Learn more about other poetry terms
Your love was a bouquet of roses, deep scarlet, like your proclaimed adoration for me. The storm, immense with grief, truly impossible to escape.
They told her Not to cry- As if tears were anything more than A lifeless bit of memory- And sent her away. Eight years later, The sun still rose and Her heart still beat to the same
Right here I laid with unknown expectations, my mind was shield from brutality soon to be revealed In these moments of chaos, my purpose openly appealed, the awakening of inner birth so ready to be outwardly lived
Do this, do that I walk these halls wondering what will become of me Who am I and what was I meant for My peers look up to me, but say horrible things Put me on the outside of the so-called circle
Isn’t it the funniest thing of how we look at ourselves? When perfection isn’t perfection Pretty isn’t what we perceive as pretty It’s what every one else sees Everyone’s opinion seems to dominate our own.
Ugly. The mirror calls me Ugly, Ugly, Ugly. Beautiful, he says. So Beautiful. Tonight, Babe? Today? He says. No, I say. No. Pretty, he says. Just pretty.