word wasn’t clear to those around me. Each time the words went to sound they danced upon the waves as noise.  
I do it to let out my emotions I was broken and lost I wrote words on a tear stained page They had a hidden meaning They told of the hurt I had been through It was my way to cope to express my self
As the storm came upon the sea, The sea rising in acrimony while the waves steadily matured, The nauseated fishermen threw themselves over the gunwale, Trying to keep their equity and conscious.  
Anorexia   The only love she ever knew Was the kind that left her body torn in two The kind that left tears in her eyes And stitches on her skin     The only touch she allowed herself
Stanzas in a notebook. My mother’s way of expressing emotion. This is one of the things I’ve inherited, a written way to show my devotion.   I can find notebooks full of poems in my mother’s room.
We are one Me and poetry are one Like my heart beating in my chest, Catching every BA-bum-BA-bum We are one Like my lungs catching every breath
Upon thee arrival of opening heated pearly gates, Patiently I waited for another chance to make a cool escape. The shadows and a violet pen provided me with a plain face,
There's something deep about this love. Deep goes the love that flows from our Father's heart. How far does it go? We don't know, but yet we do know. Because a man died and rose from the grave.
There she is, Looking in the mirror, Practicing her smile for school again.   She walks through the halls, Pretending that everything is fine, When she really feels,
Bottled in with nowhere to go. Feelings mixed, and time’s going slow. My Friends were divided, But my Bullies got excited.  
She draws with graphite and charcol and pens I draw with my words that is all I know and have ever known.  My grandma teaches me with paints on her lap I was a "messy painter," not a
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