You said you'd never leave me
You said you'd never go
Yet here I am found
Standing miserably alone
You said you'd always love me
You said you'd always care
And now I'm sitting here
In a state of dangerous despair
You said I should be happy
You said I should be me
But it appears that is not
What you wanted me to be
You said you loved my diligence
You said you loved my voice
Yet I'm left here all alone
Through your own stubborn choice
You said that I was perfect
You said that I was smart
But you left me here afraid
With a slowly dying heart
You said you'd need me forever
You said you'd never let me go
So where are you now, dear?
How am I supposed to know?
You said I made you happy
You said I made you smile
Will this pain follow me forever?
Or will it only be here awhile?
You said I was irreplaceable
You said I was the one for you
I guess that was a lie
Is all of it really untrue?
You said you always missed me
You said I was always on your mind
What am I supposed to do?
I feel so trapped and confined
You said so much more
And I believed it all
But in the end it seems
I was the only one to fall
San Diego, CA
|Just something I wrote one day, for someone I miss.
It envelops you as though you were blind,
It takes no prisoners but haunts instead.
It suffocates you like no other kind,
It engulfs you with fear of where you tread.
A knife that stabs in the dark of each night,
It lives off your fear pondering its fight,
No one ever escapes this evil sight,
It dies at dawn with all your hope in flight.
You dread its grip at the dusk of each day,
As the constant fear ebbs your life away.
It will capture your soul in every way,
As the life you had slowly drifts away.
You'll surrender to it against your heart,
And from this life you'll reluctantly part.
Co. Louth, Rep.of Ireland
|About the author of helpless. I was given the assignment to write a sonnet as part of my English grade and I never realized it was so hard to do! Anyway this was my finished piece hope you like it!
Prisoner of Love
I am in love,
With whom I cannot say,
For they know not how I feel about them,
It is a secret.
The person is not new to me,
But I now see them in a new light,
They have a glow,
Every time they smile I get butterflies.
I often feel I am going insane,
Their voice, echoing inside my head,
Their face, floating in my minds eye,
Their eyes, so much depth they never seem to end,
Every time I look up into them the world seems to stop,
All that is in perspective is the person and myself,
The rest is blurred,
I look forward to our every meeting,
And dread our parting.
They teach me so much,
Yet I learn so little,
Every time they speak their words go in one ear and out of the other,
their sweet voice swirling around my head.
I hate it this way,
I do not like the way I feel,
It is not in my nature,
I feel like an outsider,
Although I am a prisoner of my own thoughts,
I am trapped behind bars of love,
And my love is my jailer.
There is no escape,
No way out,
Do I want to escape...?
Newcastle Upon Tyne, United Kingdom
|I'm Kristi. I wrote this poem when I was 12 and a half. it is about my sercret love who I adore in every way. The poem is totally true about how I feel. Writing poems is the way I deal with situations. Whenever I feel strongly about something I write and every thing comes out. The strange thing is I can only ever write when I feel like this, any other time I cant write well at all. I need a lot of inspiration. I wrote my first good poem when was 7. I wrote my first story when I was 5. People say that I have a very active imagination which joined with some good inspiration is what makes me quite a good writer.
A Child's Sprit
The little ray of sunshine
shines down through the clouds
This steady beam of light is brave
for no other beams shine about
The little light gets stronger as it comes closer
no longer wobbling and shaking
She grows confident as she comes closer to me
like a child taking her first steps
The clouds darken and the wind roars
but the little light stays steady and strong
rain starts to fall first soft than hard
and the little light starts to shake violently
I shout out to the light encouraging her on
I can barely hear or see from the storm
When the storm is at i't greatest
It seems like the light has gone out
The thunder yells his triumph
and the lightning laughs her glee
they celebrate victory over the little light
as the tear around ripping up greenery
Then out of nowhere
The light comes on flickering and uncertain
again she becomes more confident and sure of herself
and stands up to the storm
The thunder and lightning shreik in fury
as the beam of light stands up to them
but the storm winds die down
and the sun comes up
Blue shies shine and birds fly
new greenery grows
honoring the light for her bravery
Now he beam of light shine proudly
The sun watches over her fondly
and the beam of light now knows she can stand up through a storm
if ever a storm tries to overcome her
she will always have help now fighting back
Laffayette Hill PA USA
|I went through some problems writing this poem. I was writing it in English class by the creek. My class left me behind and after a while I decided to see if I could find anyone. I leaned out over the creek and this poem went with me. It took me forever to get out and I coudn't find the poem anywhere. I had to rewrite it by memory so I hope you enjoy it and
have a great day!
I want to know what the difference is,
between white, Hispanic, and black?
We all have to work,
to put clothes on our back,
Food on the table,
a roof over our heads,
I'm so angry,
at what you said.
Why am I a bad person,
because my best friend,
is a Hispanic guy,
who just wants to blend,
In with the crowd,
now you don't like me,
cuz I hang around him,
and I let you see.
I want to know how,
we shouldn't be treated the same,
because he's Hispanic,
and so is his name.
I want to know when,
God told you,
He don't love Hispanics?
You should love them too!
God loves everybody,
I thought you knew,
He doesn't care about race,
He loves you, too!
I want to know right now,
how just cuz my friend Louie,
has a different color of skin,
you say he's lower than me?
We all have feelings,
we hear your words,
we know what you said,
we know what we heard.
I'm black, I'm white, I'm purple,
I'm pink, I'm green, I'm blue,
I'm Christian, I'm Baptist,
so what makes me so diff than you?
I have feelings, I have a heart,
I have a wonderful body,
there's no difference,
can't you see?
I have ears, I have eyes,
I have some fears,
so how am I different?
Can't you hear?
Are you feeling jealous?
Do I make you feel low?
What are you afraid of,
I want to know!
A heep of love
I'm telling you
It'll cause you more pain
You'll fall in
And be trapped
The tears of love
They cut your soul
And leave you shattered
Because the breath
Is not pure
All by yourself
Away from me
I can't hurt you there
You won't breath
Because of me
This is just to say
I robbed you of your heart
when you left yourself
open and vulnerable to me.
With which, you should
have given to someone
more deserving and with
But you gave it away
and I took it greedily,
and I'm sorry.
However, I cannot
return what is rightfully yours,
it is a security blanket
for when I need it.
For someone may
come along and steal
my heart one day and
I will return- with yours.
|About the author of Purloined Passion. She is graduating high school and going into Education. She hopes to be a high school English teacher. Tiffany loves writing and reading and enjoys writing poetry. She would love one day to publish a book of either her poetry or a fictitious story.
Beauty Never Dies
The siren sings a lonely song
Of all the wants and hungers
The lust of love a brute desire
The ledge of life goes under
Divide the dream into the flesh
Kaleidoscope and candle eyes
Empty winds scrape in the soul
But never stop to realize
Intoxicate the night
Hypnotize the desperate
Slow motion light
Wash away into the rain
Blood, sweat and sky
Hollow moons illuminate
And beauty never dies
Running wild, running blind
I breathe the body deep
1,000 years beside myself
I don't ever sleep
Seduce the world it never screams
Dead water lies
Ride the only one who knows
Beauty never dies
Linden, CA / U.S.A
|About the author of Beauty Never Dies:
My name is Cassie and I'm 15. I love to write and have developed a great passion for it. I have just recently started writing poems, and this was one of the first. I am also a softball player, basketball player, and a drummer. Music is as important to me as writing. I mostly listen to hard rock and metal, and some punk.
The other girls didn't work out all that well.
I "enjoy my own company too much".
But I think I'd like yours.
They all thought I talked too much, mostly about nothing.
I'm around you though, and it isn't like that.
I'm more considerate of what I say.
I want to impress you.
I'm worried about how different our friends seem to be.
Your other boyfriends were Neanderthals.
You're so much smarter than they ever were.
I think that I am too.
Every time we talk it's like I'm talking to myself.
Maybe those words weren't exactly the right ones.
I meant to say that you think like I do.
See what I'm doing now?
Maybe I do talk too much, when it's about nothing.
So when this conversation is over,
And you're thinking, "Why do I talk to that guy?"
I'll breathe a sigh of relief
And when my brain starts thinking again, from the thought gusts
I'll walk down the stairs from my room, till I
Arrive at the cellar door of my mind -
The door knob's worn from use -
And I'll put my head in my hands in the dark, like a dejected
alcoholic on the edge,
and I'll lament my own short-comings for a while, then wait around
for another girl:
just like you.
Open Your Eyes
I watch you often
More than you can see
Every man lay eyes on my face
Their reaction as yours
Tell me of myself
You are my reflection
Your words show my eyes
Every flaw and misstep
Your face, in its complex dance
Speaks pages to me
Do you trip behind your eyes?
