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Once I get home, I sit outside after a long day. Everyone wants to talk to me, but I don't really have anything to say. I like to keep to myself, because it ensures that I will not be in pain.
To not only be able to tell mineBut to shed a flickering light onto othersA glass eye behind the lensPeeking into the lives of all
At 1 year old, I said my first word. “Mama”, I said in bold, thinking I was already old. At 3 years old, my parents told me goodnight stories; stories of dreams,
(slam poem, meant to be performed out loud) Too often, their eyes glaze over. Mine did too, before, before I stood in front of the burning bush and begged God to reconsider.
Ink on a page Filled with color Lines of stories never told Sequences of secrets Never unfold People never breathed into creation
Bring me your poetic thoughts From far off lands And daring tales of adventures you missed. Show me your wild lies With wild eyes And speak poetry to me.
I pity the souls who fail to see The wonder and beauty a story can be Whether it be the delicate blots of black on crisp page Or the utterings of grand tales around stone set ablaze
Thoughts bleeding in my head. Idea's screaming, in my mind. A single pen, in my hand. The only paper, I could find. Unused ink, written words unsaid. Inspiration,
the multitude purpose of story-telling enjoyment, escapism, enlightenment, lose yourself in a story lose find yourself through a story use a story to find your own
If someday soon, The world should end... If light should no longer flow Into the awakened eyes of each day, In everyone who has risen once before; If humanity ceases to be, I do not think it is the end.
I have found the story Of a young girl who thought she knew the world, Idealistic and overly-praised as she was, Running free as her wild ocean eyes. I have found the story
I see a forest, tall trees with a plethora of green, An enchanting white mist surrounding the trunks,
Can one really tell our lives? Are they possible to describe? To list blatant truths Find the subtle lies Remember, record, and all in between Should we do it ourselves?
Paper constantly gets the award for creative potential Creating Creations with artistic purity that’s essential
There was once a princess in a far away land Who was offering up her marriage hand However all the princes that had come a calling Found her behavior gross and appalling
Hello children, My name is Peter, Peter Pan And I am here to introduce you to the magical world known as Neverland Where children step foot into paradise
Your three pigs, all small roundabout figures Narcisstic parasites that do all but quiver. Your three pigs, are found to be dead. It is not my fault, I did not make their bed. I told you once, twice, now thrice.
When I say "homeless," what do you see? Someone dressed in dirty clothes, out on the street? Someone with a cup, asking for change so they can eat? Someone who struggles to get back on their feet?
Who stole the light from your eyes? I would say don't give me that face But I know there must be a reason for it A reason I cannot solve Nor stop, Nor save
Once upon a time, All the stories and nursery rhymes floated through the air, filling the room with magic and hope. Back when we were innocent, and didn't know that that isn't how the world works.
What am I? To be fair, I'll give you hints. You may think me clever. You may think me dull. Depends on my contents. This is what hold within. Within me I hold the key to enteriung new worlds.
The only legend I have ever loved is The story of greed and a grateful sparrow. A man was honest His wife was full of greed He found a sparrow hurt and scared,
I've been having nightmares about you after the sun leaves the sky, Every. Single. Freaking. Night. Telling myself that the info received is dry, would be telling myself a lie: I repeat, my nightmares are not lies.
My world is empty my world is full my world is dark and harsh but not cruel my world is old my world is new my world is mine only wish i could show it to you my world is fast
s t o r y o n eMy Jetpack Blues turned into Danger Days; so the Black Parade stopped long enough for the American Beauty/ American Psycho to pass by. For
Blink bright light Sun dances Across my bare shoulder blade and cheek Blink Pink hands Grasping sheets
With heavy feet, I treadForcing myself to my bedI lay on my backBreath in and outAttempting not to focus on what I lack
Souls stride with unbridled passion, Beings coalescing into a society as A heterogeneous fluid of Raw, fearlessly flawed humanity. Yet why is it
one of the saddest things i've ever known is the weighted feeling that comes with understanding there is some no so much beauty in
They never talk about this. They never talk about what happens after. When the crowds leave. When the pomp and circumstance has faded. When there's nothing left but me and him.
