' You Me And Poetry Scholarship Slam '

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  Today's the day. The day for play, the day for jumping around, if I may. The sun is shining, the wind is clear, and I can’t help but notice the fine men up here. 
She whispers her melodies in the early morning, soft yet bold,  her blue green soul, hypnotic and chaotic is the sea,  unyielding before me.   
I want to go to Target but the Mayors on the TV says he won't let me out so I sit at home and pout The Amazon guy visits my house like two times a day I got nothing else to do so I just order stuff and pay
I don’t feel comfortable in my own skin, But it feels better than being in my mind. I dread the hour when I must find 
Drive is essential. The thirst for succes and change  Is quenched by hard work.    Qualifications Help me reach my potential. Pushing my limits.   Work ethic needed
I met a stranger n the dark We talked and talked, till sunrise come. Together, we had a love spark Glisten in his eyes made me numb. Everything is alright with you, Then I know this can be true.  
Apollo sits, thinks Tapping his knee, "she's late again," he sighs, "as always."
Zeus, Lord of the Sky God of Planes and Flying Things Pilot, Now is He  
Oh, how Patroclus wished for a chance... To be heard and to be glanced. By no one else but Achilles, the strongest man on the field.   
Sinful freak, Why must you choose this torturous path?   Forcing yourself Into the wrong body, eliciting the urge to tear away your own skin, compelling your brain to despise the flesh you were given. 
There's a lady I know that stands on the road Everyday I watch her struggle with her load I watch her banter with the other women as she sets up She laughs as she unwraps corn and drinks from the same cup
For years and years I faced the sun Till one day I was on the run Scared and lonely with no place to go Depressed and suicidal, I had no home   My petals were falling My roots were failing
I was nine, told to sit up straight and cross my legs I was told that all eyes were on me I was told at stores to never beg I was told that I had to be The best version of who I was 
Once upon a time a young kid was handed everything he thought to himself I am the king His mother came home one day tired  the son gave her directions to what he aspired  The mother didn't think too kind of it 
The crashing of the waves  the ultimate test of time the soaking stance we stand by the shores is up to us will we listen to the oasis of the wind and sea the earth and its sun stricken surface
I stop your breathing I make your knees wobble I flutter around in your stomach I make you cry, chanting in your ear,
As I open a new book I peek at the first page and take a look I pack my mental bags for I know I'll be going on a wonderful trip Tp a world of romance and mystery Nonfiction, fiction, and sci-fy works for me.
Stop being a liarOwn up to your mistakesStop being a liar Don't you see you're a disgrace ? Stop being a liarTears falling down my faceStop being a liarYou're a manipulating slave
Venn DiagramBy: Jacqueline Padilla   
The Game That Calls   Basketball… Teach me to score with ease Teach me to play as a team
confusion and understanding guiding with a blindfold on, not ever knowing exactly what to teach in the exact order I've followed in your footsteps for years now learning one thing at a time
Since I was young I wanted to put on a show, I didn't know what but I wanted it to flow. The type of hero that could take down any foe, Something this dark world could see shine and grow.  
Since I was young I wanted to put on a show, I didn't know what but I wanted it to flow. The type of hero that could take down any foe, Something this dark world could see shine and grow.  
Ever since I can remember, poetry has been by my side. It's as bright as an ember and lights my way like a guide.   It has been with me each grade of my academic life. Each time an upgrade,
Tears stains on pillow I shed them every night Running through dark memories When I should've block it with light. I hear my baby crying, She's not in the room. Her cries are in my head...
Have you ever been on Poetry Soup?  Short poetries are posted by this group A popular website for poetry lovers Unfortunately I am not a writer or blogger My little escape, I spend hours to read them
Poetry origin is of humble beginnings, both the good and the bad,  the pretty and the ugly,  It's seen your past and will guide my future  and that's poetry to me
This little notebook  hidden in plain sight has nothing special  about it on the outside,   but inside  written across each page  are stories and hopes that nobody knows.  
They stare. They stare hard at her hair. They Judge. They Judge her hard for her posture. And because she has an absent father. No one to relate to. No one to talk to.
When I was very young I started therapy,  I did not know how to talk, how to communicate. So every Tuesday and Thursday at three, I would sit in front of a woman with a closed off face and wonder what she thinks.