Fall on your knees?
Or do you tread upon me
And cut me with your spurs?
I beg you, speak softly
For the eye sees not itself
But by reflection
Grand Forks, North Dakota/USA
|About the author of Open Your Eyes
I prefer to be called Cricket or September online, but if you must call me by my given name it is fine. I live in Grand Forks, North Dakota. A survey shows that only 40% of college students know that ND is a state, less then half of that know where it is.
Being rather lost in the anonimity of small-town life forces me to express myself in unusual ways. When I am not kidnapping the Latin teachers giant plastic spider or trying to erase my Fargo-esque accent, I am writing, drawing or reading. I often ponder how sad it is that so few teenagers these days appreciate the creative arts. I will be taking Theater next year, I hope it will be a good fit. I am rather shy about public speaking however, so maybe I'll get to play something easy. Like a prop.
I am not the most compassionate person in the world, though I often end up crying inside over the silliest little conflicts in the things I read. The first (and last) time I read Harry Potter I spent a week muttering under my breath how much of a blankety-blank Professor Snape was. I love childrens' books and tv shows directed to 'tweens'. The miracle of a developing mind goes way over my head, but watching the things that they do and watch and read gives me a peep into their world as my memories cannot. Sometimes my own expanding teenage mind baffles me so that I have to sit for a few minutes to stop my head from whirling. I hope I don't grow up to be a mad cat-lady, but it could be fun, despite the smell.
Have you ever been injured? Maybe you've had a broken bone, pulled or torn a muscle or ligament. Well, if you have, you know that it takes a lot of exercise and encouragement to get that muscle or ligament back to normal and working properly. That's where the physical therapist comes into hand.
Physical therapists are said to have "the healing touch". Physical therapists help people to recover and recuperate from injuries and help to prevent injuries. They also help people with permanent disabilities achieve the highest possible level of physical functions.
Physical therapists can see up to as many as thirty people a day. They see all types of people. Some of their clients or patients have sports related injuries, are suffering from a disease such as arthritis, or maybe they were in a serious car accident. Physical therapists examine their patients for physical limitations and disabilities or other ailments to determine a diagnosis, prognosis, and interventions.
Physical therapists teach their patients specific stretches and exercises to make the patients healing process go faster and rehabilitate correctly. Other techniques that a physical therapist may use to treat their patient would be a soft tissue massage, joint mobilization, or the use of hot and cold packs, ultrasound, lasers, and other mechanical tools. Some of their patients may need help standing, bending over, or walking depending on the patient's condition, so they may spend long hours bending, standing, and lifting equipment.
During the patients visits with the physical therapist they monitor their progress and suggest possible treatment modifications. Physical therapists also document everything and each step in their patients healing process for reports which must be given to doctors and insurance companies and employers.
Physical therapists work in a variety of treatment rooms from nursing homes to colleges to hospitals. Some other places they make work are publicly funded clinics, athletic departments, schools for disabled children, community health centers, and research and rehabilitation centers.
The salary of a physical therapist varies. It depends on the level of experience, responsibility, and location. Therapists with little experience earn between $30,000 and $40,000 a year. Those with more experience earn about $40,000 to $55,000 a year. The most experienced and private clinic owners earn about $50,000 to $75,000 a year. The average salary of a physical therapist is about $45,000 a year.
Usually, most physical therapists work about ten hours a day and forty to sixty hours a week. For physical therapists with privately owned clinics it is very common for them to work evenings and weekends to suit their patient's needs. It could be an advantage or a disadvantage depending on whether you like set hours and set pay or weird hours and working weekends. Also an advantage of being employed would be the fringe benefits such as paid vacations, sick leave, hospital and group insurance, and retirement programs.
Have you ever wondered if you could take any certain courses or classes in high school to help you prepare for your career? Well, if you would ever want to become a physical therapist you would need to take three years of English, one class of each biology, chemistry, and physics, three years in mathematics preferably algebra, trigonometry and geometry.
There are a lot of requirements as in the courses you have to take to be a physical therapist. The requirements are as follows, sixteen to eighteen credit hours in Biological Sciences with laboratories which includes Zoological sciences in lecture and labs (General Biology, Genetics, and Microbiology.), Human Anatomy with lab, Human Physiology with lab, and a class in Exercise Physiology. Also, eight credit hours in Chemistry with laboratories, eight credit hours in Physics with laboratories, two courses or six credit hours in English Composition, six credit hours in mathematics (one course in trigonometry or calculus and one course in statistics), and three courses or nine credit hours in Psychology. Finally, the eight credit hours of the electives needed. The recommended electives are from the sciences, including, humanities and social sciences, advanced coursework in genetic or exercise science, speech and sociology. Logic and foreign languages are also recommended. A!
ll of these courses make up the ninety credit hours required to be able to enroll in the PA program. Plus you must have a minimum GPA of 3.00 in all courses to be able to transfer into the physical therapy program. Even after you enter the physical therapy program, you then have to pass a national examination and be licensed by the state in which you practice.
Currently in the United States there are 115,000 physical therapists treating people. There is an increased need for physical therapists. The demand for therapists should continue to grow because of the baby-boom people whom are growing older and the medical advances that have enhanced the effectiveness of rehabilitation for all ages.
Imperial, NE, USA
I don't dream
y e l l o w
CH ee Ze.
Nor do I dream
CH ee Ze.
Do I sleep
on all fours.
My eyes are not small,
nor are they
This isn't my
My ears don't compare to
no fingers at all.
I'm taller than
The Jolly Green Giant.
So why do I fear cats?
Why do I fear all
This couldn't be
|I love making people laugh, thath is why I wrote this poem. I love to snowboard and hang out with my friends. My passions are writing and painting. I hope you all will enjoy this poem.
Lately bits of me have begun to disappear.
In the beginning there was no
concern, no panic
except when she reached out
to hold my hand,
and it wasn't there.
Last to go
I know will be my ears
which are hers
(we have always been the good listeners)
but sometime those too will vanish.
Till then I am the
with my floating ears
in the distilled silence
of my grandmother's memory
|My name is Sarah and I am an aspiring writer. I am a junior in high school from Southern California.
My grandmother had a charm bracelet upon which hung three charms in the shape of children's silhouttes - the tiny silvered heads of my mother and her two brothers, thin as dimes. For some reason she left this bracelet to me when she died, three years ago. So now from my skinny wrist dangle the head of my mother, as a child, and my two uncles. Wearing it, I feel as if some great unnoticed shift has occurred. I am somehow more adult than the adults. My grandmother has sunk into my bones.
I had never thought of my mother as a child before. I know she was small once, the same way that I know that the earth goes around the sun. It was a simple fact too blatant for real pondering. I believed in my mother's childhood in a distant, far-off way; it had never interrupted my daily life before.
I wonder what she was like when she was nine. Did she have grubby knees like mine? Short hair? In all the pictures from my aunt's old albums she is posed and scrubbed, a smile painted on her face. I wonder if she liked to catch frogs or if she played with dolls instead. In the pictures she is a beautiful child, with pin curls in her reddish hair. She has the same chubby baby-fat cheeks I had when I was younger. She is the youngest and behind her stands my uncles; Patrick smiling awkwardly, Alex fighting the teenager's scowl that usually adorned his face.
I know my mother was a different person before I was born. There are dusty photo albums from her college years and flared pants and old jewelry. There is evidence she was there, but I do not know her. My mother is and always has been my mother. The mystery is thick. The idea of her other life, astonishing.
I wonder if I will do the same; end one life and begin another as my children are born. I wonder if I will know when it is time to grow up and move on. The idea is terrifying.
I am fifteen years old. My mother's lost childhood lives around my wrist; her tiny silver head bearing silent witness to a time that I will never know.
Fort Wayne, Indiana
|My name is Liz and I am a Junior. I wrote this piece for an independent project for my school.
Attack of the Clones
This book is an excellent choice for enthusiasts of exciting Science Fiction reading. Based on the Screenplay by George Lucas, the plot mixes an assasination mystery with a forbidding romance.
There is action occurring even at the beginning of the book, with the attempted murder of Padme Amidala by explosion of her royal starship. Obi-Wan Kenobi voyages to the far-flung corners of the galaxy at Kamino and Geonosis, while a romance develops between Anakin and Padme.
The Separatists, who have left the thousand-year old Republic, soon begin acting aggresively and a war develops over the conflict. This book must be read to experience the full drama and excitement.
Cridersville, Ohio, United States
|My name is Chad and I am 13 years old. My parents are missionaries to the Dominican Republic, but we are currently in the United States. I like soccer, tennis, ping-pong, Art and Choir. My lifelong dream has been to be a writer.