My peers look at me. They expect to see something that I simply am not. They want to see a good girl. Who has it all going on. Grades. Body. A strive for excellence.
Originally this was all about emotion, But in my mind that caused a commotion. Because I don’t write for the benefit of me, I write for the enjoyment of little chickadees.
He sailed out to sea to fish a day's wage but the sea did not like him and threw him in rage. The waves got so tall and the sails got so taught, that the little old sailor gave up his day's plot. He huddled down low filling buckets with water to d
Typing inching Eyelids tiring Heroes crying Villains dying Sleep depriving Caffeine failing Planets burning Magic learning Resolve crumbling Block existing.
I could live all by myself, Yet never be alone. Two covers and a spine, Can make a charming home. Wallpaper of rustling pages, Songbirds warbling in verse,
How could I stop? How could I just throw all those years away? Leave behind that little jewerlry shop? Act as if my characters don't have a say? I need to write.
I can’t live without a story. It’s harsh to say it, but that’s the truth. When everyone who loves me is gone, if I live on, I’ll mourn and cry and try to deny it. But in the end, I will survive—
When my person is forgotten When my body is rotten, dead I'll still live on forever Through the stories in my head They have strong, brave people They have weaker ones as well
I wander a street, Admiring the buildings to either side. A diverse collection of history In two-by-fours and I-beams.
Read me a storygrasp me in tightrecall your bedtime luxuriesthat befall be a Goodnight.I'm still waiting. .
I feel so alive in my chimerical head,Lying here in my past, not yet left for dead.I’ve gone places near in a cartographer’s words,But light years away, ‘twixt fire-winged birds.
She traveled for days, in a maze with no direction destined for an escape from depression driven by disaffection By fate she felt a connection They ran until he was cuffed into oppression Later she had a baby on the way
The quill slides over and into the inkwell the battle 'gainst evil begins then promptly the clash of the two sided sword rings louder with the side that wins. a story, a plotline
Earth's memoriesBuried deep in stonesThey remember large creaturesThe cataclysmAnd the fallSometimes they show picturesOr give bonesBut I hear their wordsAnd I write their stories.
Before you I wrote tradgeties A tail of woe, that ended with the downfall of the main character While I loved you I wrote happily ever after
Somewhere past today standsA shattered, forgotten land.Unrestrained, creeping sandsShift with each breeze's whineHeroes yet to comeSome loved by all, all loved by some
Most people think to much I'm usually one of them Except for times when I should In those moments I like to tell myself stories Like when I lose my boyfriend In a shitty part of town
Pages upon pages Bound so tight Cover to cover
I travel the whole world
it’s 7am and she’s scrolling picking up her phone before getting out of bed she’s liking photos for breakfast. stretching and turning—under covers because there’s something more comforting
My mother is weak And I cannot stand it She is feeble, stupid, and plain Who are you? And where is the woman that I once knew? You’re a weakling, darling A scaredy little ghost
She wrote stories to keep her warm at night Some nights they were blankets curling around her toes and cradling her neck Other nights they were kindling in the meager fire at her feet
I am not going to give a sob story I am not going to give a glory story I do not have any horror stories to give But if you look into my heart you will see the only story I live You will see who I am
Tell me a story, Father
I could tell she was upset by the way she carried herself. Her back was stick straight up and her fingers were tightly intertwined. I knew that she thought if she looked poise she would have it all together.
The Shaman spent his entire life healing the poor, the sick, the hungry beggars.
This is my happy place, where no one else can intrude, This is my happy place, where characters are all of my own making Man, woman, child, teen, mermaid, dragon, toaster It doesn't matter here, because they're all mine
I reach into the shadows and my hand touches your face, Every single line of yours my fingers pretend to trace, I wonder - could this torture last forever? My love, I'm seeking you in shadows,
Losing you wasn't a part of the plan... It's hard being me but god didnt plan to make it easy.
