What am I without poetry, Without words, blossoming on the page? I would be but a shell of myself And you would find me
Words are just words They say But if they’re “just words,” Why do they hurt so much more When they tell the truth?
He drapes his hand over the mounta… Brushes his fingertips over the fi… His breath dusts the windowpanes w… He cries for Spring, his tears fa… Soft mounds of snow form below him…
Tired. So tired. My eyes fail and my soul gives up.
As you walk away, Without looking back, I stand here, heart in my hands. I wish you had stayed Or that I’d done something differ…
We used to have the same lunch, didn’t we? We used to laugh at the same jokes… wouldn’t we? We were woven from the same fabric
Maybe I resent it because I know that since it meant so much it hurts so much more. And maybe I resent the fact
i am unsure where you are in this night. it is cold it is dark
Knowledge is pain, Knowledge is power. The beauty of knowledge Seems so tangible and so beautiful… That mankind must have it.
I fear That now There is no real me. I wear a mask of personality And pretend I’m happy.
Something warm has curled up inside my chest. It is filled with hate, with sadness, with things I cannot express.
The clouds in the distance Sit, patient Oblivious to my need For rain They promise the rain
flirting with death ring the bell and run she knows it was you but she lets you go you are waiting to die.
The wind– A finicky rush That has to be somewhere else All the time. The faint echoes of summer
It is the emptiness, the nothingness, the in-between. Is it broken? Is it maimed?