Over the years
"Over the years I have become well aware of the fact that we-my peers and I- will at times feel beautiful and independent and wise and needy and ugly and challenged all in the same breath. That, because I am growing, I will showcase being in control and on top of my life, and yet, continue to wallow in pity beneath the surface, turning over and over with rage and outburst. I understand that growing up is liberating and unnerving at the same time. Every moment is like flying a daring kite in a mid-October sky. You watch the spectrum of colors daringly toss and mosey with the wind, vibrating back and forth against itself. It creates such a freedom in your soul- the wonder for beauty unleashes the animosity from inside, the emptiness unites with the sky as one. But soon the colors start to fade, first pale, and then up and up, until all that is left is this mass of string, and with it loss of hope and insight. You try to regain this sense of belonging, you pull the str!
ing tight and fast, but the kite is no longer yours. At the end of the day, all that is recovered is this useless ball of yarn, and your feelings for tommorow are up in the air, floating along with your faith and perspective. I don't believe that being an adult is no longer flying this kite. Being an adult just means that you've flown the kite so many times that losing it is expected and accepted. And as you get older, simply getting the kite off the ground becomes the hardest part." -Journal, 2/6/03
|About the author of "Over the Years." My name is Shawna , I am 17, and at the top of all things, I am a writer. This selection was represented in a a work of literature titled " Charmed Roots: a Collection of Young Hope," a compilation of essays, poetry, journals, short stories, quotes, art, and photography. "Charmed Roots" was a project for my creative writing class. I posted this on here in hopes to meet other aspiring writers and teenlit.com seems to be the place for growth as a lover of language.
thee global hegemonic regime
frivolous by nature?
we consume because we "need" to
not cause we hate ya
is our cat in the bag
making it look like a dove
is our foreign policy
compromise is a thing of the past
dissent equivocates betrayal
you unpatriotic bastards
you chose us, now let us do what we want
we agree the world needs to move forward
into a realm of democratic fascism
a new invention of ours
we won't call it that though
might not go over to well with the
we run on tough morals,
the right ones:
like glass ceilings for gays
we don't say that either though
PC gets us paid
but all our supporters agree
it's just too taboo to talk of
We aren't for big government
just simply immense military
and civil restrictions on moral issues
if that's not intruding too much
some call us arrogant for our unilateralistic ways
hello? the other nations don't agree with us
what are we supposed to do
give a little to get a little?
absurd . . .
they are wrong
our constituents pay way to much on gas for us to do that
Cedar Falls, Iowa, US
|My name is Stephen . I live in northeast Iowa. I am very interested as to the direction our nation is heading, especially with its foreign policy. That is what inspired this piece of writing.
surrounding your eyes,
large ripe plums.
Scratches veil your arms
like large blankets.
missing from your head,
on the ancient,
moldy brown tile.
You remind me of myself,
so young, so innocent.
When everything felt right.
Did you think you could handle it?
Did you think you were stronger than me?
Didn't you hear my plea?
Forgive me, Thought
my warning was clear.
Don't want to let it happen again,
depends on you.
Cedar Falls, IA, USA
|I am seventeen years old, and graduating from highschool in a few days. I'm very excited about going to college next fall.
I am a woman
No longer a girl
The world changed me
I feel like i gotta hurl.
Touched by so many
Are they even worth any?
High by day, drunk by night
My mind never stops racing
And when I finally take a break
I find myself nowhere, pacing.
Time never exists
In my world of bliss
All that I feel
Is your soft, sweet kiss.
Is what I need
Dependency isn't even questionable
Please take the lead...
|About the author of Ariel, I am 14.You may not get or enjoy my poetry, but that's because it's very personal. But feel more than welcome to enjoy it. Thank-you.
She hides behind the couches every night, hoping they'll stop fighting soon.
The screams and the shouts are so loud. She thinks she might go deaf.
He comes home drunk and the next day she doesn't have parents.
Now she goes to Sunday school with her new and loving family.
She knows the man on the cross.
He was there when her parents died.
Protecting her, keeping her safe.
He was there when she was born, and he'll be there when she dies.
Westby, WI, USA
Everyday I look at you,
Wait for you to look at me.
But never would you look my way,
I was left there to wonder:
Do you ever notice me?
Do you ever listen for me?
Do you even remember me?
Do you ever 'think' of me?
And you do;
When you don't have a girlfriend,
And you do when you have no one to flirt with,
And you do when you have no one to talk to,
And you do; when you have no one to touch.
But, as soon as you get someone, 'you:'
Drop me, you forget me, you don't talk to me.
Just when I thought I would get you,
You turn around and hurt me;
As if I was stabbed in the heart, with a sharp knife.
And again I was left there to wonder:
Why'd you do that to me?
Why do you treat me this way?
Do you think I'm your toy?
To be played with when you want?
Why did you hurt me so bad?
Then you turn back to me; I heard you like me,
So why do you do this to me if you like me?
You act as if nothing ever happened,
But, there has, YOU happened.
And still I'm left there to wonder:
When will it hit you, how your treating me?
When will you notice my feelings?
When will you treat me right?
When will you stop breaking my heart and thoughts?
How long will it take you to find out:
I have a broken heart,
I have feelings,
I'm real, and that,
I like you to much to disregard you
When you do me this way,
Because I like the 'feeling' of being noticed by you!!
When will you know?
Walnut Cove, NC, US
I sat there
There on the rock
Watched the sun set over the lake
The memories came back
Flooding my mind with the good times I've had
But mostly all of my thoughts were bad
As I sat there
There on the rock
I felt a tear
A tear of hurt,
Maybe tomorrow will be different
All I can do is hope
Hope for things to change
Change into my dreams
As I sat there
There on the rock
I was lost
Lost in a world of hate and confusion
Mad at the world
The world that took everything that I had once loved
As I sat there
There on the rock
The tears came rolling down my cheeks
Memories were swirling through my mind
Hate had consumed my soul
As I sat there
There on the rock
Realized that I had the power to change things
The things that were making me cry
As I sat there
There on the rock all by myself
The thoughts, the tears, the hate
This all happened there
There on the rock
Where I sat
Sat all by myself
|i'm a 13 year old girl from Cambridge Ohio. I'm i 7th grade at Cambridge Junior High School. I was on my school power of the pen team and placed fourth a the district tournament. I also run track and play on my school's soccer team. This is my life not to exciting!
Courage can be big or small, sensational or minute
It can be as big as saving someone's life,
It can be as small as asking a question.
Courage can be as sensational as sacrifice you to save a country,
Courage can be as minute as talk to a teacher that you don't like.
Courage can also be speak to someone that everyone is afraid of,
Courage can be saying sorry,
Courage can be exploring a hunted house
Courage can just be giving a try when no one would like to do it,
Courage can be singing in front of other people,
Courage can be presenting your ideas to the class,
Courage can be lifting your pencil and tell the world what you think,
Courage can just be expressing your thoughts.
Courage can be big or small
Toronto, ON Canada
You are my facade
Full of joy
Full of happiness
And full of laughter
I hide behind you
Holding back my fears
My emotion and
How much I hurt
No one can see past you
No one wants to see past your thick existence
Even I am blinded by how powerful you are
You cover up my darkest deepest emotions
Making me the person everyone wants me to be
But not who I am
Not even who I want to be
You cover me
Like a blanket suffocating me in my sleep
Hidden deep beneath my own surface
I am anything
I want to break through you
Become who I want to be
The real me
But I can't.
Because you are my facade
You are who I am
For the last four years we've been best of friends.
Where the hell are you now?
Your not the type to say "I wish I had been...".
You begin a new day, don't recieve, just send.
You got yourself a new crew to be with.
And you left all of us in the dust.
It seems like we got ditched.
Your new friends are the rightful must.
Im sick of trying to get you back...
to the old gang.
You don't even care about us anymore.
You don't even call anymore.
When is the last time we all hung out?
O no. Ya, I remember you was on the phone with whoever, talking for two straight hours.
Ya you was with us, but not really. Too good, had to be on the phone...coward.
What was that like? I'll give you my insight.
The one time we're all together
And you decided to be on your celler.
Shoot, you shouldn't of came. That's all I wanna say...frick, that was lame.
Next year we're off to college and your little junior friends are gonna be gone.
Who are you gonna go to when the stress gets long?
Im sittin here trying to figure out if your even gonna call.
Probably not. The end. O no, O well, I guess they are better then us.
Whatever happen to us? Whatever happen to you? Respect the friendship brutha, You know that's a must. This topic is done.
Said what was said. Thats all that's in my head.
Cedar Falls, IA, USA
They said he was young,
When He went to Fro State.
When he looked forward to being fresh bait.
He would get sacked by some of the greats.
