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I romanced my pen and paper, and it was very sexy...

Fabulous Killjoy
Age: 29
Gender: Female
Posts: 115
May 5th, 2009 at 09:47pm
I write poems to vent anger and...well, all those other, less dominate emotions Wink
They arn't very good, at all. They're free form, they don't always rhyme, and they prolly only make sence in my head
I might be wrong,

This one I wrote in like 20-30 minutes yesterday.It's free form and meant to be read out loud, fast paced. It just sounds better like that...

here it is

Our Tied-Up Society

The world today is pretty screwed up,
Drugs, sex violence there’s never enough.
More guns, more gore, more blood splattered on the floor, brains on the ceiling.

Kids see shootings and suicide without any feeling.
Never understanding that all life has meaning.
Watching CSI, crime scene investigator
Telling you how they died but never what happens after.
The morning families and the funeral papers,
Maybe their little children with no one to change they’re diapers,
Or teach them to ride a bicycle.

Little kids watching murder on T.V. while there mama is getting shot in the streets.
She’s walking home from her job at the store,
She’s trying to deliver for her sons the way their daddy wouldn’t.

But she’s dead, cuz a bullet hit her, square in the head.
Now, she wasn’t the target but it’s never safe on the street.
Her killer flees the scene, leaving someone else to find her body in their high beams.
Still warm.

Her sons, 9 and 11, don’t now it,
But the life they had once is over,
Now they are orphans, their daddy gone and their mama dead.
They’re gonna go live with a foster family instead.

No real family, no real home, the two last brothers are all alone.

Now they’re older but they’ve grown colder to the world, all the good people in it,
Only seeing the evil.
They’re shooting up, shooting down,
The innocent, just like they’re mama’s killer did.

And maybe they’re kids will too.

And so the vicious cycle begins.
And until someone takes the high rode it will never end.

We are all struggling, to strive and thrive and survive, against society,
And all of it’s constraints.

Were all pushing against each other, trying to get ahead,
But we seem to be digging our own grave instead.

Races, countries, nations, all fighting for power,
While dozens of starved children are dying by the hour.

Murder, rape, and fighting dominate our streets,
Through all the noise, little children are trying to sleep;
They have school tomorrow, they’re trying to get ahead.
But it won’t matter if they’re going to end up dead,
At the hand of another.

Our prisons are overflowing,
Just like the babies in our dumpsters,
Yet were disposing of the innocent
Instead of the killers.

Criminals, diverse as their victims
Living their lives in 10x10 cells,
While the people whose lives they ruined,
Living on the outside,
Are trapped too.

The innocent living with trauma,
Struggling to move on,
Forever effected by wrongs done when they were so young.
To short to reach the door knob,
To escape their mental prison’s.
No key to undo the lock.

Not that all crimes warrant death,
It just seems twisted to me that were willing to kill unborn babies,
Potentials still unknown,
And not convicted felons.

Babies who could have grown to cure cancer or the common cold.
We’ll never know because they never lived later
Than their first stages of life.

Look, what I’m trying to say is this:
We could start ending this madness today.

Teaching a generation of the morals we used to hold dear,
We could create a better nation.
And a better one yet for they’re children,
And they’re children’s children.
Picking ourselves up today.
Brushing away the dusts to yesterday.
And reaching for a better tomorrow.

Moving on, united as one people,
As one cause.
Moving to bring back what used to be so beautiful in the world:
And tradition.

Every step we take in the right direction is one away from our own destruction.

We may have dug our own grave,
But we don’t have to lie in it.


...any comments? Embarassed
Fabulous Killjoy
Age: 29
Gender: Female
Posts: 115
May 6th, 2009 at 06:11pm
Wrote this yesterday in like an hour. It sucks but I really like it.
Little Emily

Little Emily, only 14 years old,
Sits all alone.
She has no friends.
The world is cold.

Children, mean and sneering,
laughing and joking around,
she can’t help but wonder ‘What about?’

Surly not.
Just because she isn’t perfect?
Not slim or pretty or sweet or cool…
‘Maybe….it is me.’
Emily is just herself,
and at school that’s not enough.

Emily is not good enough.
“Emily is a looser.”
“Emily is a freak.”
“Emily is stupid.”
“Emily is a geek.”

She takes a bite of her food,
but lunch is no fun without anyone to talk to.
She tosses the brown sack in the trash as she walks out the door.
She doesn’t relax until her feet hit the floor,
of the lonely middle school corridor.

