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A simple song I sing
A single song I sing
A soulful song I sing
A steady song I sing
A stupid song I sing
A strange song I sing
A small song I sing
A strong song I sing
All these songs I sang
"Good luck in life," they told me. If only I had gotten that luck.
If in a world of hate, there's love,
Then I shall never rest,
For every breath I take, I fall,
Wishing for a chance.

In the city of the dead,
My brain is heavy in my head,
For all the souls that followed me,
Into a trap I had to set.

Maybe in another world,
The souls would never die,
But in this place of blood and hate,
All these demons cry.
I believe that everything, and nothing, has reason. Without that, why care?
5 letters I wrote.
5 pencils I broke.
5 letters forgotten.
My food is all rotten.
From spending my time staring.
At my pages that I’m tearing.
And I sit here and wonder: why are we alive?
To fulfill this doom where we no longer strive?
Or is it to ponder and question ourselves,
Where no one can help us and no one can delve,
Deep in our lives where we never had help.

And I’ve come here to ask this simple task.
Don’t leave us alone, in this helpless grey zone.
Where writers can’t write, and spirits can’t fight.
And people never forgive things that hurt them.
They spiral into mayhem
They cry out and scream, “How could you do this to us!”
“We’ve tried and we’ve tried, but we feel worthless!”
Then they cry and they cry and I pretend to sympathize.
Why is living so hard?
5 questions I asked, no answers I grasped.
I guess this is how I end.
Or maybe this is how I began.
i wrote this while ago. i wouldn't say it was good, i would say that it is bad, actually. but i wrote it so it much mean something to someone.
I wish that I was sea,
To splash upon the land,
Saying hi to the humans' limbs,
Playing in the sand.

A single breath a girl can take,
Before she slips below the waves,
To search the coral reefs that do,
Blanket the sandy lay.

We can be, with spite so high,
Birds that caw at the beautiful sky,
For we cannot even see,
The life within a sky filled with glee.
after a long day in classes, i sat for my dinner and wrote this. i wish, sometimes, that life was as easy as poems.
i am a piece of broken glass lost at sea,
i am sharp; quick; clean; unforeseen
i am slowly ground down into the sand—
softer and softer i go in its hand
i drift slowly nearer to the humans' humble abode
until i wash ashore uncovered, i groan,
i am stuck in the land of the living
sea glass is nothing more than what humans are giving,
i am a piece of sea glass in his collection
when he found me? i have no recollection
he is me and i am him,
people have no clue that he is my victim.
i feel a deep pull in my chest when i think too hard about the sea. its deep, unknown bottom, its darkness. the sea is a good metaphor for the world.
poets are pain
pain is hurt
hurt is blood
blood is red
red is poppies
poppies are war
war is hate
hate is horrid
horrible things come with a cost
and cost is something not forgotten a lot
and not forgotten is remembered
and remembered is never forgotten
and never forgotten are poems
and poems need poets
and poets are pain
As a kid, i would think the world was ending from the sound of a loud semi-truck. pain is everywhere if you listen hard enough.
the grey against the blue sky,
      metal bars,
            power coursing,

it pokes high above the horizon,
      tall,
           mighty,
                     human,

nova scotia's hills don't rise up nearly as far,
     flat in all directions,
                  textureless, and
                                  so, so wide,

large trucks drive beside the tower,
      small,
            pathetic,

A bigger truck comes by, washed in red,
      loud,
            bright,
                    blaring,­
    
the smell of smoke upon the suits of the
     brave,
           the daring,

the big, blue, cloud-filled, wonderful sky,
       blue no longer,
                    their hope,
                             lost in minutes,

no death, yet so much smoke,
      smoke,
            like the swirl of sand in water,

the water sitting near the strong metal bars,
       the telephone tower,
                         still tall and mighty,

the water with the highest tides in the world,
       rippling hard,
                  against the rocks on shore,

orange buoys float roughly in the harbour,
     a line to never,
                     ever cross,

kids will boat out there with their paddles,
     the breeze knocking them,
             side,
                  to side,

and the world breathes in, for it holds all,
       good or bad,
                  and it is full,

full despite everything.
i was spending my lunch in a gazebo by the water when a fire started in a building in the next street over. such a beautiful day, too beautiful something had to be taken away.
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