Like Warren Sapp and many more
Brian Dawkins and Jevon, you all know him as Kerse.
He led the league in being sacked
With a record of seventy-six
He still became great
After he was drafter first over all
In 02-03, he wore the blue and read
And crushed the cowboys until they were dead.
He would never give up
He would never surrender
That is why number eight is so great.
|Scott is a 14 year old student and is a happy, young writer, and athelete. He has many friends and is someone who does not get very good grades but still loves to write. This piece is about a young man who plays for the Houston Texans and was a rookie and did not know what players would kill him the most. Even though he did not have an offensive line he was still a very good Quarterback.
among the cluster of roses.
tear the unseen beauty.
The heart bleeds.
Roses crowed the veiled,
overlooked and despondent.
The heart bleeds.
drops of blood dry as
the heart bleeds.
Unique and sublime,
ignored and denied,
the bleeding heart dies.
The wound bleeds on,
the heart bleeds.
Crystalline imperfections tip-toe 'cross
A canvas of perfect porcelain proportions;
Stroke of flare, of vibrant hues screaming,
Calling, sobbing your name... I hear it.
No more is the search lingering on
Prosthetic feathers, sculpted of heavenly
Gold... Scorching the iris blues of my
Vision... Visage got lost when false
Pretensions blanketed us in Winter's
No longer written 'cross palette
Of midnight silk, dusted in starlets,
Prophecy forgotten amidst showering
Trails of stardust, dangling wishes
Of the innocents gazing with purity,
Waiting... Waiting for their crystal
To drop into reality's decorum of concrete
Pain and bleeding souls. No longer waiting,
For crystal graced my Winter with yours,
Two negatives blending into a single to
Create flourish in Summer's Rebirth.
Silken caress measured in explicit folds
Of love's satin embrace; Every promise
Spilling from perfect tiers of beauty won
My heart, my soul, my trust...
And the fuchsia felt a new barrier, writhing
Against a new layer of reconciliation within
Thyself... Mended did you my soul, no more
Tears of blood; No more silent wishes, dangling...
Waiting... No more waiting;
... My search ends with crystalline perfection:
|Amanda is 15 years old, a Scorpio, and resdies in Illinois. She is in love with the subject of this material and is quite the artsy person. Writing is her dream.
You've always been there
Right here by my side
Never left me alone
Or out in the cold
I'm blessed to have you as a friend
All the things you've done for me
I'll be here for you
All the days of our lives
We tell each other everything
No matter what it may be
I know I can trust you
And you'll never let me down
Through the good and bad
We've held our heads high
No matter what was said
We made it through
Of all the people in my life
You're the one who always cared
You've filled my life with laughter
Shared sorrows, joys, and tears
The years have gone by fast
And the end is almost here
Soon we'll walk the stage
And go our separate ways
To go we will go
I wish you the best
I'll never forget you
'Cause we're friends till the end
Buda, Tx 78610
|I am a 17 yr. old junior and I wrote this poem for my best friend, she has always been there for me and she is the best -andrea- texas
Shadows surrounded me
and suffocated me...
I turned around
and you were gone
but is it just
that you were never there
You were never there
to be by my side
and help me through my troubles
and help me when I cry
To hold me close
when everything was wrong
You were never there
to be by my side
to yield this hurting
and stop the dying
feeling I have inside
Because you were never there
I sit in my room and weep
And each night
that passes me slowly by
I remember your smiles
that were never there
your sweet sweet kisses
that were never there
It was all a dream it seems
because it all changed so fast
and everything we once had
is now gone and will not come back
And you were never there
to stand by my side
but if you were never there
then you cannot be gone
and I will not cry
for the love
that does not
and never did exist.
|About the author of Never There...I'm 17 and in the 11th grade. I have been writing for as long as I can remember. About this poem...I wrote this about a person that I truly love. I may love him, but he does not feel the same. Even though we are great frineds, I want more, and he doesnt. Maybe one day he'll understand...
To the milky twilight
Through crystal stars
Take my hand
Lead me into the haze of night
Where fairy dust lays in piles
Shining on the moonlit ground
Smile on you face
For eternity binds
You and Me
Going on for days but
Goldsboro, NC United States of America
Seeing The Unimaginable
Don't think i didn't see you.
I saw u look at me.
So, tell me:
What did you see?
Ddid you see the girl
with the bright smile
upon her face?
the girl who looks like
she doesn't have a care in the world?
Did you see the girl
who always nervous?
The one who's always trying
to be so perfect?
Because she knows you're worth it?
How about the girl
who worries about her every move?
her every action?
her every thought,
How about the girl
who desires the undesirable?
who wishes for what she knows she'll never have?
or ever get back?
Did you see the girl
who wants to wake up and know
that someone cares for her?
Did you see the girl
who wonders when people ask her,
''what's wrong?'' if they really want to know?
Did you see the girl
who was simply looking back at you,
thinking about you,
wondering if you were thinking about her?
Did you see the girl who knows
that these are things you'll never know,
and things she'll never say?
Don't think that I didn't see you.
I saw you look at me.
So, tell me:
What did you see?
Belle Chasse, LA
|'Seeing The Unimaginable' is a poem about looking below the surface of a person, and seeing into their hearts, and feeling their feelings. My name is Ashley, and I'm 15 years old.
Staring into senility,
That indescribable buzzing
Hurtling and circling in my ears.
Tonight on CBS, we bring you more noises.
Ever-happy voice of the newscaster,
Coming to you live, not a blonde hair out of place,
From the battlefields, announcing in that patronizing,
Today twelve Americans have been killed in battle.
In other news, the scandalous lives of the rich and the famous.
Ba-dum, the peppy beat,
A deal so sweet.
Ours is the best
Faster than the rest!
And the price is nice.
The happy customers smile,
Decked in their new purchases,
A dress from the J.C. Penny Sale.
And yet more cars,
Zooming to some techno beat,
Cruising through canyons,
Sleek and sexy in new paint.
More carbon dioxide in the air,
Giving you a smoother ride-- only for twenty-nine thousand dollars with zero percent APR financing,
A language I don't understand.
And back to the blood
Dead bodies filmed,
The more gore, the higher the ratings, so bring on the tragedy.
The sounds of bombs drown out the voices.
And then back,
As I watch just who the Bachelor will marry.
The blonde or brunette?
With effort I reach,
And with the remote
I turn that thing off.
|The author reads, writes, and like so many others in this crazy world, is addicted to mindless television. She is an advocate of peace and a violinist who believes that music doesn't have borders.
Harvard told me
Now to see
That I think of sex
Every seven seconds.
Thought about it.
To be true
And I don't want to be rude
Cause if we do, it is kind of crude
For a mind to think
That kind of thing.
But of course
I think I feel
But to know why
So I think I will
It's my mind
So if you be kind
I will think,
What comes to mind.
Thought about it!
|This piece I wrote is something I did from fustration from people saying different things about guys and that we think of sex every seven seconds. It may be different from the normal writing that people may see and read, but it is the truth.
Wet Dash for the Buses
We suit up to face
A hooded jacket is our only gear.
At the bell, we storm forward
To meet our adversaries.
They may be numerous, but
We are strong,
Dodging torpedoes right and left.
Rain drops land like shrapnel,
Splitting wide open at our feet.
Spreading cold sting across our ankles.
As a menacing sky portrays
That the ambush will not yield
For another hour or so.
Our refuge stands unperturbed,
Sprightly yellow against the gray massacre.
As we step aboard, our battle scars
Drip behind us, trickling away.
Whew, at least this wasn't
The real thing.
Wesley Chapel, Florida, USA
|About the author of Wet Dash for the Buses:
Rachel attends her local middle school and recieved the inspiration for this writing on a rainy afternoon.
A Thanksgiving Prayer
Thanks for all the wars you let us die through,
Thanks for terrorist bomb attacks,
Thanks for leaving some of us without food of shelter,
Thanks for drugs, they make us feel great
Thanks for prostitutes, some people love them,
Thanks for the SAT tests that determine nothing because you don't learn the stuff in school,
Thanks for school, it's so great,
Thanks for popularity and depression,
Thanks for scams,
Thanks for mentally ill people who have guns in their possession,
Thanks for guns,
Thanks for diseases, especially the ones that kill you.
