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Literature Text
I saw bones
Etching themselves from my back
Forming two arcs
Like a swan in frightful pain
My once glowing skin
Feigned by the dullness
Of perfection
And skeletal beauty entwined
Mirrors breaking through time
Glass shattering ever so silently
Rose petals scattered on ashen skin
Tormenting scars with their delicate frailty
Wine-stained tears
Trailing from my effete eyes
A path, joined in remorse
By the sorrowful sounds on my lips
A tragedy of consequence
Produced by my integrity
Of what causes me to become a wallflower
Seeking undying beauty in everlasting peace
Tarnished thoughts echoing
Throughout this fragile soul
Still waiting on perfection
To deliver her home
Etching themselves from my back
Forming two arcs
Like a swan in frightful pain
My once glowing skin
Feigned by the dullness
Of perfection
And skeletal beauty entwined
Mirrors breaking through time
Glass shattering ever so silently
Rose petals scattered on ashen skin
Tormenting scars with their delicate frailty
Wine-stained tears
Trailing from my effete eyes
A path, joined in remorse
By the sorrowful sounds on my lips
A tragedy of consequence
Produced by my integrity
Of what causes me to become a wallflower
Seeking undying beauty in everlasting peace
Tarnished thoughts echoing
Throughout this fragile soul
Still waiting on perfection
To deliver her home
Literature
The Perfection
The Perfection
What is perfection?
It's another sick word used by society.
A word that labels all the creativity and all of the people who think out of the box.
The word marks them as notational losers who have no right to be part of the society.
But every one has the right to be what he wants.
But that is not accepted by others.
The world has a sick model of understanding.
All those who are label "different" are cast out.
They are treated horribly.
No rights are given for them.
They have no free speech.
They don't deserve to live.
All of this is our society now.
Violence and hate.
Child abuse and cruelty.
If you are not popul
Literature
its hard enough
It's just too hard to keep up now
with your words
and promises I'm tired
of keeping -
in spite of
all of mine to let you
handle it all this time.
There are too many voices
inside the headlessness driven
to sanity.
It's much too hard to look
over your shoulder and still know that
there is far more to you
than abomination
and silent anger.
It's just too hard
to love you again.
I might find stars to speak for
me, among the jury of the deserted;
Skeletons of a secret I
forgot too soon,
speaks too quietly for me to hear
that the end is near,
yes, the end is near.
Perhaps your lies are red blatant and
and your voice so
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.
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About my battle with Anorexia Nervosa.
Not much else to say, really
Not much else to say, really
© 2012 - 2024 MouseMakesMess
Comments26
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This is just... Amazing. Beautiful and powerful.