You may have lost yourself, But not me. I'll always have you in my memories. But now, you have family and friends there for you. Even though they'll get mad at you from time to time, But don't care.
Belle, meaning beauty from the land of France We remember from the movie how she put Beast into a trance But remember how her nose was always in a book, She received taunts from the one who falsely loved her, Hook...
As a child who loved to readI grew up with stories all around me.Stories of courage, of adventure,of little girls who weren't afraid to dream. Those stories shaped me into who I am,
Wildwose and rider And drowsy nightingale. Bird in scrubby bushland Letting sleep prevail. Bellerophon robber Pegasus did take Horsefly was his ruin Wanderer did make.
My heart ached as I put my pen to the paper, dreading what would come next.
I can romanticize anything Books, jobs, boys Toys! This list is endless. I am a clear romantic at heart I can spin a tale and have that tale Be invigorating, special, fun, exciting
Whether you are Rugged and Disheveled
I dream of having a story to give. I’ve never experienced a drive-by shooting, military recruiting, bank looting. I smell car engines polluting, watch students computing, and listen to Justin Timberlake suiting.
A seahorse's tale
I used to talk a lot, I don't talk too much now. Because everyone else is talking,
Most have heard or read the animated anecdotes of the dead. They are given with joy and wrapped in a bow - - stories of life, of music, of love. But all anecdotes end. Few ever say or re-claim
Oh Sweet Jesus no, please no, you're at it again Repeat and- oh, re-repeat? You're not making much sense Every day with impressive display you walk this way and articulate
Once there was a little girl. That is how this story began. She was a lost little girl, confused by the world around her. She had gone into a forest. Deep, deep into the forest she went.
If you don't read, you don't know me. If you haven't lived a thousand lives Haven't sighed a thousand sighs Watched a thousand people die You can't know me If you don't read, you don't know me.
From the depths of dark nothingness came a person: the Writer- walking. She carried a light a pointed, glinting weapon sharply yellow- illuminating.
It's in the nightwhen I feel myself taking formthe midnight stars clothed in indigo velvetpressing on my flesh, my soulgiving it substance and I am being born
When I was young My Daddy read me stories as I drifted to sleep And I watched in awe as the peaceful melody of words evolved into symphonic wonder; a castle, a wish, a hope shone in my Daddy’s eyes.
At seventeen,I am reading the same stories I did at ten:Tamora Pierce, Phillip Pullman, Rick Riordan, Kristen Cashore-and the list goes on.Rented from school libraries and Sulzer regional
Il est de la plus riche couleurCelle d’une cerise mûreOu peut-être d’une fleurQu’on donnerait à son amoureux.
Where would i be without a pencil and paper, a thought or a rhyme? Where would i be without emotion? Where would i be without poetry? How would i express my life to others without a map of guidance?
What is your story? Sad or happy, I don't care, As it is, no lies.
A couple of smoothe dry pages moved by the soft hands that control ages,of thought and the process, protest of an incapable body,not yet devoloped but getting there,enveloped a sudden hidden share,of a mess.
Whisper, whisper in my ear. Tell me a story no one wants to hear. Invite my soul into yours. Let me walk with you upon the shores. And when I have drank the thought from your mind,
Along the river I did sit, Poised with pen and paper, Prepared to write the stories, The atrocities, the monstrosities That had befallen many a soldier.
The rain was cold and nipped the skin, The Thunder boisterous, And the Lightning un-disciplined. It teased the silver Guardian While the thunder spoke in a lion’s roar Of the approaching soul.
Sometimes certain situations are just so hard to deal with, other situations are easy, but the hard ones teach you a lesson in life, weather its for the worst or the better.
I often look to the yellow lillies in the garden on campus Friends pass me and time shifts Is it not the success that people want? Or perhaps it's the driven motive in which we attempt to strive Unjust it truly is,
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A million times I’ve told you before Not to travel alone at dark It’s impossible to even the score For there’s a beast within the park It’s eating the livestock It’s eating your kin