On the night before Christmas
There was snow all around
We opened one present
And all sat down
He got a tent
And she got a gown
The night of Christmas
When everyone was sleeping
Presents were taped up, and sat out
So no one was peeking
As morning arose
They started to shout
Get up, get up
All of them speaking
Christmas is here
And there are no presents
They all started to pout
As the mother awoke
The father did to
To here the them crying
Boo hoo, boo hoo
As the mother came down
Flying down the stairs
She said to the children
Who were all sat in pairs
Wearing a frown
Why be so greedy
For having no gifts
Is that what Christmas
Is all about
As the children looked up
They felt so ashamed
They shouldn't of cried
And all of complained
Then the mother said
I hid the presents
So no one would peak
As the father fled
Up, up, up
He came back down
thump, thump, thump
Toys for the children
Who all had a smile
And fled into town
Carrying their items
They all sat down
In front of a shelter
They passed them around
Those kids that were there
Who once had a frown
Now were so happy
To be in that town
They dropped what they had
And the kids flew around
To see what they brought them
They were no longer sad
After seeing what they got
A little pink dolly
A little tug boat
A little horse and trolley
And big fuzzy coat
For the children that gave
Were only four and five
And maybe six years old
Which just says one thing
It doesn't matter how old you are
To spread Christmas joy
To those who are poor
And that is a Christmas
Laughery Creek , Indiana 47018
| I like to write poetry because it tells people a lot about yourself and it gives you a feeling that you can do anything if you try. I like to write poetry because it is fun to think of ways to write it and ways to rhyme. And I have fun doing it when I have nothing else to do
My love forms a language.
Words half- formed at the moment of loss
Shudder into darkness.
The accent and gesture of my heart
Reaches into hope and a golden sunlight before I know
That my knowledge of you is the intimacy of the unrequited.
When you are gone I kiss your
Name to the air and watch as it flutters
To the ground,
No more than a whisper of ash.
|I am 16 and live in a small and green corner of South-West England, i play the 'cello and the guitar and often watch films all night. I have written for years but this is the first time i have attempted any kind of "publishing" although some of my stage-writing has been performed.
I open my eyes each day, dreading the light.
The life within me, has lost all its fight,
yet knowing that living this way is not right.
I tell myself that today will be unlike the rest,
but I put on my mask, my true feelings and emotions are compressed.
Because I am no longer, who I was born to be,
the real me is hidden away, a buried spirit that was meant to be free.
It is just so much easier for me to hide,
instead of being myself, I go along for the ride.
Assuring myself that this is actually me,
that this is who I am, yet my heart seems to disagree.
A best friends tongue is never still.
As pathetic as it sounds, from others pain they get a thrill.
I still don't understand how they can live that way,
all I want to do is break away.
The falseness of peoples words gets beneath my skin.
I wonder if there is ever a way in which we can win.
The bitter tears of an angry heart,
are slowly tearing my world apart.
The biggest battle I fight each day,
is the one inside me, a self destructive game I love to play.
The feeling that I need to change
to be like the rest, and not be so strange.
But then I met you and I realized,
I could be myself and still be idealized.
Because being myself I was then very unique,
making my world seem so much better and a whole lot less bleak.
So now each day I wake up with a genuine smile,
making each moment count and each minute worthwhile.
Because life is to short to be wasting precious time,
living like someone else, being myself only part-time.
riding mountain, Manitoba, Canada
|I am just a simple teenager who likes to express myself through my writing so that people can see how I feel and that they may understand a little bit more about me.
"Just stop!" my friend cries angrily.
"Sorry," I say apologetically when I realize I've stepped on her pants.
I walk off to class I hear my friend saying, "I finally snapped."
I try to apologize but it doesn't matter
What's it like to feel so angry that you just snap?
I'll never snap,
I'm too good, too nice,
I'll never explode on my friends no matter how angry I get.
That's not to say I haven't felt like I could,
There were so many times so many days I could have snapped,
Could have stood up and said something
There were times when I wished I could just stand up and yell at all of my friends,
Tell them to stop it, to quit being so stupid,
But I didn't,
I'm always the mediator between two friends that fight
Always the peacemaker,
Never do anything to hurt another person,
No, I'll never snap,
Not too long ago I wanted to stand up and say that some of my friends don't care about me
Don't care what I think or what I say
Because it seems like they could care less,
Only talk to that friend or whisper to that girl
But never say a word to me,
Why don't you want to talk to me anymore?
Am I too nice, too nosy, too different from you?
What the hell is it that made you stop speaking to me, or at least not tell me what's going on?
When I ask you how you are you just shrug your shoulders,
Why I should even care?
They can snap on me,
They can ignore me don't tell me anything I don't care anymore
And neither do they,
They can be angry can yell and scream,
They can snap so easily,
But not me,
I'll never snap,
I know that if I did that it wouldn't do any good,
My friends don't see what goes on in my tortured head,
They never will,
But that's okay most of them can just be my friend,
That's all I ask,
They like me as I am
Don't care that I'm always the peacemaker always trying to find a nice comprise,
Didn't know what happened last year didn't want them to know
Most of them didn't know what drove me to hate myself,
Most of them don't care that I'll be depressed when they leave
Don't care that I hate some of them
Don't care that I actually miss my best friend,
Don't ever snap on me,
That's fine, I don't like to be snapped at,
Think it's stupid what people will snap over,
I could be like them,
Could get mad at me because I stepped on their pants
Could just talk to the other people I call my friends
But never talk to the one who feels left out,
I could snap,
But I never will,
No, I'm too good too nice too kind too caring too scared
Know it won't do me any good
Won't matter if I do that
People will stare and think I'm nuts
Wonder what it was they did wrong
Won't care that I wanted to stop them from hurting each other,
Just keep on fighting keep on hollering
Keep teasing each other
Don't know what it's like to be me,
Don't know how many times I could've done it
Could've stood up and said something
Could've stopped and yelled or screamed
I could have done something but didn't and probably never will,
I know that no matter what happens no matter who makes me mad,
No matter who hates who,
I know that I'll never
|Hi there hope this gets published! Anyway, my name is Heidi and I am 17. I go to Hoover and love to write short stories and poems, read books (bookworm), talk to my friends, and just enjoy life. Please give feedback if this DOES get published.
Love is Something
scattered, cloudy and wonderful.
Love is a hug, kiss, squeeze, smile, sigh.
A drop of sunlight to bask in,
A tingle deep in the heart.
A gut feeling, a now-or-never deal,
Threatening to burst if it is not shown.
Complicated, messy, confusing.
A glance, wink, a light in the dark.
Not clearly seen but always found, profound,
Deep in the cracks and scars of the soul.
A frown is frightened
Down is up and all is blurred
For one brief instant.
Always hoping, believing, trusting.
Blind and senseless
With only one cause.
Hard to find.
Harder to forget.
|About the author of Love Is...I'm a junior just trying to pass my English class withy what I can successfully pass off as poetry.
The Unseen ---- Fear
Omnipresent, I am there.
You try to run, but to nowhere.
The world is closing up on you,
I'm the one whom you can't outdo.
You wait for death to set you free,
The light that I won't let you see.
Courage lost within your soul,
You can't escape for I'm in control.
You shall never overcome
The weakness in you that I have found.
Death is but a mere fool's act,
Just one thought and I'd be back.
I am forever in your mind.
I am the one to whom you resign.
I am in whatever you do.
Though how you try, I'll always be cruel.
|About the author of The Unseen
I'm A fifteen-year-old studying in Singapore. I hardly write poems, I did this for an English assignment in school.
Wishing Adieu To Myself
Will be hard I know,
As I enter the Crowd,
Leaving my true self,
Behind..... far behind !
I know the wind of time,
Will blow me away from myself,
But I promise to hold on,
Hold myself as far as I can.
But I know there will be a time,
When I can no more withhold.
I also know,
The wind won't last long,
It will not continue after dawn,
This is but a period of trials.
All the parting can do,
Is, bring me closer to myself !
|I Cannot call myself exactly a poet, for I have LOT to learn in
He was late. Or maybe he wasn't. He never actually mentioned a specific time to when he would arrive, but it was long past the half hour that it took to get to her house. It seemed that she lived thirty minutes from everything. Bored from his absence, she rummaged blindly through her purse until finally retrieving a half-shattered mirror with a pink plastic handle. She had bought it already broken for fifty cents at a dollar store. Apparently, the clerk felt the need to mark down the price because of the cracks. Her mother asked her why she didn't bother with the extra fifty cents for a sound mirror. The cracks reminded her beauty wasn't just skin deep. Her broken reflection didn't change her on the inside. She put the mirror back. She was sick of waiting outside and began to dig her boots into the ice-covered stairs leading back to her house.
Once inside, she sat on the windowsill, pulling her legs up onto the wood with her, as to get a view of the road. She wanted to see the car as soon as possible, just turning onto her street, and this window held the best vision. The silence made her nervous. She put on some music, louder than usual, to drown out the stillness and the unnatural freedom that accompanied it. Gazing out the window, she noticed that it was a clichéd, dreary winter day. The sky was gray and dismal, the snow anything but the sparkling freshly fallen dust she had once trampled in as a child. She observed a solitary withered leaf fluttering, hanging by what seemed as a single thread to an almost bare branch of a nearly bare tree.
