When Love is a Liewhen you said you loved meI wish you didn't lieall those times I've thought of younow regret lives in my mindall that time I've wastedall those tears I've criedthis is the last you will hear of my loveI will not give you a second trybecause when you said you loved meSomething didn't feel rightand all those times you hugged meyou never held on too tightall those times you kissed meit felt like our last sceneall those times we made loveit just felt like a dreamthen reality came crashingthen the storms grew darkand all that I was really left withwas loneliness and a broken heart
wordsFeel my wordsnot only through my mindbut my heart as wellbecause they are involvedequallythey share different meaningsall leading towards one purposetruly hear my wordswhat I have to sayalthough not much is saidall should be heardbecause every tiny piece is important as the next
invisibleits like i can disappearwalk awayno one will know i was hereinto the shadows i fadeto live the remainder of my days
a lonely hearttake my hearti dont want itits yoursi wish to not feelfor my feelings ache for youone thing i cannot have
cagedI'm drowning in my tearschoking on my fearsdieingscreamingpleadingjust please let me go
releaseshe crys herself to sleepalmost every nightshe tries to hold it backshe tries to put up a fightbut in the end shes lostconsuming her, the tears fallwhat will be the costto let it be the end of it all
let it bleedi did something im not proud ofa cuta slashheretherejust asking it to take the pain away once more
another letter to myselfhard to breathwhen i see your namewhen i hear your laughi just go insanetrying to smilewhen all i do is crytrying to livewhen i have no life
chapter 3: blood sweat and tears Catalina grasped at Demetri tightly as they ran. At this point, being alone was the last thing she wanted. Catalina knew that he would keep her safe the best he possibly could. Her head raced around, all these nightmareish creatures scurrying through the paths. Screams of dieing and frantic students could be heard along with the shrieks of whatever was in here with all of them, which could be anything now. Who knows what could be in this school. They took a right down one of the hallways and stopped dead in their tracks. At the end of this path, there was a creature laying in a position of a cat when it's sleeping, all curled in a little ball. Shards of glass and metal protruded from its skin. The akin where the metal was seemed to be rusted and decayed with encrusted blood along the edges. The glass wounds though, were alive, dripping with crimson blood. It looked as if they were new, not supposed to be there. ALmost as if someone was tyring to kill it, but obviously failed. Bo
.tell me a lie_she said, "Lie to me" he said, "I love you"
read when you feel drainedThere will be dayswhen your thoughts overflow,teeminglike hot teain the kettle of your mindand you may feelsteeped like a tea bag,as everyone extractswhat you have to offer,and you're s l o w l y becoming drained but just rememberwhen you're put in hot water:you have the strength to change it into something greater.
End The Hate (Gay Rights Poem)I was walking with my husband,During the month of May.His name is Bobby,And I'm Adam Galloway.We were holding hands,We were happy as can be;And then we met a stranger,And he said to me:"Look here at the faggots!You're ruining my path!I hate you gay ass fuckers,Now you'll feel my wrath!"The man pulled out a gun,He aimed it at my head;Bobby jumped in front of me -Poor Bobby is now dead.I caught his falling body,As the stranger ran away.I lost the love of my life,All because we're gay.He risked his life for me,For Adam Galloway.His name is Bobby G.He died for being gay...I was eating with my wife,We were on a date.Her name is Sarah,My name is Deven Kate.We got kicked out for kissing,So we approached our car;And what we both had seen,Was pretty bizzare.Our tires had been popped,Our windows had been smashed,The back seat was on fire;So we both had dashed.We didn't get that far,When a girl got in our way;She said to us, "Now burn!"We don'