Alone in the hall she hears only her feet,
beating out a steady one-two.
She dances along to her own beat.

Emily spins ‘round on her thick black heals,
twirled by a handsome man, unseen.
He pulls her back with his big strong arms.
Real, but only in her dreams.

She imagines her favorite song, blaring out over the PA,
Proclaiming to the world, ‘I’m Not Okay’

She imagines the revenge she’d take on them
The way they’d beg and plead,
The tears of fear welling in there eyes”
“No!” “I’m sorry!” “Please!”
But the cold trigger she would pull,
and blow them all away.
Leaving Little Emily to stand,
and laugh another day.

She smiles at the thought.

Killing her seemingly flawless piers,
exposing they’re human frailties and fears.

She spends the rest of the hour locked inside a girls room stall,
tapping her foot against the floor,
and humming a private song.

Trying not to cry
but knowing she has to got back.
At the sound of the bell,
she’s under attack.

The next to periods go by in a blur,
than she goes back to cry some more.
Because this hour is gym class.
And heaven knows full well,
the ‘pretty girls’,
will give her hell.

Than the last bell rings,
and the halls soon clear,
and Little Emily, finally set free,
can escape her container.

The house she shares with her parents is empty,
Not that they really live there anyway.
Lately all they seem to do is work,
They don’t sit for dinner and they don’t go to church.
They don’t care if Emily is struggling with her classes.
It’s her job alone to see that se passes.

They don’t care if she hardly makes a peep.
Or that she’s all alone week after week.

‘Maybe they like it that way,
when I stay out of trouble.’

But she is in trouble,
as anyone can see,
by the state of her arms,
when she pulls up her sleeves.

Once angry red cuts,
now only white scars,
riddle her skin up and down her arms.

Places she’d let steal prevail,
as punishment for making every attempt into a fail.

Showing where a razor had been,
seemingly to purge her of sins.

Pain, to break through all the numbness.
Pain, to make her feel alive.
Pain, to punish herself.
Pain, to feel something…anything.

She leans into the mirror of an immaculate upstairs bathroom,
all that see sees is fake and ugly.

Eyeliner to hide the redness from her tears.
Sleeves to cover her guilty scars,
a mask to hide all the pain.

Little Emily looks at an unknown girl,
dressed all in black.
She stand staring at Little Emily,
and little Emily stares right back.

‘Who have I become?’

And suddenly Little Emily can’t take it anymore,
She dives for an old friend residing in the bottom drawer.
Promising to kiss away all the pain, he awaits,
Whispering to Little Emily to come, and seal her fate.

Pushing the razor into tender flesh,
in her lungs, her breath does catch.

Than she sinks down into a black gloom,
making the bathroom into her tomb,
Going to meet her strong, dark groom,
whom she danced with just that day.
Little Emily, only 14 years old,
Could have been sleeping,
Except for the blood,
and the slit in her wrists from whence it had come.

Forever stained the white floor will be,
by the blood spilled in the end of our dear Emily.
And so will be the minds of her piers,
The ones who had each driven her there.

Little Emily now lies dead,
leaving others to wish,
they had listened, instead.


Embarassed Embarassed Embarassed
Helena Rush.
Awake and Unafraid
Helena Rush.
Age: 31
Gender: Female
Posts: 10158
May 6th, 2009 at 06:53pm
WOW! Oh my God!
They're amazzzing.
The one about Emily..was..
fucking kfgknncvncsi[skng!
Seriously. I can see that becoming a song.
It's soooooo catchy, it rhymes, and the imagery is all there! You're great at this
Fabulous Killjoy
Age: 29
Gender: Female
Posts: 115
May 6th, 2009 at 08:01pm
Wow, thank you so much Very Happy that's a high complement Wink
Age: -
Gender: -
Posts: 16
May 7th, 2009 at 02:58pm
i really like your two poems they are wonderful i can relate to some parts of both of them....Very Happy

hope to read more of them
Dream of Falling
Bleeding on the Floor
Dream of Falling
Age: 31
Gender: Female
Posts: 1615
May 7th, 2009 at 09:24pm
Wow, I love them both, but I really like the Emily one! Awesome job on them. Smile Very good.
Fabulous Killjoy
Age: 29
Gender: Female
Posts: 115
May 9th, 2009 at 02:21pm

Age: 29
Gender: Female
Posts: 14
May 22nd, 2009 at 09:42am
omg i cried when i first read the emily one! its is soo amazing! =)
good job poet of the month for me!

and btw my name is emily so I really could relate to it even more than most people.