The yard held certain memories that tiptoed through her at that moment. She remembered running inside with a bloody nose after her brother had inadvertently decked her during a game of two-hand-touch. She remembered losing every sledding race even when she got a three-second lead's handicap. She never measured up in the past and wondered if she ever would. She lightly breathed onto the windowpane and watched as her breath stuck to the frost-covered glass. Fighting the urge to draw with her index finger her name or an "i love" followed by that month's current crush, she stared at her yard through the mistiness of the fog she created.
She moved her eyes haphazardly from the opaque of the window to the lucid, swiftly enough as though the two blended to form one mess of clarity and vagueness. She pondered if she were the fog of life's breath, stuck to the freezing window. A window helplessly made cold from the horrors of the outside. Maybe she tainted the outer world, only to find the interior comfortably warm and perfectly coherent. She continued to stare at the rapidly disappearing vapor even as the familiar red car sped into her driveway. He honked impatiently, though he was nearly twenty minutes late himself. Yet, she remained in the same position, perched atop the sill, studying the last remnants of haze and waiting a few seconds longer as it fully evaporated. It wasn't until after the glass became completely clear again that she abandoned the window and started on her way outside to greet him.
East Hampstead, NH 03825, USA
knock at the door -
you know you want to
see if anyone's home.
timidly pry it open
at a snail's pace
afraid to see what's beyond
my inflexible shell.
sneak a quick look.
I'm sorry -
you expecting someone else?
this is Me.
i enjoy the finer things in life -
cheesy poetry and flannel pj's,
chocolate milk and cigarettes,
star gazing and late night chats.
i could be your everything -
your extra hour of sleep on a Saturday morning,
the punch from your cup of coffee,
your milk and sugar.
they tell me I'm blind
to cling to some big shot like you.
but, oh contraire, my little aficionado,
blind i am not!
i am the fluky damsel who sees you
for all you truly are.
but isn't it just my luck
that the solitary girl who notices you
is the one you overlook.
take a step back slowly,
or two or three,
as if i might bite you any instant.
you don't want my rabies.
close the door behind you.
leave me be.
trapped in my shell
trapped in Myself.
East Hampstead, NH 03825, USA
A Different State of Mind
Whispers of a soft summer's rain
Dance wildly on the edge of my dreams.
Soulful melodies echo across the sweeping plains
Ringing out among the rocks and rills that cover the earth.
Time standing by, ever watchful, waiting for something
Coming soon and swift as light.
Rushing rivers, flowing streams
Rare to find the unbroken dreams
In a world torn by hate and sorrows filled
Where words sting and tears are spilled
Time standing by, ever silent, waiting in patience
For something comes on silver wings.
Put a smile in my heart and a song in my mind
This ever-present stillness surrounding my soul
Will sing evermore of troubles untold
Stirring feelings of what, I ponder it long.
Time standing by, ever doubtful, waiting in silence
For something is coming in dawn's first light.
Something, something-what can this be?
A nightingale, calling sweet songs to the heart?
A dream, soaring high above the very stars?
Perhaps a spirit of something unclean
Or is it my heart, returning to me?
Long shall I wonder until it arrives.
Something, something, invading my mind
Calling my heart, my existence and time
Can it be, oh my soul, can it be
An echo of love on a warm summer's breeze?
Hopeful in heart, body and mind-
Long shall I ponder this, the days of my life.
Hastings, Minnesota, USA
|About the author of A Different State of Mind
I was born in Minnesota, moved to Wisconsin, then to New York, and finally I am back here in Minnesota. I feel as if I've come full circle. While I was living in New York, in my freshman year of high school, one of the more popular senior boys died of meningitis. I wrote my first poem in an attempt to console my classmates. However, I'm not sure if it worked. Up until that point in February of 2000, I had always hated poetry. Ironic, huh. Anyway, after that first poem, I was addicted to writing. "A Different State of Mind" is my newest poem. I hope you enjoy it!
Ever since I was a little boy,
Like everyone to boot,
I've wanted riches, coins galore,
Without having to loot.
Growing older, I realized,
It'd be easier than thought.
For I have the sparkle, the outer gleam,
That everybody sought.
Although it won't be easy,
By any means, no doubt.
I know one day I'll make it big,
I'll yell, I'll scream, I'll shout.
Even if all people think this,
They all have to be wrong.
Cause I believe more than they do,
I know that I'll stay strong.
Regardless of the method,
By which I make the dough.
You'll be seeing my face one day,
On one of those great shows.
Hamburg, PA USA
On the Run
The running, that was all there was. Running and running and running. She blocked out her thoughts and tried to steady her ragged breath and her uneven steps. Couldn't she go any faster? Stupid forest path, all those stones and tree roots in the way, she thought, distantly but angrily. She could hear them behind her still, but she was already going as fast as even a desperate person could go. She closed out the rest of the world and concentrated on the running.
How long she had been at it she didn't know- several hours maybe? Had it been that long? Had it been that short? This morning seemed a few minutes and a lifetime away. Her feet hurt and her chest ached. All of her ached. She was an aristocrat- had been, anyway. She wasn't made for this kind of thing. Her ankle, particularly, was beginning to hurt- had she sprained it? Every time she put weight on it, it sent pain shooting up her leg. She tried to ignore it. It didn't matter, really. All that mattered was running.
The pain and the running.
It was very cold, she noticed as she ran. Was she wearing her coat? Or had she taken it off when she noticed it was slowing her down? She didn't dare stop and check. The soldiers would be on her in a minute if she did. I must look awful, she thought as she ran. Dirty, clothes torn, hair coming undone. oh, look at me, I'm acting like a noble again. That's over, and it doesn't matter how I look now. But it's so cold...
The cold, the pain, and the running.
Rain started to fall, not a gentle rain either but the harsh, icy winter rain which was far more common around here. She squinted, trying to see ahead as it slapped her stingingly in the face, turning the dust of the path into something that might have passed for a marshland. The wet quickly seeped through her clothes, making her heavy skirts even more awkward. But she had to keep running, despite the rain.
The wet, the cold, the pain, the running.
She tried not to think about anything, but it all kept tugging on her mind. Was her family still alive? Maybe. More likely not, though. And I certainly won't be, if the soldiers catch me, she reminded herself. Ironic, isn't it, that we were looking for a revolution all these years and we end up on the wrong side of it. We should have left well enough alone, maybe then they wouldn't have done this. we should never have gotten mixed up in all this. It's crazy. All it's brought us is trouble and pain and fear.
The fear, the wet, the cold, the pain, the running.
She paused for a moment and listened for the soldiers. She couldn't hear them anymore. It could be a trap, her rational mind warned. But the blind panic had subsided now, and all she felt was exhausted. She couldn't move anymore. She collapsed behind a tree and curled up, too tired to hide. She couldn't stay here long. Hopefully, her exhaustion wouldn't be enough to get her through a full night of sleeping on the ground. She would have to get up early to keep going. She should be going now. but no, not now. Tomorrow she would continue. Tomorrow she'd go back to it.
Go back to the exhaustion, the fear, the wet, the cold, the pain. And the running.
New Hope, Pennsylvania
|Emma has been reading and writing stories for her own pleasure and for her family as long as she can remember. She hopes you enjoy her work.
The key lay's imprisoned, jammed in such a confined space,
Sluggishly turns itself to unlock. The door so tamely awakens and
Tenderly opens, gradually so it does not disturb the peace. It
Successfully reaches midway when all of a sudden a cry of a creek
Storms out of the wood, and instantaneously the wood stands
frozen with reluctant, fear written all over it, "do not enter,"
Though the sign faded years ago.
She like a thief in the night, standing on the outside waiting to
Go in, so inexistenly steps into the property, step by step and
Listens to the silence, waiting for the sound of her death as her
Company is, somewhat not accepted here.
A wind surrounds inside the house urging to get out,
The screams pass through with the wind, this place too
frightening even for them. Should she follow the cries? Or enjoy the silence?
Seems as though she has no choice as the tornado so conveniently
managed to slam the door shut behind it, aw, how thoughtful!
She now stands with the face of sheer terror, the slamming broke off
the silence, killed off the freeze. Her eyes glare with fraught and
Disgust. Her savior was deceiving her, yet her anger died, she
Gave off a grunt and, regrettingly walks away.
She like a deprived child listens out for the depraved warning signs,
And hearing no words which wasn't unusual, continues to walk past
The infamous room so accurately, inaccuracy was something they all dread.
