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Daddy, please don't touch me.
It doesn't feel good.
It makes me feel..
Naughty.

Daddy, please don't hit me.
I didn't mean to disappoint you.
When you hit me, it makes me feel...
Bad.

Daddy, please don't hurt her.
Mommy didn't do anything.
When you hit her, it makes me feel..
Mad.

Daddy, please don't say you love me.
I know you're lying.
When you say you still want me, it makes me feel...
Sad.

Daddy, please stop screaming at her.
You already killed her.
When you scream at her, it makes me feel..
Angry.

Daddy, stay there.
Let me sink the knife into your throat.
When you bleed, it makes me feel..
Alive.

Daddy, aren't you happy now?
As you lie there, lifeless.
I'm only following your footsteps.
This makes me feel...
Happy.

Daddy, please listen.
I know you can't hear me, but...
I still love you.

The same way you always loved me.

And it makes me feel...

Good, Daddy.
It makes me feel..
Good.
I don't really like this one. But I decided to post it since it's one of my poems that ISN'T about labels or stereotypes =P
Comments and critiques?
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The face at the door is a demon, a god
He smiles through stitches, his stare rather odd
The face at the door is a cruel, silent being
Yet, people are calm, and the children aren't fleeing
Quiet yourself, for you're the only one
Crying for help at the point of a gun
Learn how to fly, rather, learn how to fall,
The face at the door... well... there's no face at all.
About a hallucination I had.
Thanks for reading... comments and critiques? <3
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Little red house on the corner left to fade
Tire swing swaying above a sparkling blade
Silver gown, just for the hour
Starts out sweet then you taste the sour
A little girl's heart doesn't last for long
When a little girl gone right goes horribly wrong
One little fall means blood on the breeze
Little red house with a ghost to please.
Thank you :iconrunswithbooks: for the last two lines :) Check out my facebook to end my poems!! [link]
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"I'm fine" is a dirty lie.

The truth is that I want to die.

 

"I'm tired" is not even done.

It really means "I'm tired of being no one"

 

"I'm better" is but a curse.

The truth is that I've never been worse

 

"I'm just cold" is what I say

so my sleeves can hide my scars away.

 

"I already ate" is said with a frown.

I starve to see the numbers on the scale go down.

 

"I'm okay" is probably the worst.

It really means I'm about to burst.

 

All these things are lies to me.

But you take this as the truth because what else would I be?

 

 

Well... this is another poem for my feels about depression, self harm, etc. I know that there are many poems and drawings on DA to support people with depression and bring awareness, and mine will not help, but i just feel so strongly about it since ive had a friend confess his depression to me. so heres another one :) to all those peopel struggling out there, you are not alone and i think your awesome <3
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Oh, so you're not thin?

Tell me how you're ugly.

Oh, so your hair doesn't look good everyday?

Tell me whose does.

Oh, so you make mistakes?

Tell me who doesn't.

Oh, so you're not a model?

Tell me what the definition of beauty is.

Oh, so you aren't normal?

Tell me what "normal" is.

Oh, so you aren't good enough?

Tell me why.

You can't.

Because there isn't a standard you need to reach to be yourself.

 

 

this is another inspirational poem thing for my feels about bullying, helf harm, depression, etc. It was kind of sparked bny my friend and his confession of his feelings. I want to spread the word around that it is a bigger problem that you may think. People actually this about themselves and others take it as something attention-whores do. People actually think of themselves as worthless and it breaks my heart </3 so any support would be great. it could save someone :)
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You can't tell me
that my writing is wrong.
It might be for you
But for me it will live, forever strong
 
You can't tell me
that my words are not right.
They might not be prefect
But I'll still put up a fight
 
You can't tell me
my rhymes are too mix-matched.
Its just because they are not yours
To me they do not lack
 
You can't tell me
I did not try my best.
Who are you to evaluate?
Its not like its a test
 
You can't tell me
that I didn't follow a rule.
Creativity has no list
I think you are a fool
 
You can't tell me
that I didn't emote at all.
How can you tell me what I feel?
Its not like I'm a doll
 
You cant tell me
everything that I should.
How can you think you know everything?
And think you know whats "good"?
 
 
well my LA teacher is kinda pissing me off at the moment. nothing i ever write for her is right.
you have to follow her rules EXACTLY and u get a good mark. all the mainstream kids get by but creativity is almost completely ignored, and i think thats what poetry is all about. being creative with words, being emtotional, being true and yourself. and i get punished for this with grades that i do not deserve. Of course, yes maybe im over reacting, and yes teachers are there to do their job but i feel just so frusterated >:[ so to you now, oh great and powerful LA teacher, i bid you thanks for inspiration. sorry if this rubs people the wrong way but GAHHHHHHHHH
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Tired, Exhausted, Drained:

I am bloody exhausted! Drained to the core of my soul.