You are me; The me that I can't leave. The air that fills my lungs, And exists all around. You are the blood that flows through my veins; My life. You are the sun in my solar system,
To my Mother, I'll start with the loving memories. Me and you, we've always been a team. You were always there to provide for me to love me. You know me more than anyone else sort of...
Dear Nathan, How are you able to plunge deeper into my viscera when your physical presence left years ago?   Invisible knives pierce my innards and yet I continue.  
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Letter 1 [From: Him To: Me]  
We had something special Something my middle school heart needed at the time Something that was memorable for me   I know you felt it too That suffocting pressure on your heart
My words are my own- My pain will be forever known- These are my confessions, wripped from this skin & bone-
    I am the KID you see before you smiling I will be there to comfort you to stop you from crying But behind closed doors I have my fears to hide
I Held Myself Down In A Position That I Couldn't Frown Where I Ended Up In The River Of Tears Where I Had To Drown And My Broken Heart Followed As Its Pieces Went Down.
Potions didn't take it easy on me last night When the bartender made me feel like a dipsomaniac, Everything I saw sadly became a diptych And carelessly paying a stupefying amount of money
Dear Ali, when you were 7 i know you told your mom you wanted to be an artist because that's what you were good at, was drawing the world as you saw it. like big yellow school buses and fields of growing flowers.
Out on the barren sea lies a lofty sullen mast A chosen vessel caught in time Drifting along the main frame of the island
In the hospital. He arrived five minutes ago. A boy not much older than me, With three gunshot wounds.   The brother witnessed it, immediately he Rushed his dying sibling to help.
I'm like a bird who tries to soar, but can't be able to fly anymore.  Fighter of this clan who needs to make a stand. I struggle to break free, with a world of possibilities to admire from up close.
That girl you see that girl over there the girl with the naive face the one  who trust everyword you say
Last year I was carefree, As much as a high schooler can be. I played football and threw the discus, I partied and really did not miss much. Oh, that was the life fo me. No worry plagued me for long,
If we could all see the need. The world may not need to bleed. With all the war in the world The neighboring world is the underworld. Swirling with death and despair The only thing i can compare.
What hurts more? A broken heart or broken hands? Does it hurt to watch young brothers and sisters lying in the ground? The Molly says, "Oh no! Another one!"
The pen glides  The words fly  The mouth moves  The brain groves    out comes the dark  out comes the light    and in my dullest night i shall write 
Your name. The smile it brings to my heart. The butterflies it brings to my stomach. YOU. The positvity your presences brings to the surounding. The love given and recived. YOU.
When it is raining, but we don't have umbrellas. We need to run, run as fast as we can. When we are facing a dilemma, we need to fight, fight as hard as we can.  Life and weather, they are changing all the time. 
From the rose that arose from the cracks Like Pac said To the sky and the stars or even beyond it Poetry is wisdom and its my own outlet Dark days, new age its my enlightenment..
Poetry. No one truly defines it. Not even Mr. Webster truly captures the essence the emotions of love happiness wealth determination life hate anger sadness
I live inside of a voidAnd I stand directly in the middleCountless faces take shape in the darknessAnd circle me, ever-changingEvery time I lock eyes with a phantom faceThe features rearrange
A spoken word poem comes on my podcast in my car. It is the first I've ever heard The words are few and strong They cut me to the core, through the armor of my illness Inspiring the first spark of emotion in months
We are poems.    A poem is an artistic expression, Crafted by a mind whose only intention Is to see itself and its deepest conceptions Be seen by the world.   A poem is a breath of life;
what is a poem? Can you define? I can't seem to find a line or verse that tells me what poems are made up of.
Define alcoholism: habitual intoxication. Define habitual: commonly used or practiced. Define Writing: the act of creating written works.
Poetry,  wraps you up, holds you tight.  Grab a pencil, it'll be alright. Write your emotions down, into a story.  Let the words carry you away,  to a place of sweet dreams and peace. 
Life sucks That's the way it is But what makes it count is what you choose to do with it Whether you change the world using paper and pen Or keep those words to yourself when your world is breaking
Have you ever experienced a moment in life when you were at a loss of words? Have you ever experienced those breath-taking moments in life--the moments of wonder, beauty, love, peace, happiness, joy, awe, amazement, and life?