A roar from inside the room comes out, she, child again faints to the
Floor, locks her head between her quivering knees like a key imprisoned
and her hands surround her head so frighteningly tight, a
rhythmic rock begins to occur, back and fourth, back and fourth, she
waits so patiently for the clouds to wash over her, dreams of one thing,
cries, prays if she must, for the bruises she gains are hideable.
|About the author of Depraved Imprisonment. My name is Natasha and I am in year 11. I enjoy playing sports, piano and saxophone and love to draw. Poetry and other writing is something I have become very fond of, although I am not fantastic at it. But, I do hope you enjoy it.
You poisoned me,
needles invading through every pore.
You only gave me agony,
but kept me wanting more.
You couldn't help it,
just had to let your true self show.
Couldn't change your cycle,
It's all you'll ever know.
held me in captivity.
Threw your sticks at me,
made me into a sweet enemy.
You'll look back,
when you've lost all you've known.
You'll cry over who you are,
when you can't make it on your own.
You'll keep playing your game,
finding more people to abuse.
You like it that way,
you think you can't lose.
I will make you bleed,
when your sins come back to you.
But you still won't recognize,
all the terrible things you do.
You're going to feel empty,
head smashed from disgrace.
You'll think of all the people you hurt
and all the lies you couldn't face.
while you die on the inside.
You'll pat yourself on the back,
while you try to hide.
See my face?
It still haunts you in that place.
You killed me on the inside,
and I'll never let you have your pride.
So when you're nobody,
and I'm all you can see.
Remember I'm somebody,
and someone else is loving me.
I am a lonely girl at home,
Who cuts away the pain,
All of the pain inside is relieved,
I can now go on with the day
I am a boy who wishes they don't come home drunk,
I can feel the unloved tension,
I can't stand the non-stop abuse,
Will their beatings ever be mentioned
I walk the long road to school
With a feeling of guilt,
I remember last night and how he came in,
The feeling of hopelessness,
Deep from within
I am a lost soul
Who wanders with out any hope
Will I ever find the real me,
Will I soon learn how to cope
I am a boy who is a target to others,
They continually rant and rave,
However, if they only knew
Why I dress this way
I am a stranded teenager
Who injects herself daily,
I don't feel the pain or suffering,
The moments of hurt are forgotten easily
We look through many eyes,
So many happenings that are endured,
If someone only knew the reason,
And show some real concern
We are the lost and forgotten children,
Hidden behind a mask,
There are multiple things that we feel,
When will our forgotten hearts be healed
|About_the_author: I am a child who has been through difficult times. I have tasted the salt from tears daily but still continued on. I have not only shown myself that I can succeed in life, but also the people that doubted my ability to tell and show my feelings without being specific.
I have witnessed many things that I wish I didn't. I feel empathy to the hurt souls that walk this earth, that feel there is no way out. I only hope that this poem will help ease that pain and let you all know that you are not alone, and that other people feel your pain. I say this now, you have to continue on, in order to show those who feel like giving up, that you can succeed and you have always follow your dreams.
In the Darkness of the Night
In the darkness of the night
A flame was lit,
A holy light
To burn for all of eternity.
To the wretched of the world,
To all of those in need.
They marched in a single
Over the hills
And under the mines,
Searching for shelter
From the shadows of this Earth.
A light in the darkness,
A sanctuary from the storm,
A prayer in the void of hopelessness.
With their faith,
But without proof,
They made a pilgrimage
Without really knowing
Exactly where they were going.
All they wanted to do was leave
Behind their tears
And fly away,
Away from all their doubts and their fears.
Without a word
They silently fled from their hell.
Sneaking off to seek,
A beacon on the bay,
A haven in the rain,
A candle in the window,
In the night, a glimmer of the day.
They roved through
Secret, ancient valleys
Hidden by hills,
Enshrouded in a mystical mist,
And it seemed
They had been there in long-lost,
They did not know
The enemy's eyes
Were upon them.
Looking for a way
To stop them,
To rout their rebirth and renewal
And restrain them
From reaching the radiance of rapture.
He desperately tried to find
The source of the light
So he could put it out
And put an end to them.
So he could
Close the gateways,
Kill the blaze,
Stop light from escaping
Into the dim world,
And let them get lost
In a maze
Of menacing murk.
They sailed on the sea
For scores of starless nights
And darkened days.
Almost wishing, almost wanting
But never daring
To turn back.
Looking for even a little moonlight,
Hoping to catch a glimpse
Of a hint of color
In their world of black.
Though afraid and unaware
That they were coming close
To discovering the ocean of tranquility
And the island of ecstasy,
They journeyed on.
They were soon to break through
And reach the end of the night,
Finally come out into the light.
Where they went,
They'd never been,
But they were finally at peace.
No longer were their hearts troubled
And no longer were they left
Out in the cold
Except a storm to weather.
Though they had lived
In a wild forest
Of a world full of garbage,
They found a soft and sunny scent,
A candle that would ever burn,
Ever keep their souls warm,
A place they could always call their home.
Climbing a tree
Bonding with the earth
Waving in the wind
It pulls you this way
Deciding where the tree shall stay
Twist and turn
Under the wind's force
The biggest branches hold you still
Though they start to shake
You are moving with the tree
With the wind
Moving slowly softly
Letting you catch your breath
As the wind bothers something else
And as your tree resumes an unfit position
The wind returns
To mold it
As the potter molds the clay
Into a perfect tree
Which you are part of.
He and I talked a couple days ago,
I was having a bad day
He got me to talk about it,
Not very many people can
He made me feel wanted and important
Like I was a cherished person
We left so many things unsaid
If only I had to courage to say them
Idaho Falls, Id/ USA
|I am a freshman at Bonneville high and I wrote this poem about a guy friend who helped me through a tough time. to make a long story short, he asked me out two weeks later.
She walked by day and she walked by night,
She walked in rain and sunshine.
She never slept, she never stopped, her feet were always in time.
Worries a million always present but her willpower kept her going,
She struggled through day and she struggled through night, the world just kept on flowing.
Through stacks of work her weary mind toiled,
When the next day a thousand more lay coiled.
Her feet never faltered, her step always quick,
But thoughts of tomorrow came in fast and thick.
Forever she walked until she couldn't take anymore,
Outside her bold face flickered.
Up came a rush, a cry of misery, fighting from the depths of her heart.
But she could stop it she had to, of course, too late to start again now.
Alas, her anger, her misery, her pain,
Burst forth from her soul like a soldier slain.
Her voice loud and clear for many a mile,
Split asunder all the laughter and smiles.
That scream of sorrow was full of raw fear,
All her emotions bubbled out and left her empty with tears.
She sobbed out her heart, she sobbed out her soul,
The world had torn her apart.
But from the ruins of the mighty night-walker,
Rose up a few well-chosen words:
"I've walked by day and I've walked by night,
I've walked in rain and sunshine,
But never again will I walk like that, my feet will stay out of time."
Let History Repeat Itself
The sun was going down, though no one traveling the streets noticed. The streets were crowded with people of all shapes and sizes, some on horses and some on foot. The wheels on the few carts clattered and peddlers cried out advertisements for their merchandise. With all this confusion no one noticed the girl, intent on her destination, ducking between people. She was quite small and dirty with long ebony hair tied in a hasty tail down her back.
No one noticed either when she grabbed an apple off a cart and tucked it into her ragged frock. She pulled her cloak tightly around her and dashed down an alley. She clambered up a wall that had holes in the brick perfect for hand and foot holes and hoisted herself on to the roof of a building. She ran across the roof and shimmied across a rope leading to the top of another building. She then seemed to slow as if she was closer to her destination and indeed she was.
On this roof there was a make-shift shelter made out of a series of large wooden crates. She crawled inside one where a small boy lay asleep. She smoothed the boy's brown hair and he opened his eyes.
"Wren be that you?"
"Aye. Who else would it be you little bugger?" he smiled reveling small teeth that had not yet fallen out to allow larger ones to come in.
"I have something for you Johnny." Wren's eyes sparkled mischievously.
"Oh what is it?" his grin lit up his sweaty face.
"Close your eyes." He obeyed and she watched to make sure he didn't peek as she pulled the apple out of her dress.
"Open them." His eyes opened, though green they were darker than hers. When he saw the gift his face shown with delight.
"Oh Wren! It's wonderful a whole apple!" after this outburst he began to cough. It was a sickening deep cough that shook his entire body and Wren held him close to her until it stopped.
"Calm down now Johnny and I'll slice it for you." She rummaged in a pocket and pulled out a dull knife and proceeded to slice the fruit. Johnny watched with wide eyes.
"Wren where'd you get it?" he asked knowing the answer but in his own way not wanting to know it.