I wake up every morning with bags; burning ever deeper into my eyes.

Sunken masses of flesh, reminding me that the dreamscape -

One in which I sought refuge; is now buried where it lies.

Yet still I force myself to trudge through this wilderness.

Forever caught in a moon drenched, delusory twilight.

An endless cycle of failure and renewed hope;

Giving rise to the very stubbornness that defines me.


-Chen Yuan Wen, 5th February 2013
Alright mates,

Me journey ended officially yesterday, but now it's time to bring on the FIRE. This is my latest work ^^ It's a shot-glass poem, a style which I developed to cater to people who don't want to spend ages reading long works but still want to get the emotional feeling. It's the middle ground between haiku's and the longer pieces that I'm used to writing.

This one is particular is from my upcoming book '50 Little Glasses'. I hope you'll all look forward to it, it's going to be a neat little poetry e-book that you can buy for a reasonable price (and no you won't need an e-reader to read it)

The concept behind this poem is simple: We're all tired and exhausted after going through each day. Sometimes you just want to give in. Some people have fantastic reasons for not giving in, but me personally; I'm just a stubborn bastard.

-Captain Chen of the Black Fedora Pirates :iconwordofchen:

If you like my work and want to support me. Come buy my e-book for $1.99. I promise an epic fantasy you won't forget:



Want to stalk me? Here are some cool links:

My Facebook Page: [link]
Youtube Channel: [link]
My Gallery: [link]

Want to sell your soul to me? Join up with my pirate crew:

:iconblack-fedora-pirates:
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The Flower of Evil:

Evil is but a blooming flower,
Alluring, captivating.
It is born from a humble seed
And grows to corrupt a forest.

To watch its infection spread;
To be a part of its existence...
I can think of no better prospect,
Can you?

Indeed one might baulk at the idea,
Of seeing millions suffer.
To watch worlds scream and writhe;
To see them suffer and die, with living eyes...

Yet there is a mysterious beauty in such devastation,
Fear that shakes me to my very core;
Is transfigured into a twisted pleasure:
As I am frightened, so too am I aroused.

I am addicted to the ephemeral sensation;
To the borderline between rapture and rupture.
To see my own blood soaking from splitting wounds;
Leaves me maddened amongst these blooming flowers

-Chen Yuan Wen, 1st May 2013
Alright, so as always the Captain is extremely busy, but with quite a lot of pestering, and some snacks, I managed to squeeze this poem out of him. I find it to be quite chilling, and excellently written, and I hope you all agree!

Also, when he sent me this he made a comment; "1st of May is Madness Day"

I'm not sure what this means, so I hope you guys could explain? xD

-Co-Captain Bunny Hayes
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These Words Aren't Pretty:

My verses are ugly and I admit to the fact
I can't use pretty language when I'm working with rap
Because the things that I write, are just the things that I feel
I ain't an Edgar Allan Poe or a Danielle Steel

And I'll be honest with you, I've got an envy inside
Because some poets got a flow that's as smooth as the tide
I read some stuff that they write, it's just so dope I ignite
Burning shame and my anger at the beautiful sight

And like birds of a feather, they're flocking together
These poets are the Gods and I'm nailed by the weather
But as the rain pours down, lightning resound;
I try to write pretty words but my lips remain bound

So deeply silenced by fear - the darkness I hear,
Afraid to be unloved by the ones I hold dear
I've hit the limit of time; my lyrical crime
These words that I've lived are just turning to grime.

So I wish I had their talent; just a sliver of that
If their skill was a mountain then I've broken my back
It's like the city of Gotham, where my poetry bleeds
I'm just the poet they've got, but not the one they need...


-Chen Yuan Wen, 21st January 2013
Aye maties,

After a long break, I be back. Honestly the recent stress has left me unable to write and during those days I'd see all the other poets writing beautiful things and I'd feel envious.

