MyVoice
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My hands use to tremble when you neared
A frightened animal backed into a corner
A corner that starts to trace the outline of my shadow
Lips burning, slowly stinging
Bite and let go
Maybe the pain will slowly abate
Soon a red outline forms
Like a lipliner drawn too thick
Too coarse, too painful
Every chapstick I used
The wind will blow away my sin
Copper devils wait in the tall grass
I walk on doves feet across the clouds
Fallow my feelings little fish
Sing about rain
I sometimes wish I was a monster
Screaming bloody murder, but no one can hear the cries
Cannot hold on forever, can hardly put up a fight
Locked inside a cold room, lying on the hard floor
Beaten in the gloom, here be he prisoners of war
Don't be a brat! BAM BAM Stop being stupid! BAM BAM You need to learn! BAM BAM Don't fucking talk to me!
Hearing the screaming and shouting in my house,
I don't know what to do but grip my blouse.
I used to think "This is where it all ends",
But I looked past that and started to ascend.
Sir no sir.
Please leave me alone sir.
Let me sleep sir..
This isn't rite please don't touch me....
I'm only 11; you're 50..
Sick heart, dripping with gasoline,
fueled by the cigarettes thrown like darts
the whip’s bullseye that tore her apart,
innocent and caged, helpless to cleanse itself,
gives in to the rage,
I write to write
To throw my words against a wall
And have them bounce back
Through the ears of you all
First day of high-school and you are roaming the halls
There is no one around, no one to call.
You hear the popular girls laughing at you to your right
But you don't even care, they dont even bite.
I never have a free weekend to party or have fun
I work in the fields and don't stop until the day is done
From six in the morning till seven at night
My pen tends to be my best friend because it does what I say
No matter what, no need to portray something fake and write what I didn't.
Get it?
My hand writes faster than 20 hummingbirds so watch closely
I started writing music when I was eleven.
First thing I wrote about,was the man up in heaven.
I never told anybody i was a writer,
I always thought somebody was going to hit me with the three striker.
I am a writer,
poetry is my soul:
I am a writer,
poetry came to me on its own.
I am a DREAMer,
my writing is my voice;
I am a DREAMer,
poetry runs my thoughts.
I sat upon a hill and looked out at the wide expanse before me,
Rich green grass covered the earth beneath me, and an honest
Blue sky stretched out endlessly
People walked, and ran, and laughed, and spoke, and sang
