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THE BOOK A book made of secrets, from the bottom of the lake, the shattered home life, and the top of the Catskills.
If the lined pages Were a prison Then the words Were the prisoners Whose sentences
My mind was not quite right, my thoughts would give me a fright, grabbed me a journal, made the thoughts external, and now I'm feeling alright.
I’ve once read an entry From a journal far far away He wrote about somebody Who could do anything but stay On that paper he wrote
To other people, poetry would just be words that rhyme, but to me, poetry is a diary, a book full of memorie and a novel of my stories it have tales that I had never told to anyone
The ironic thing about my diary is the word "believe" on it's front cover It's detailed in life's hue- green- with flowers and vines creeping over Though it's filled with many dreams It's filled with twice as many screams
Voices, voices every where. Where are you? I'm really scared. I'm shivering all alone. Where are you? Where's my phone?
It's not a special book, like the ones you see on TV, but it's mine and it means a lot to me. It doesn't have sparkles on the cover, like the ones the pretty girls have,
I write in you My mother says it’s childish My innermost thoughts My secrets Locked safely in the tear wrinkled pages of your tattered spirit Burdened with my shameful exploits of debauchery and lust
Crack the code of my spine And read between the lines From pages of the diary that’s written in my eyes Invisible ink in my skin Marks the flesh that seals me in It ties and binds, ties and binds
I know your fears, And sense you tears, I know your dreams, And sense your smile gleam. Although you share with me What others will not see, I am silenced by your brushing hand,
I know your fears, I sense your tears, I know your dreams, And sense your smile gleam. Although you share with me What others will not see, I am silenced by your brushing hand,
Why are you so long away? I wish that we could talk awhile It seems to me we think alike And suffer in our minds like trials
My only friend at this point seems to be a simple journal I write on every night. I will finish my last page today as a goodbye to my existence: Dear Friend,
My pencil was a blade, my eraser was the shield. My inner demons spilled onto the page, no matter what emotion from joy to rage.
He looked at Me today.. He didn't speak but He peeped at Me today.. I caught that little smirk, I still consider him a jerk for the way he portrays himself around school, but its all cool.