I tried to imitate it and failed, but that's when I realised that I should do what I'm good at, because the difference in my style is what makes it unique. In addition to being a horror and fantasy poet, I am (probably more than anything) an urban poet.

What I write is what is real and the streets will always be a part of me and my work. Thankfully though, I don't walk them with a cigarette in my mouth anymore.

-Captain Chen of the Black Fedora Pirates :iconwordofchen:

If you like my work and want to support me. Come buy my e-book for $1.99. I promise an epic fantasy you won't forget:



Want to stalk me? Here are some cool links:

My Facebook Page: [link]
Youtube Channel: [link]
My Gallery: [link]

Want to sell your soul to me? Join up with my pirate crew:

:iconblack-fedora-pirates:
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My mind
just can't
seem to

s h u t   u p.

Too many "fuck you's"
that morph into
"I'm sorry's"
drip off this
dagger-tongue
like acid.

Monster.
Grotesque.
Liar.
Erratic.

Try and make it better. Fail. Try again. Break down.

So many faults
that seem to just
turn me into someone
I'm not.

Look into the mirror. See nothing but a clone. Fabrication. No longer me.

I stare and want
to break that glass
so that I can also
b r e a k.

Try and say something. Turns into nothing but rage. Take it out on you.

This shattered heart
only wants to make it
better
and become one again.

"I want to hate you."
"But I can't."
"So I hate me instead."
"But why won't this stop?"
"Why can't you make it stop?"


Stop.

Breathe.

Think.

"...it's not my fault."

Say what you want to say. Honest brutality.

"H E L P   M E"

No.

It's time for me to

s h u t   u p.

—whisper—



...I'm sorry.
...I'm sorry.
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Her ink-stained lips have kissed too many a forgotten page,

                    [dragon's blood
                                  and phoenix down]


And her Prince Charming has yet to come,

                    [glass slippers
                                   shattering like stars]


So all she can do is gaze out her tower window,

                    [enchanted forests
                                   concealing poisoned apples]


Clutch that corroded and timeworn blade,

                    [cursed beasts
                                   tearing down castle walls]


Toss her childhood fables to the waltzing of the moon,

                    [even broken wings
                                   wish for happily ever afters]


And fly.

                    [once upon a time
                                   there was a girl who became her own hero.]
Just a random ditty that popped in my head.

I quite like how it turned out.

Maybe someday I'll get the courage to be my own hero, too.

Wouldn't it be grand if fairytales could happen like this?

Edit: ...front page for this dumb thing? Thank you very much, but...I don't understand why.
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I've got ink throbbing through fissured veins,
poisoning every atom of my soul.

"Bite your tongue," they say.

How I'd love to chew the damn thing off
and suck down every filthy syllable
just like the rotten bone marrow it is.

They'd all watch as my body spontaneously combusts
and becomes nothing but convoluted karma.

And so I wrote,

"Dear poetry,
Teach me the ways of ripping out a human heart,
and stitching it onto ink-stained parchment."

The answer that came was rasped from a cauterized throat:

"Read your future in the collapsed palm of the stars;
find the abandoned pulse of your lionhearted muse;
steal their conformed scalpel and make it your own."
This is a bit different than what I normally write.

I just want to say that it is dedicated to someone I admire very much here on dA for her always morbid, raw, fascinating, and completely inspiring poetry: *DearPoetry. If you've not come across her works yet, I highly suggest you check them out. They are absolutely worth it.

Kayla has taught me many a lesson when it comes to writing--and not just with poetry. Just write what's in your heart and never give up, no matter what may happen along the way. Screw what others tell you. Writing is literally one of the best therapies I have ever encountered. It's like open heart surgery, to me: it can do some very powerful things, be it positive or negative. However, there's a damn good percentage it will be for the better.

I just wanted to give her a little something to thank her for everything she's done for me, even if she doesn't know me at all and doesn't realize how much she inspires me to keep writing.

Edit: *flails* This made the front page. Why? The only reason it did was because I spammed groups with it, isn't it? I'm grateful for everyone's support, but I never understand when unworthy works like mine occasionally get the honor of making the front page...
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Hey.
We're your friends
And we know you have asthma
And we think it's time you got over it.

Hey.
Your cerebral palsy is stupid
Why don't you just suck it up
Other people have it worse than you.

Hey.
You don't really have HIV
You just think you do
If you stop thinking about it, it'll go away.