I remember when I first heard you My unexpecting ears fell in love with your rhytym  Your anger Your subtleness Your vulgarity And finally your resolve When I fell, I fell hard.
i don't know why i'm on this website everyone here writes beautifully while my writing sounds like a dictionary in a blender churning chaos held together by 26 letters  nonsense  
Don't write, He Said I put down my pen So Sad, He Said I picked it up again Don't think, He said I closed my lips You only blink, He said
It was long after my bedtime when she received the callThough I had a phone in my room,I didn't pick it up.I knew.I felt it.
it felt as though his words danced in my ear his wit sparked interest and showed no fear always in awe,  i would listen without doubt that my own thoughts soon would sprout every moment a new subject would brighten
Education is the key  to get anyone to where they want to be for me that is further ahead: college, med school, residency. Poetry is key  to removing negativity 
Before I met her there was we a distant memory of the people we used to be, the bond that could never be broken because blood was thicker than water  and water was always too stubborn to come out of sad eyes 
He's not just a drop-out who didn't persevere He's a student who's issues are severe Father's an alcoholic Mother's going steric This makes siblings neurotic Who has energy for school when home is chaotic
Songs are but poems with music, background to uplift the words, harmony to let them soar and be stuck in mind ever afterward.   I never could harmonize or find the notes on the keyboard
Mixed feelings and cultures dividing him,Because society only sees one side or the other.Kids at school judged him solely on his brown skin color.Asking why he doesn't play sports like the others,
And so it was:   That with and like water Through carved paths Headless yet heeding Gave way to the thirst for life.   And by miracle or fate As it’s routinely called
The air was dry. I tried to speak. To call for help. But I could not. The words were gone.   I was stranded; alone. Sand beneath my feet. Extending for countless miles.
I first picked up the pencil when I was ten It was grey, dull, and insignificant The writing seemed to fall off the paper And the words held no significance   I held the pencil once again when I was eleven
Feeling like a pen with the ink in bubbles inside, Scribbled on a piece of paper in futile attempts to put ink to page Yet only creating ever-deeper runnels in the paper’s smooth surface As the ink refuses to flow.
Life gets hard when society begins being entirely different from being What’s justifiably right That’s what the irony’s like
My poetry days go way back Back when it was okay to slack I used to play four square and fly kites Now it is working every night Back then it was okay to cry Now I must make ways to get by
Excuse the fact that you have scars, they tell the story of just who you are, You’re beautiful in spite of the pigment of your skin, Never allow them to tell you who you are from within,
You and me, we share a thing or two. Call us plumb crazy, But it’s more than what most do In the month of May.   We’ve got an understanding,
5 years ago, when I first told people that I was a singer-songwriter, the first phrase they could think of to say was: Oh, so you write poetry.  
She walked up on stage. Her chin up, Back straight, Body leaned into the microphone.   A deep breath,
I sat at my computer for ten minutes or more Hoping a great idea would breeze through the door Poetry is a gift to man not easy to tame
Does he look at me with glowing eyes? As my finger rushes the surface of his skin He transforms my scattered thoughts into meaning I gasp for air, but all the motions are beyond me I choke, I try to speak...
Poetry be my ever abounding channel, where there's no judges in a panel, where I can swim without fear of drowning, where I can abide without ever frowning. Words and emotions be my ships,
RED is the violence our kind faces a discrimination that surpasses religion and races An ORANGE tinge outlines our scars. A reminder of  Injustice comitted this June, in an Orlando gay bar.
I write poetry because there are only so many ways that I can express how much I love spiders without sounding like a total creep.
poetry is like a tree - if you took all the metaphors and gave them to me i’d have them strung up on the clothesline by half a quarter to 3.  
I had to say my peace about the killing I had always seen the police as the villain New gang statewide, they the new crips Dark skins laced in red, new age bloods
Poetry is to me  My boat along the sea  I'd drown without it  So glad I found it  My writing sets me free.    My eyes are open to  The things that I must do   To win you over 
Who inspired me to write? Was it Edgar Allen Poe? It was a man whose writings have lived on since many years ago Verse, Prose, Iambic pentameter Shakespeare was the best poet of his time and after his time
Who inspired me to write? Was it Edgar Allen Poe? It was a man whose writings have lived on since many years ago Verse, Prose, Iambic pentameter Shakespeare was the best poet of his time and after his time
There was wire chained inside me,  Spools of lead wrapped tightly, The weight of words drowned me.   A reticent tongue deprived my growth, A scarred soul shut my bones.  
