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Last Updated: 4/30/13
My Poems are ScarsWhat is the point of poetry?
It only creates a record
Of things I would rather forget.
So why do I even write it?
Why do I document despair
To dwell on it later
And relive those memories
That should be old scars?
Is it because I cant remember
Without some trigger
And some masochistic part of me
Cannot let go of my past?
My poems are what I have left
Of that place I once called home.
But why do I read them
When Im so much happier here?
ReleasedI was chained tightly up
In my own bitter thoughts
Of endless pain and misery
Dreams filled with death
You released me
In your arms I fall
And forget myself again
Bitter thoughts disappear
When you gently hold me
My heart will be
Yours to carry for
As it'll wither away
By the day you are gone
I never felt this real
You made me whole forevermore
Why not give up?What do you say when life's in your way?
What do you do when you a'int got a clue?
Where do you go when you'er lost and alone?
What do care when when you a'int got a home?
Who do you love when no one loves you?
Why go on with nothing for you?
Why not sit and give up?
Why not just throw up you hands and say well fuck?
Why not end you'er life and leave all it behind?
Well my sweet darling heres the reason why.
You never know when you will meet a new friend.
You never know who will give you a clue.
You never can tell who will light your way out of hell.
You never know when a home will resurface again.
And you never know who will bring love to you.
And for all these reasons and many more, we need you here on life's sweet shore.
Help me, God.Come one, come all,
Come willingly to service.
Come embrace the lengthy arms
Of our loving God.
So he came, he served,
And he put forth all his faith,
And he took the wine and bread,
And sung to God.
And he prayed every night,
And forgiven of his sins,
He prayed for protection,
From his God.
And he prayed, and he sung,
As domestic life turned rough,
And he wondered, in his strife,
Tis the will of God.?
No older than fourteen,
Shattered were his dreams,
When he ran onto the streets,
Hoping to God.
He took relief in poison,
And he prayed for his forgiveness,
Or for any chance of saviour,
From his God.
Alone he was in prayer,
Cold, Hungry, in despair,
In rough territory, no repair,
He questioned God.
And so, on the streets alone,
With his poison, overthrown,
In the clutches of the cold,
He screamed to God.
Come and feel the torture,
Of a kid living on the streets,
Dying on the streets,
I cut myself and watch it bleed,
I feel the rush inside of me,
I don't cause I'm stupid, or I'm ignored,
I do it because I'm kinda bored,
Running down, the bloods so great,
How did I ever get to this state?
I know its wrong, that I should fight,
then why the hell does it feel so right?
Why can't I stop, how can this be,
that I cut myself were no one can see,
no cries for help, don't want to be found,
but walking around my blood stains the ground,
I need help, I know I do,
I hidwe in the dark, won't come through,
And so, unfinished this poem shall go,
because, what happens next you never shall know.
Her CatalystAs she walks through the maelstrom, the words trace upon the tips of her fingers and press into the stone. Every brick, every crack in the concrete, every crossed and angular stroke in reds and blacks and oranges. The drips of the gasoline pool around the base of her boots, slosh as she steps over the burst pipes and the rubble.
So much rubble. So little outcry. The silence of the city grates on her eardrums and the mantras she'd been forced to memorize. The Seers demanded they observe thirteen years of recitation before they attempt to weave their first World together.
But who other than the Seers can claim the incantations that knot the skeins they twist and pull on like reins hold fast? When have any of the Sisters recorded the visions they traced upon space-time and recited them, left them open for critique and discussion and debate?
Which is why she walks through the chalky soot of the smashed city around her. This all
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