Hey.
We've been talking about it
And we think that you're faking your cancer
Stop trying to get attention.

Oh
I'm sorry
You can't do any of that?
Then stop telling me to do the same about my depression.
"You can't reason yourself back into cheerfulness any more than you can reason yourself into an extra six inches in height" - Stephen Fry

I am sick. So sick of people treating Depression like it isn't a serious issue. "You're lying", "You're faking", "You're just trying to get attention", "Stop being so whiny", "Instead of being sad all the time, just be happy!"

If depression was so easy to fix, I wouldn't have had to put up with it for over ten years, I wouldn't have had to see three different therapists in the last four years, and I wouldn't have eight suicide attempts.

There IS no easy cure to depression. Believe me, I sure wish there was.
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I wish
One day, the past will leave me be.
Crawl back into the shadows
Release its hold on me.

I wish
One day, I can hold my head up high.
Ignoring the cruel remarks
That make me want to curl up and cry.

I wish
One day, the pain will fade.
The constant ache in both heart and body
So I won't always be afraid.

I wish
One day, everybody can get along.
Mom and Dad won't fight anymore
And everyone can feel like they belong.

I wish
One day, I won't want to die.
But there's so much suffering
Why should I even try?

But most of all
I wish for a friend
Someone who is caring.
Someone who is loyal.
Someone who is kind.

I wish
One day, I will have a friend.
Someone whom I can trust
Someone who won't pretend.
I may have promised myself a week off from writing after Camp NaNoWriMo ended, but poems don't count since it's not related to my novel! Right?

Okay fine, I'm just bad at keeping my promises. Especially to myself.

Also, BONUS line to anyone who's actually reading this part. This idea for the last line came up when I was writing it. Made me laugh. Tack it on if you want =P :

"I wish I had a dog."
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Crashes, crashes
Fire and ashes
Burning all that touch the heat

Scattered, scattered
The armies are shattered
Your protectors flee in defeat

The skies are black
Friends fall to thunder-cracks
You run away so frightened

The death bells toll
You cry and fold
As the noose tightened

Then your eyes turn wide
Why should you hide?
You are no longer screaming

The skies are blue
You see the world anew
As you're sleeping and dreaming
So, was it all just a dream? Or have you fallen into the endless sleep? You decide!

Friend of mine wrote part of this poem, I decided to pick it up and finish it!
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Send your secret to DeviantArtSecret@gmail.com

You are invited to anonymously contribute your secrets to DeviantArtSecret.

Each secret can be a regret, hope, funny experience, unseen kindness, fantasy, belief, fear, betrayal, erotic desire, feeling, confession or childhood humiliation.

Reveal anything – as long as it is true and you have never shared it with anyone before.

For help or assistance, visit the INTERNATIONAL SUICIDE PREVENTION WIKI.

Before you send your secrets in, please read the GROUP RULES.

For a list of stock accounts, please read the shout-board on our main page.
For more information on the group, please read our journals.



Send your secret to DeviantArtSecret@gmail.com


Submitted by - DAS Helper 3
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Send your secret to DeviantArtSecret@gmail.com

You are invited to anonymously contribute your secrets to DeviantArtSecret.

Each secret can be a regret, hope, funny experience, unseen kindness, fantasy, belief, fear, betrayal, erotic desire, feeling, confession or childhood humiliation.
Reveal anything – as long as it is true and you have never shared it with anyone before.

For help or assistance, visit the INTERNATIONAL SUICIDE PREVENTION WIKI.

Before you send your secrets in, please read the GROUP RULES.

For a list of stock accounts, please read the shout-board on our main page.
For more information on the group, please read our journals.


Submitted by - DAS Helper 7

Send your secret to DeviantArtSecret@gmail.com
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Just give me one dream that isn't see-through.
One substantiated claim to reality,
that I might hold onto life with.
Every quivering cell, mid-osmosis, begs you
for a shred of dignity with my tea.
Just one chance for something heavy,
something hard and room temperature. Real.
I don't want to look through my day dreams
and see someone else's face there.
I don't want to dream of those people
who may make, or break me, in the future tense.
I am tired of milky white and reflective black.
It is time for a life of colour and hope -
and not looking back to see if the past
matches up with the jigsaw map to the end game.
I want to be in the game, participating,
feeling, like I might make it there one day.
Just give me something, that I can hold onto;
something harder to see through than a whisper
of that voice in the back of my mind that says
Maybe.
Maybe i'll make it.