Poetry The abstraction of my imagination Imagination The imagery of my mind My MIND The maker of my poetry!! My Mind The most useful tool that I have Poetry
It found me falling asleep on my mother’s lap, Listening to her recite Li Bai’s quatrains In a language I pretend to understand more than I actually do I am every flaw she tried to cast off into the Pacific
The early morning sun rises on the south Texas skyline. Around me, I hear everything; voices, beeping, the soft croon of Her Voice. What a world I exist in! I eagerly look forward to life!
When I was young, I built a house. Inside, I fashioned a kitchen with a corner cabinet and crawled inside amongst the dirty, rusty, moldy pans. The door closed.
Poetry to me Is color to the blind Music to the deaf Poetry to me Tells a playful story to children Tells a truth for adults Poetry to me Makes you laugh Makes you miss the memories
 Perfection is what I gave you, because I craved your solemn gratitude, But as the dimmer days developed I became what I truly was not. I converted myself into something that was a downright hoax.
 If we where all glass life would be easy.  Everybody would be careful and not as needy.  People would treat one another like a snowflake.  And with a small touch everybody could just break.
And so I study my heart, My brain, my ass of And so I wrote and read in scarlet blood In salty tears, in sips of Cuban coffee Freshly brewed every hour or two
You kicked me, you hurt me, and worst of all you broke me.   We live in a world where we all just drown in our own thoughts.  People are blind, because they don't look, they just see.
Art comes in many forms, With our hands we paint, With our voice we sing With our imagination, We create things, But the most expressive form of art to me, Is written in stanzas with ink.  
Poetry is the sweet sap that seeps from within the trees, exposing their true nature of how delicate and potent it feels against my fingers, spiritually connecting with me.  Poetry elicits a plethora of emotions 
Seas of words come unbidden to me A storm of letters wanting to flee From the mental cage holding them in Through willing fingers, accomplice to sin, That clickety-clack away to produce...
white page condemned by the weight of black ink as you scribble faster, while you still remember; before you change a memoir of who you were yesterday, a record containing every inflection of your mind,
Way back in third grade is when I think it all started Back when I was supposed to be free-willed and open-hearted,And still laughed every time someone in class farted.    
(Please Watch Video Attached ) Poetry.. The ink that flows through my pen replaces tears I try to mend. Poetry..held me when my father left my side.
As a child I always told stories Stories of heros Of Monsters Of Men   But one day I found A Book like no other
I had been sauntering  along the edges of a hilltop seeking the unproclaimed truth.   It had been a long journey for me.
Being human is overwhelming all the feelings and overthinking the stuffy thoughts---when I don’t know how or what I’m feeling the words stuck in my memory
From My Soul to the Canvas   Outside the window so I look, to gaze upon solemn crooks Those who have taken all from me Nazis giving poison looks Perhaps it was my destiny
I have always been too heavy. Not my thighs, Or my hips, Nor arms or stomach. I’m not talking about the things people see.   The heaviest thing I carry is: me.   My heart - too weary,
For a second I let myself believe, that maybe they were wrong and that in the end he would live. Unfortunately that was foolish, for he passed the following hour.   It seemed as if I would never accept it,
We've never been equal, you and me. At least thats what the world sees, this tall, long legged feminine beauty. Damn near perfection to any man's human eye, But what I am like where there's no more light?
      My eyes are mirrors  reflecting the kind-hearted, innocent girl visible to others. Revealing an optimistic and cool-headed child.       My skin color embraces my Hispanic heritage. 
I will not be defined or confined by my figure. My mind is too powerful to be judged by a number. My oversized heart beats wild in this oversized body.   I am heavy but I am light, I am light.
I am a ghost of my own universe Observing silently as the world flies past Unable to speak Unable to act    Even when my entire existence Seethes and overflows with passion
I have a page, Confessional Slam, where people can send me anonymous confessions and I turn them into poetry.  Here is the poem I wrote for the confession, "Everyone thinks I know everything about anything and ask me questions.
 I was depressed at a young age, Becoming a new person every day, Never crying, emotions looking for a way out. It came to me three quarters into sixth grade. I paused from running away to stare at a golden page.