"Found it." Was all she said, and he didn't ask more. At only five years old Johnny already disapproved of stealing though he also knew they needed to eat. She handed the first slice to him and Johnny put it to his lips. No sooner had he done this than he began to sob. Wren dropped the apple and knife to embrace her brother.
"Johnny what is it? Child what is it?"
"I can't Wren. I can't eat it."
"Why not?' she asked quietly as he cried into her shoulder.
"I'm not hungry, I know I should be but I'm not." Wren held the small boy against her and could tell that his fever was raging.
"We have got to get you to a doctor." She whispered.
"No! Wren we couldn't pay."
"We'd manage." She picked him up and one handed threw their few possessions into a bag. She was able to carry him back down to the streets; moving with a practiced ease.
In the bag she had over her shoulder were Johnny's stuffed bear, her knife, and an old wrinkled and torn picture of her mother. The picture had been taken before the war and before the world had digressed to what it had been like thousands of years ago.
There was no electricity, no telephones, and no internet. Wren had heard of these things but they hadn't existed for decades. Her mother had told her stories before her death, stories of her father who had died in the War to Top all Wars, and of what life had been like before the war had broken out twenty years before Johnny's birth.
The war had lasted until two months after her little brother had been born and she and her mother had awaited her father's return. Wren had only met her father once and that had been right before her mother had gotten pregnant. He had been home for a month before the military called him back and though they hoped for his return he had never come back.
Her mother had died the year before in a fire that had destroyed most of their possessions and their home, and had left fifteen year old Wren and her four year old brother alone.
Now a year later she had thought she was doing fine until Johnny became ill, at first it had just been a small cold but had escalated to the racking cough, fever, and weakness.
So now she carried the small body down the street to the only doctor she had heard of that might care for him. She banged on the door.
"Doctor Spencer! Please open up! Please me brother needs help1 Please help me!" she screamed, the door opened to reveal a plump homely middle aged lady in the threshold.
"Hello dearie you do need help don't you? Doc! Come here please." Wren carried Johnny in further and was amazed by what she saw. The hallway was tremendous filled with statues and paintings.
"What is it Goody Wilson?" a tall but wizened old man entered straightening his tie. "Oh dear." Johnny had started to cough again.
"Sir please me brother." The man took the child in his arms.
"Come to my office." Wren followed the man through a doorway off the hall. Inside the room was a bed and some instruments that Wren didn't recognize. The man laid Johnny onto the bed. Self-consciously Wren stood near. The man rustled in a cabinet looking for something.
"Sir, before you begin I am not sure we'll be able to pay-"the man waved her off.
"We'll figure out something. Right now I just want to make this young man feel better." He took out a bottle. "How long has he had that cough?"
"About a week." The man glared at her.
"Why did you wait to bring him?"
"I knew we couldn't afford it." She said honestly. The man nodded.
"Poverty is immense." She nodded.
"Sir, can you make him better?" Johnny had fallen asleep and at least looked peaceful.
"I can. This all was so much easier before the war. Before the war people could go to doctors when they needed to and pay what they could. Now most physicians cost an arm and a leg. They use methods not used in a thousand years just to show off which could literally cost you an arm or a leg. All that blood letting and leeches though we proved in the 1900's leeches were useless."
"No blood letting sit? But that's essential!" Wren burst out.
"Who's the doctor you or I?"
"You sir. I apologize." Once again he waved her off. Gently he lifted Johnny's head and poured some liquid down his throat.
"Goody Wilson!" he called and the lady bustled into the room.
"Please take this boy and tuck him into a bed upstairs, I need to talk to his sister." Goody Wilson picked up the boy and carried him out of the room.
"Is that all sir? Just the potion?" she asked amazedly.
"Medicine, potion is for witchcraft."
"Medicine then, just that medicine?"
"Yes, that is a medication invented long ago. It is one of the few that survive today but it cures most diseases that kill." He seemed to ponder something for awhile and Wren uneasily shifted from one foot to another.
"Tell me girl does this interest you?"
"Aye. It does sir."
"Would you like to pay me back for helping your brother?"
"Oh aye sir I wis I would."
"You wis?" Wren blushed and stared at her worn boots.
"I mean I think."
"Well then. How old are you girl?"
"You don't look it. No matter. Would you like to be my apprentice?" the girl looked up eyes shining.
"Oh aye sir if you would have me."
"That I would. My boy is useless in medicine, he prefers to keep cooped up in his room writing an infernal novel." He smiled and wrinkles appeared on his forehead. Wren noticed also the crow's feet near the edge of his eyes. "He's about you're age." Wren nodded. "So then we are agreed? You will be my apprentice in return for your brother's care, room, and food?"
"Aye sir. That sounds wonderful to me." As she said this, a boy's face appeared in the doorway and it took Wren's breath away, He had violet eyes and blond hair with just a touch of red in it.
"Father don't tell me you've taken on another free case."
"No Oliver I haven't." the man sighed. "Meet my new apprentice." The man clapped a hand on Wren's shoulder.
"Oh. Please to met you er-"he held out his hand and Wren shook.
"Well then please to met you Wren McKnight." The boy came all the way into the room and Wren saw that he leaned on a crutch. She looked but both of his legs looked normal.
"Oliver please show Miss. McKnight to the room that Goody took her brother to."
"Yes Father." He started to leave and waited for Wren to follow.
"Sir, what do I call you?" the doctor turned from where he was beginning to put up his supplies.
"Just call me Doctor."
"Aye." Wren turned and followed Oliver up a flight of stairs.
"So you're my father's apprentice?"
"So I wis- think."
"Me mother. Me dad was Irish." The boy nodded.
"You must be wondering about the crutch." She opened her mouth but he went on.
"Don't apologize it always happens. My heart is weak. It was injured in a buggy accident that killed my mother. Dad and another surgeon were able to fix it a bit but it is harder to walk without the cane and it eases the strain on my heart."
"Oh that's horrible." He shrugged indicating he didn't want to talk about it.
"Can you read Wren?" he asked her suddenly.
"Oh aye. Me mum kenned and she taught me."
"We have got to do something about your speech. The words are my mum knew."
"Your's too?" Oliver shook his head and looked back to see the girl was grinning.
'I try but me tongue wants to speak me own way."
"Try harder. It'll come."
"Alright I will." She passed a room filled with books and couldn't help but stop. "Are those all different?" Oliver turned and saw her stare.
"Yes they are of course. Father hid them when the Western Alliance tried to confiscate all paper and now we have them. That's my room by the way."
"Wow. Your father says you are writing a novel?" Oliver grinned.
"It's finished actually I'm translating it into many languages. Do you speak any?"
"Aye me-er-my mum taught me French." His eyebrow shot up.
"Did she now? That's the one language that I don't know. Dad taught me Latin and Italian and Goody knows German, but nobody I know knows French."
"Well now someone you ken does. Er I mean know."
"Right. Wren would you help me?"
"Aye. But why are you translating it into so many languages?"
"So everyone can read my masterpiece." He brought her to a door. "This is, I guess, where you and your brother will be." He opened the door gently and she went in her eyes locked with his.
"Right." He cleared his throat and looked away. "I'll see you in the morning then."
"Aye you will."
"Yes you will." He smiled and left her. There were two beds in the room. In one Johnny already lay asleep and breathing steadily. On top of the other was placed a night gown and a note,
This belonged to the Doctors wife when she was girl and I think it shall fit you nicely.
Wren smiled. She liked this woman already. Silently she took off her clothes and slid into the nightgown. When she snuggled between the covers she realized how long it had been since she had slept in a real bed. Over a year she realized and closing her eyes she slept almost immediately.
When she awoke the next morning the sun was shinning through a curtain over her bed and she smiled and sat up stretching. She quickly looked to the bed next to her and saw that Johnny was lying in little boy pajamas that had no doubt been Oliver's. His eyes were open and he looked at her.
"Wren is this a dream?" she got out of bed and went to him.
"No Johnny at least I really hope not. How do you feel?" he smiled and she felt his forehead.
"By god you are as cool as a rock."
"No more cough either. And guess what Wren."
"I'm hungry!" she smiled.
"That's good." She helped him sit up as he was still very weak and she dressed and went to see if Goody would let her have some food for Johnny.
Goody Wilson did better than that she brought a whole tray of food up to the boy and he ate it all. He was still quite weak and after eating he went to sleep again. Wren joined the family for breakfast. At the meal Doctor spoke of many things that made Wren decide she was in heaven.
"Of course you both need new clothes, a doctor's apprentice can't go around looking like a ragamuffin. And Goody you can bring down Oliver's old toys for the boy to keep him occupied and as soon as he is well enough we will send him to school." At this Wren cut in.
"Sir I taught him how to read and write, and he ken-knows some math too.