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Literature Text
I had no use for my sight
Only darkness I could see.
Trampled dreams,
Unlikely hopes,
all that's left of me.
Haunted by the past
I crawled into a ball.
Traitors,
Fakes,
I have seen them all.
Lifeless, dull,
alone in my cage.
Held by anger,
withdrawn by fear,
always been there, longer than age.
Not transgressive,
I accepted defeat.
Forgot the light,
for to break free
is no small feat.
The sky opened
How could it be?
You were able to unmask
and see the real me.
Only darkness I could see.
Trampled dreams,
Unlikely hopes,
all that's left of me.
Haunted by the past
I crawled into a ball.
Traitors,
Fakes,
I have seen them all.
Lifeless, dull,
alone in my cage.
Held by anger,
withdrawn by fear,
always been there, longer than age.
Not transgressive,
I accepted defeat.
Forgot the light,
for to break free
is no small feat.
The sky opened
How could it be?
You were able to unmask
and see the real me.
Literature
Ashes
Ashes
Another day passes and on our knees we cry.
On our feet we fight and we die for our beliefs.
Damned hearts rot inside us.
Devastation arose from the ashes of war.
Cities turning into black dust of endless cries of sorrow.
Children cry silently in the arms of their dead mothers.
The sun never again shines over the black earth.
Wars of endless cries have consumed the world.
All those who can fight are now dead on the battlefields.
Young, old the government doesn't care.
Victory is at stake so every one fight.
And death greets them all at equal sorrow misery.
Once the children laughed and now they cry.
They die because of the
Literature
Poetry
If poetry is art,
shouldn't mine be better?
Shouldn't I be able to show off my artistic genes,
and accomplish my artistic dreams,
and not end up living off of cans of beans,
buying crappy used jeans,
because i'm living beyond my means?
Well, I certainly hope things don't turn out that way.
So I guess i'll make a living off of something with better pay.
I suppose i'd better start to pray,
That I do end up becoming a therapist one day.
At least I hope so.
'Cause this poem sucks.
Literature
Successor
Thrown in a box, shunned from the world.
(Placed on a pedestal, shown off to the world.)
Grey dust collected at the very top, acting as a soft blanket, comforting lonely days.
(Spotlights beaming on you, accompanied by astonished gazes, marveling over your glory.)
Days drag on when everything's this dark.
(They say time flies when you're having fun.)
Tallies marked on the box for each day completed.
(You pray for these days to never end.)
One more drab day to survive, with happiness deprived.
(A bright and early morning, with smiles bound to transpire.)
Energy depleting, sanity dwindling slowly.
(Shining vivid light, pores leaking
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Wrote this late at night last night. I was feeling down that time. This sort of just flowed.
Comments and criticisms are welcome and encouraged.
---
ARTISTS CREATE, WANNA-BE'S STEAL.
WHICH ARE YOU?
Comments and criticisms are welcome and encouraged.
---
ARTISTS CREATE, WANNA-BE'S STEAL.
WHICH ARE YOU?
© 2011 - 2024 DSteffi
Comments8
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To easy, way to easy to relate to. man I feel like cry'in now.