No Title No Mass Just Encouragement   No Pen or Paper No Keyboard Just Imagination   Broken Life Broken Inspirations Filled Fright   New Life New Path
Poetry is an art It is not seen, it is felt Words flow like water from my pen   It helps express emotion from my heart Worn around my waist, a black belt A Different kind of adrenaline  
Poetry came to me naturally, Through nursery rhymes and stories, From then on it gave me desire, And I decided to let it grow brighter, Poetry became my story, Not to the public eye so they could feel sorry,
The power of poetry is incredible. To pick up a tool and paper and decide, I will change something, with words... is extremely powerful.   Humans have the ability to communicate,
Darkness It swallows you up in a whirlwind of fear, Presses on your lungs, And pushes out all importance from your life
Paper and ink become one,  Smudging my heart across the page. Emotion and power leak from my pen, Vulnerability surging through my soul. This art form brings forth the best in me,
When I saw him, My heart raced. My whole body shook, And I started sweating. All around me Was darkness. Fire and pain
She was quiet. While her classmates shot their hands to the skies, She dropped her eyes to the floor, Attention was not her thing.  
What is poetrySome may askAnd I would replyIt is the feeling
It started with a pen of great power Through which I sought to hold forever It ended when I lost that tool And thought I now was without rule   What I couldn't have What I didn't think I could achieve
The mind, it reels in perfect sphere, ink blots against an unwound tape, a tidy mess spilled forth upon the page...   absorbing to its hungry pores, the pen it scrawled with pleasured hand,
I met you on a day that to some would have been perfect. but to me, that was the day I felt worthless. I remember drowning in a sea of tears trying to run away from my fears
Emerson, Tennyson, Chaucer, Shakespeare Wadsworth, Whitman, a William several times I fear. Poetry entered my life through reading.   From Longfellow’s nature to Hughes’ flow
I think too much.   Maybe that's the wrong way of putting it. I don't think, thoughts ravage me. They assault me with battering rams in daylight, and at night they slip into my mind as spiders,
When  I sit under this magnolia tree the world around me vanishes I am free The God I serve is with me Embracing me Telling me followed his will
I was in a bottomless hole weltering with nouns and adjectives,  Hitting rock bottom would have been easier than finding my release,   Expressing my thoughts,   Caressing my words,   Making the choice,   The choice to speak eloquently like a potty
The one little fish in a tsunami Swimming for her life, Wanting to be free. Knowing that the fish around her can't hear, The screams, The fears. Dancing around her, Watching, moving fast.
Ever been angry, and wanted to scream? Ever needed to laugh, but can't find a meme?   Ever been depressed, and needed solace? How about confused,  and need confidence?  
A reticent, budding girl, Pushes all her jumbled feelings down, But while composing, her thoughts begin to swirl,  no longer enduring emotional drown.   At times when nobody listened,
I stare at it, the white empty paperattempting to think of an idea.My thoughts vanish like a water vapor,I'm diseased without a panacea.
As one gears up to college Oh what will lead to greater knowledge For your friends, family, and of course, freshman year With butterflies and jitters, there should be nothing to fear
They don't matter. This is said in multitudes falling from lips of loved ones as easy as breathing... But my lungs don't take in oxygen well. They don't matter, stated as if scientific law.
I have always been a child of the ocean.
Wake up Another day Get up Another day Look in the mirror Another day Another day of this This day will be the same As any other day I know that in my mind
There was English class, 5th grade The lesson was poetry I was only doing it for the grade I was child, I promise I didn't know The beginning of it all was so innocent A little rhyme scheme here 
Words don’t come easy until you’re lying in bed And thinking about the boy you brushed hands with today And you cashier who smiled at you when she handed you your change And the dog you met on your walk home
I started wrtiting to complete an English assignment.  I never thought life could be worse.  I hated writing.  The teacher required biweekly trips  to the art museum to "find inspiration." 
Whenever I hold a pencil, I get the feeling of social justice and the implication of empowerment. Empowering myself and empowering others is something that America lacks, and I make up for.
To write is to share. To read is to care. To write a book is exciting. To read a book is inviting. But to write poetry is to take a leap Into the water black and deep.
 There was an endless sea of sobbing tearsA galaxy of a billion buring starsMany miles and miles of absolute fearThen there was just us.
oh god--                 I hate poetry.                                           Why did I even take this class?                                                   ~Intro to Poetry~
I am a scientist I am a scientist because I can master the elements I can boil my words to temperatures so high, the eyes of those who read it are scalded I can harness the oceans within me
Love at first sight does it truly exist?  I’ve heard them say it’s true But I never believed in it until the day I met you It was all so subtle  Florida’s rays beating down against my back
I don't understand Everything is slipping but I keep skipping and try to stand on my own two feet Happy on the outside but on the inside I am worried  but my main perogative
Perhaps my love of poetry came about when I was three. Eyes wide, world closed. Heart warm, brain cold.  
