what happend,

without opinions

stearing us down

paths that we

go down unknowingly?

How do you tell a

story without putting

your thoughts in the mix

of ingredients that you have

hand picked to fit your needs?

You try, and even fool yourself

into thinking you know the truth,

Here's a little secret;

You don't.

You might think you have

clear separations between

fact and fiction.

If you look closely;

the lines blur too much.

Sometimes I wonder,

how I would see

something if I had no emotions,

if I couldn't lean towards one side.

Through this whole new lens,

our own crafted world

would look alien. 

I remain trapped

in a moment that

never happened.

As the cold creeps

up my spine,

standing on the bluff.

My eyes trace the drop. 

A blanket of snow covers

the world I see.

I turn around. 

The woods faces me.

A predator waiting to

pounce?

A mother seeing her

child?

A secret waiting to be

told?

I enter without thought,

what is waiting can chose

to show. 

My words are so often pointed

Cold and hard like the sculpted corner of a block of cement

I can't cut out the edge,

The biting sting each line weaves.

I only really know how to write anger, fear, sadness

The pounding physicality of pain

And the all-encompassing feeling of longing 

While knowing your target is unreachable. 

The only time my words come alive, evoke emotion

Are when they are tinted through a lense of fierceness

That is too ugly for the average person to want to look at.

But how do I remove my righteous fury?

The pain of a lifetime condensed into a single poem?

How can I not overflow with anxiety, pour it into writing

And inject into into the views of the world's eye? 

How could I ever water down the acid I feel tumbling in my stomach,

When the world is crumbling down around us at this very moment? 

I see pieces of her face

Every time I look in mirror

When I smile

I feel my cheeks morph into hers

When the world melts around me

Her voice is the one in my mind 

Drowning out my own

I see her cardigan on my shoulders

Even when it's not 

And when I cut my hair

Her curls slip from the scissors

In a crowd I feel her height

In my crooked steps

Eye-level at other people's necks 

When I rock

I feel her fingers dig into my shoulders

Even when I'm alone 

My body is an echo of hers, 

And I do my best to strap it in

Tie up my chest

Squeeze the air from my lungs

Slap the smile off my face

Crush the mirror

And scratch the scars on my arms off.

I don't want to be her

But I still am. 

Idk I don't really like this one, but was considering posting it for the theme of "kids" in the poetry contest.

~~~~~

The ball hits our racquets

Back and forth

Back and forth

And there's silence

Except for the ball bouncing

Against the empty court,

Against our racquets;

That's the way it is with me.

Heat drips down my shoulders

Liquid sun pooling at my brown

And just because it's September doesn't mean it's cooler 

Just like I read in that Ask magazine as a kid.

On the walk home you say you like Summer best

I say my favourite has always been Winter

And we debate whether freezing to death or dying in the desert would be better;

That's the way it is with us.

Summer has always been a symbol of youth for me:

I used to want to outgrow it,

Now I don't want to look, lest I be reminded of my age. 

Summer is an era of summer-camp and sports and heat

When I'd rather be reading in the cool cellar at home

That's what we share in common.

Precociousness is what they call it,

A curse is what I call it.

We think we're all grown up and mature and try to outrun it

Until its too late and gone for good. 

All right, here's one of my poems about Alexander the Great that I posted about on Random Thoughts :) The other one's much longer, but I kind of like this one.

alexander the great

1+1=2, they tell you

but i know the exception to that:

one prince and one stallion and one heart

And here's another one~

windflame

a young prince

proud, quick, the spark of the court

with a loved one who loved him and the orange trees and now this quick fiery spirit dark and powerful under his hand

fire leaps to fire, and in the marble courtyard where the white orange blossoms were fluttering down to give way to actual oranges,

ringed by people who were proud and uncertain of their princeling,

with the immortalized rememberances of his forefathers scarcely more important than this present in his hands and the future he was claiming,

he made possible the impossible, sprang onto the black flame of stallion and laughed into the wind as they turned and were one,

and laughed into the wind because he knew he was alexander the great.

How many promises do I have to break

Before you realise I'm not the One?

I'd love to be the One, it would make me happier than anything else

But deep down I know

I'm not the One.

How could someone as imperfect as me

Ever make you happy forever?

How could someone so broken

Not tear holes in your heart over time?

I've tried to sand down my rough edges,

Cover them in cushioning

But I've done too well and now you think I'm safe.

I know I'm not as put-together as I seem.

I'm always breaking, then glueing, then breaking in a different way.

I know you could find someone better,

I promise, and sadly that's not one that will break.

You say you don't want anyone else, and I'm flattered,

But I know that could change in a blink. 

You fell on first sight (that's a red flag in my book)

And I know you could fall out just as fast

As soon as you see the real me.

After all, I show you glimpses every time I break down in front of you

And you don't seem to like it.

I don't think you realise that falling apart is me.

I think you think the mask I glue to my face is me.

I'm sorry, but that me is only a figment of our imaginations.