My friend Nichole has her skype message as "Just give me one thing that isn't see through". I have no idea what it means or where she got it, but I took it to this place. Soo, thanks Nichole / wherever she got it from. Hopefully it's not a quote from her awesome writer boyfriend. That would be awkward O_o
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We cut hearts
into paper to make streams
                         of love.
That was my impression of it.
That you ripped
      off
    the pieces you didn't want
until you got something that was
                          pretty.
It's no wonder
that I can't believe that someone
would think I was paper-perfect,
                         or loved.

             ~♥~♥~
Inspired by the title of one of today's DD's; "paper hearts" so thank you *travelgirlxx!
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Hear me read it!


They say that if a writer falls in love with you then you never really die.

Instead your body is laid out in its funerial shrouds and moulds are made. Soft impressions of you to be pressed onto the blank faces of future loves.

Every time I write of taking comfort in a safe place in a storm, it will be your forearm. Every half-made smile will be on your lips, and every touch will be constructed from the residue beneath your fingernails.

When I metaphise of trees' blood, the leaves that give the energy so that a willow can provide shade for those in need, it will be your blood, it will be your light drenched kisses.

Every tear on every face will taste of the sweat that you put into keeping me happy. Every soaring song of love will be played through your windpipe, your trachea my instrument of choice.

For every time that a hero has the strength to walk on, I will use your feet. I will weld them to my own and walk a mile. Walk a while. I will know them, and I will lend them to others as my own.

Every time I write of a man kissing the crown of a woman's head to relieve her pain, I will use your liver. It will filter out poisons and allow love to be pure again. For every route, your fingertips will guide me. They will be the map of the city in my mind.

I will borrow your parts, unasked, as my templates of perfection.

Because when a writer falls in love with you, you never really die.
When the time comes to say goodbye, whether it be tomorrow or a million kisses from now, I need you to know that I won't, shan't, can't forget you, and you will never die in my heart.

funerial: something with qualities resemblant to a funeral or related to a funeral.
metaphise: making of a metaphor
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There are ghosts in my bloodstream
kissing concrete cells &
the bedroom eyes of nerve endings.

( foreign words
engraved into my marrow, birds in my chest
& wars not yet fought between my hips. )

I've taken myself apart every night
since I learned how to swallow a pen
without gagging;
limb by steady limb.

Passed around by grabby hands,
a sold, & borrowed daughter;

I am a lion among sheep,
drunk on life & ink.
Clearly I didn't get these words from my mother.
I'm adopted.

Featured: [link] [link]
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Like lies, you said
I make breathing the cosmos
through rose colored lungs
look easy- vertebrae stretched
toward the moon.

& I'm hanging my bones
out to dry, carving Saturn's
rings into my wrists- my
star burst ankles.

I swore then I'd keep my
black tongued poetry
& uprooted limbs far,
far away from you.

But, like lies, galaxies,
& night fevers, you
are the destination
on my star map skin.
We are all kinds of messed up, but that's okay.

Featured: [link] [link]
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Rose blood
on her tongue
reminds her of yesterday's.
Lonely bones.
A heart's hoarded secrets,
love me pretties, &
scarlet letter dreams.
But
do these boys know
of the bitter winter
churning,
like a blizzard
in her veins?
The sharp edges
of half-empty
kisses,
or the crisscross
folding
of origami limbs?

Her eyes,
as deep &
unfeeling
as the ocean;
.
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The drama unfurling in my life
Feels like the shadow of my hand
That grows as it comes ever closer
To the light perched on my bed stand
In that I can feel the darkest cloud
Ever such a menacing sight
In time I can reverse the feeling
But only when I write

Seclusion left me with nothing
Apart from creativity
Loneliness it turns out, my friends
Is quite the aperitif
For the feast that is awaiting me
If I make it through the night
Tomorrow always brings me new hope
But only when I write

You approach me on a good day
And I will offer you a smile
The same expression on the worst days
Because my manners are so mild
But don’t take me for a toothless fool
When cornered I’ve been known to bite
Fear not, those demons remain at bay
But only when I write
7x
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The little girl blinked and he was gone
Unsure if he was ever really there
But she knew that something had inspired her
To do things she wouldn’t normally dare

A teardrop too many he once told her
Had brought him from the shadows of her mind
As those around her began to wander
Across her imagination's fine line