AnxietySometimes,Sick isn't somethingYou can see.When I'm standing there -Sweaty palmsHeart racingFists bracing -Absolutely terrifiedFor 'no reason at all',I hope it makes youFeel big and tall,To tell me I'm being stupid.When I can't talk to someone -Because my throat is dry,And I feel sick,Like I can'tCatch my breath,Like I'm going to cryLike I'm hurtlingTowards death -Don't tell me to'Get over myself'.When I'm crying -Can't breathe,And my kneesGo weakAnd I'm too scaredTo speakAnd every heartBeatMakes me jump -How can you tell meI need to 'grow up'?When I can't get on a bus -Because so many people,So many eyes,And my mind is force-feedingMe so many lies -Don't tell me I 'think I'm betterThan everyone else'.I'm trying my hardest.Really, I am.Would you tell someone with a broken legTo just get up and walk?Would you tell someone with no tongueTo open their mouth and talk?Would you tell a wingless angelTo fly?No.So tell me why -When it is
portrait of rosaliemy grandmother devoursphoto albumslike Tolstoy novels,mémoire aprés mémoire aprésmémoire.she tells me the same storyabout her first jobwithout a carfive times over,looking awayto anotherworld,black & white to me,but full-color to her.alzheimer's is a language.like french, it isjust another part of her.she does not rememberconversations from a week agoor to turn over laundry,but she remembersbus rides in the south, pre-1964,white weddings ingrey cathedralsthat are shopping malls now.i have learned to translateher repetition,the ways she can tellthe same memoryagain and againlike it is the first time.for this, too,is language:the new inflections in her voice,new details,the tears that frequenther glassy eyeslike uninvited guestsshe lets in anywaymy grandmother'salzheimer'sis a neologist,changes the waywe communicatenow.trauma is passedthrough generationslike hand-me-down clothes.c'est héréditaire.my grand
Depression Isn't RealDepression isn’t true, my dearDepression isn’t real.It’s just a silly tragedyYou’ve forced yourself to feel.Anxiety is fake, my friendYou wonder why it’s there.But others have it worse than you!Stop forming false despair.Cutting is dramatic, love,It’s ugly, and it’s dumb.Why not just get over it?Is the attention fun?Suicide is stupid, dear,And selfish, if I may.Get over yourself, darling,Can you hear these things I say?Why aren’t you replying, love?Oh, where could you have gone?I never meant to hurt you, love,Did I say something wrong?Why aren’t you replying, dear?Depression isn’t true!…Oh, but yes it was, “my dear”...Just maybe not for you.
God Told me a Secret (Gay Rights Poem)God told me a secret last night before bed,He leaned into my ear and silently said:"I love you my child, I really do."I hate none of my children, it really is true;"But I am real angry, not with the gay, bi or straight,"I am angered with those who only spread hate..."This world I created is now such a sad place..."It has been ruined by the human race."Why should it matter who my children date?"It is their life so you shouldn't spread hate!"And then when you say, 'I hate because of religion!'"You need to open your eyes and see that hate's YOUR decision!"You can choose between peace or spreading this hate!"You can choose to love the gay, bi and straight!"But as soon as you choose to hold some dumb useless grudge,"Know that it's you who I will judge!"All my children from all around the globe,"Stop being such a homophobe!"All my other creatures can get along great!"Why is it just humans who choose to spread hate?"I am so angry, so filled up with rage!"My children must
cynical: arsenicalsplinter-thorn boy,it will all start tod i s i n t e g r a t ebeneath youyou arethe least beautiful way to unravel -all maggot-rot, nosplit-thread, noribbon-torn boyan architect ofself-abuse;a god ofru(i)n(n)ing[away] &no:there is nothing holy about you
things i want you to know.0.there is a picture in my living roomof my parents in their twenties, in sunhats,laughing.there is a picture of my father holding mewhen i was two years old.there is a picture of my parentson their wedding day.there is a picture of me when i wasten, eleven, twelve.i’m seventeen now andi won’t let my mothertake any of the picturesdown.i need to believe that, at one point,this house was more than justslammed doorsand silence.1.i was born on the second-to-last dayof april.i weighed seven pounds, two ounces,and it was ninety-nine degrees out.four years before that, in 1992,the officers who beat rodney kingwithin an inch of his lifewere acquitted.five years before that, in 1991,a cyclone in Bangladesh killed138,000 people and made 10 millionhomeless.ten years before that, in 1986,a fire in a Los Angeles librarydamaged more than 400,000books.and on that day, april 29, 1996, i was bornand i’d like to pretendthat it was a go
looking through windowsmy heart is not a toyits fragile like glasswill you break itor just give it a passall it wants is lovehold it close and you will seethere more to life than possesionstheres more to me than it seems