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Dear life, The .9mm Beretta seemed to fit in my hand As if it were a natural phenomena And not something created by man
Once upon a time, There was a little chicken, Who thought life was sublime, Till with fear he was stricken He asked his mother, “Where are you going?” “Why are you leaving?”
I’m tearing my heart out on both sides Where hurt, depression, and love hides Making sure it’s null on the insides And filling the feelings with whispered lies. I’m squeezing my brain until it bleeds
I stand in a crowd full of people and there is not one person who stands out to me There's not one black dot on this white peice of paper, and why do you suppose that is?
You wanna know who my best friend is? That's right, its this empty hallway. Why? Because this empty hallway isn't infected with the black plague. You know, that nasty cancer that spreads throughout each and
Who is to say what a win or a loss is? I believe the magnitude of the win should be measured like beauty Only in the eye of the beholder, should it be judged.
Individuality is a rarity We live in a world of carbon copies Of mass productions A world where uniqueness is taken for granted And similiraty is highly evident
Every great thing has a small beginning A great forest from a small acorn A field of wheat from a handful of seeds Without the former we cannot have the latter. It applies to trees
When I look around I see conformity. We try to be the same to maintain a sense of normalcy but it just constricts our voices. The world is closing in around us,
if you never stop questioning what you're toldwhat you're shownwhat you're guaranteedwhat you're spoon-fed by the hand ofstingyswinishshrewd and slybusinessmenwell that's half the battle.
I write for the people who can't write. The ones who don't have pens and pencils to write with, the ones who can't read, or the ones who have no arms. I'm not picky. I write for them, because if I don't, nobody will
The reason is simple. It’s not black and white. My pen is drawn to paper with ease For once, my mind is free. Words flow to and fro. I write for emotion. My feelings run with every thought.
Words that are for the wisdom we choose to seek Predators circle its prey until its last breath Dictators watch as it its it solemn flesh Stuck in one’s mind of the already decided
There’s a lot that could have been avoided A lot that could have been taken care of But wasn’t There’s much that could have turned out different Everything in fact
Poetry is more than just words. Poetry is Dimensional.. It lets you taste my nouns and swallow my verbs. With poetry you can take a step in my shoes. Experience my pain or my heartache. My trials and my tribulations. Why I do the things I do.
When you feel too much to speakJust close your eyes and dreamOf a place you feel strong and freeThat is what poetry is to me When no one understandsPick up a paper and a penWrite all your troubled thoughts upon herePoetry has been my lending ear A
For too long this grudge has taken hold. A clear contagion and there's a man overboard. I see hate, I see pain, and disdain. Society sees you as a worn out bloodstain.