At the cross section of cultures where do the children stand?   My mother first discovered that being gay was a “thing” when she was 19, back in Ecuador, where house fires are still set
Words printed on pages             no inspiration. Turns out all that was needed was appreciation A story to tell. Too many emotions.             A 10th grader with messed up notions. “speak from the heart”
I'm my own canvas, so pure and clean. No one knew that I loved to paint till that day! Red was my favorite color, so rich and thick. No one wanted to hear me out, so I painted them a picture.
I was just a young girl, full of life, but had hidden scars, saw what was behind the mountain of lies, and no longer thought that the world was pure.
Wheither it be when the stars align Or when you have the time Poetry speaks to you When you can't describe your feelings Or when your heart won't stop reeling Poetry speaks to you
This poem is on poetry. People, places, purposes, through these my writing flourishes and becomes a piece of me.   This poem is on poetry. I cannot help but notice everybody losing focus
My writings scream louder than my voice does sometimes Growing louder and LOUDER with every verse, with every line Poetry is what helped me break the silence   In sixth grade I was taught the art of poetry
This is my story of love for the entire world to knowA love song that only the Creator could compose A story where the lion falls in love with the lamb A story of hope to those who for years sacrificed the ramSee, Their destinies were forever toge
Poetry is a feeling, that you share with the world.   Poetry is an opportunity, to be yourself in a completely different way.   Poetry lets you break rules which rules you decide...  
The way her lips curved up. In that moment, I knew I'd spend the rest of my life trying to describe it.  Poetry isn't about inspiration; it's.... bringing back the way her eyes shine it's...
He was there He was sick He was gone And the world came crumbling down in sad looks and  “I’m so sorry”
Place cards at an empty table say that not just anyone can sit but if you find a blank one in the trash and in your pocket there's a pen then a wasted piece of paper becomes a justifable document
‘You can be anything you want to be.’ ‘You can accomplish anything you set your mind to.’ Growing up being told these things fostered a love for learning and adventure. The world was mine and infinite things were possible.
I have always been good with words As a child they called me slick J With the flick of my tongue, they would do whatever I said In middle school, I began to rap
All to those who laugh at me: I am not your enemy, I am not your friend,  no we are not aquainted.  My voice may sound fainted, but the truth is that's all me.
poetry makes it easier   the attempt of articulation of the abstract; feelings too unfocused to figure; emotions endlessly endeavoring for expression
Poetry is like a dancer Occupying the paper stage, Embracing reader's with just a glance. Twirling elegantly, guiding my pen across the page,  Reflecting feelings, swiftly and elegantly.
God created the universe in seven daysOr at least that's what a book says. The Mayans wrote a calendar And everyone swore the world was going to end. Romeo and Juliet are the epitome of loveAll because Shakespeare wrote a play.I write in hopes tha
Poetry has shown me the light  It has given me the choice to have my own vioce I've learned to show my love through words And it has given me the freedom of the birds
Poetry is a friend that I have only just met. We are still somewhat tentatively getting to know each other,  Yet this is turning out to be a fast friendship. I can confide in the page without reservation or embarrassment,
Natures first green is gold I had always read a lot, but never much poetry Her hardest hue to hold
Thoughts Abstract concepts, ideas, usually jumbled Pen to paper Ideas become stanzas, emotions become words of expression
It all started with a dream in the night, I just knew that I needed to write, everything down that my mind had created.   I was in a new world with wonderful new places, and many new faces,
I'm my own canvas, so pure and clean. No one knew that I loved to paint till that day! Red was my favorite color, so rich and thick. No one wanted to hear me out, so I painted them a picture,
Trail your hand down my spine, Draw my inky veins, Speak your wavering rhyme.   Enthralled by my line, Entranced by the ages, Enticed by the visage of time.   Young and Old,
Within the shadows I creap. I am unseen. Isolated.   The world blurs. The sounds are just noise. So Cold. So Alone.   I look down at my feet. Never show your face.
  You can still see my butt. You can still see my boobs. You can still see me in these clothes. But why must I wear them?
Abbey's eyes were champaign;  Her tongue a wild mare When she galloped she kicked up words  like dust under Ozymandias' feet;
I was just a child When they stuck their daggers  In my back, And laughed as they watched, My blood begin to pour out.   I was just a child When I stopped loving life,
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