But now he seemed to have walked away
As she found the life she had long sought
He slowly drifted back to the shadows
From her notebook and her beautiful thoughts

And the fools around her carried the spades
Burying him with her imagination
With an epitaph etched on a tombstone
‘Here lies my potential for creation’

Though he never existed beyond her thoughts
He was as real as a chrysalis on a tree
The butterfly perhaps was her freedom
The caterpillar was her memories

But she still sees his face in the reflection
Of her brown eyes in the cracked mirror
Knowing that he is alive and well
And is always going to be with her

People never understand reality
We are just products of each others mind
See without her there would have been no me
To see those eyes looking back at mine
7x
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Everything that my right hand has ever written
Comes from the heart and mind of a boy that is cursed
So from now on I’ll learn to write with my left hand
In hope not expectation that this curse will be reversed

And then I shall sit in front of an open fire
Unflinching as each flame licks closer to my face
Not close enough though so it could swallow me whole
But just close enough so that it can have a taste

Of the beads of regret in my perspiration
That are forming and rolling down my furrowed brow
From a wildfire mind that is now out of control
Come thoughts that these damp morals fail to disallow

Everything that my right hand has ever written
Might as well have been scribed in invisible ink
With my thoughts being a vessel on a voyage of hope
And the weight of my memories causing it to sink

Right down to the depths of the deepest ocean floor
And left down there to rot beneath the sea bed
I thank the Lord that they’ll remain out of reach
And that none of the words I’ve written will be read

Please furnish me with proof that this curse can be lifted
And that my creativity has some meaning
Or I’ll furnish you with the pen from my left hand
And I will fall asleep without ever again dreaming
realityisfarlessexciting
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Awake on strong, black coffee drinks
Words on paper, liquid ink
Dreams of pen tips, future lies
Tragic stories, quotes of the wise
Nights have carved their dark, deep valleys
In the hollows of my eyes

For you see, my friend, when writers cry
There are no tears, their cheeks are dry
But ink dipped fingers, worn out wrists
Chewed up nails and bloody fists

You see, it's strange when writers cry
Their hearts are true, their words don’t lie
They mourn in silence for a few days
Of paper cuts and tear-less haze

Of coffee mugs and smoky paper
Liquid spills, and water vapor
Sorry dreams and wasted hours
Putrid smells and dying flowers

(Torn to pieces from inside
Tears are hidden by our pride)
...........................please add a comment and i hope you like it :)...............
(its been a while since i wrote a poem that rhymes)

........edit!!...........
oh my god this is the first piece i post that reaches 200 comments im so happy...yay!
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On your left cheek bone, you had a long, dark scar
That you've earned when you fought their brutal war
And five broken bones in your slender hands
That you've cracked in a fight of a few damned lands
You deny but I've seen the light limp in your knee
Twisted in a ship at the heart of the sea
You pretend it was fine just to hide your pain
But I see your tears through the thickest rain
And in silent nights I can feel your cries
Just beneath my skin. They uncover your lies
The lies that you've told of how you're doing alright
Though the soldier in you is in constant fight
In silent nights, behind your shut door
You still see your friend, as he bleeds on the floor
You still hear the bullet that pierced your knee
And the scream of a boy who tried to flee
And the smoke and the rain and the inch deep mud
And the deaths and the pains and the fresh red blood
And you know that beneath all your skin deep scars
It won't be the same. You forgot who you are
...................please add a comment

Hello fellow deviants! Here's another war poem I'd like you guys to read:
[link]
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We sleep in peace and little know
How fearsome is the world around
The darkness in the velvet nights
Is even darker than your thoughts
And right beneath this scheme is might
A power greater than we sought
Like living love or living fear
we’ll never leave or go so near
A brutal source of all our pain
A realm repulsed by every vein
Where scars were opened
Tears were shed and blood was bled
A tired widow is now sleeping in a bed
She never knew this bed before but it is where
Her life would leave for a lasting visit to the dead
She spoke to silence her forever lasting words
“I’ll never let them break me up”, she always said
She closed her eyes and all her fingers, scarlet red
And left a world where her own words have sung a song
Have changed the minds of many angered rebel souls
Have changed the lives of those who’ve read
Her lively words. And even though she goes away
she weaved up stories that will stay - she weaved them up with golden thread
............what's your favorite line?...........:)
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