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To the Ones Who Never ListenTo the ones who never listen,
To the ones who turn their ears:
Listen closely and you might learn,
In new ways of what we share.
To the adults who never listen:
Why don't you reach out?
Why do you never hear?
Why can't you ever see?
You say things like "I was a teenager too,"
Or "I've been through what you have."
Then why aren't you saying something?
Why aren't you doing something?
No one wants to say out loud
The worries one might hold.
We want you to understand us;
We want the comfort in knowing
That you can know without the words;
That someone actually looks at us,
Or even cares to know.
To the ear-less and the deaf:
We never ask for much.
Just to look past what you see,
And look at us for who we are.
It doesn't take a pair of ears,
It doesn't take a pair of eyes;
It doesn't take a lot
To let us know you care.
You don't have to think,
You don't have to talk,
You don't have to listen.
Just be there.
We can hear more than what you think,
We know more than what we're credited for,
Silver BellsShe looked up into the brightly lite sky as she swung her bag over her shoulders. "It's that time of the year again, huh?"
Every year she would do the same thing. Long ago she made a promise with her childhood friend to always come home every year to celebrate New Year with him. Every year they would take out their little silver bells, which they got from when they were even littler children, and on the stroke of midnight ring them, welcoming forth a new year.
This time of year was a time she looked forward to the most. She enjoyed it very much, not to mention spending time with him. He was a pain sometimes, and constantly got her mad, but she still liked him so much, not matter what he did.
"Hikari, what's up? Once again we arrive at the same time, huh? Must be fate," he said, dropping his suit case in front of his house and stretching.
"That's a pretty big suitcase you got there. You planing to stay for awhile after New Years?" she asked, walking over to the boy and examining the sui
The Last Rose PetalThe second to last petal of the rose fell. The sculpture in Guertena's art gallery was at its last stand; it had fallen apart under mysterious circumstances. It was speculated from the damages that a large earthquake knocked all the guests unconscious. No one was hurt in the accident.
It was 9:47. The skies had darkened into a gray mass above the quiet city. The art gallery that was bursting with people just that morning was now a quiet hymn, a song of mourn.
“Is this the end?”
A sweet voice was filled with a desperate plea, a cry of desperation for the end not to come, for a chance to go back, a chance to be a hero.
“Is this the end?” The brunette asked again, bowing her head to hide her tears. “Does the end have to be like this?”
“Eve....” The man that stood behind the girl placed his warm hand over her shivering head. “Goodbyes are never easy. They’re always filled with sadness, even more so when...” He clenched
I Write"I write."
"I write about the things that will never happen, the things that come in my dreams. I write about you and me and about this cruel yet beautiful world."
"You mean like how your family never comes home, leaving you to cower at night by yourself, your only hope in thinking that they'll come through the door any minute saying 'Sorry, we're late.'? Or about how your heart was broken by the people who thought of you as nothing more than a game to pass time, shattering your heart until I pick the pieces back up again?"
"I don't need to show you."
"Because my pen is the mirror to my heart. I write my heart."
Hot Chocolate FriendsHikari wasn’t quite sure what she was getting herself into when she became friends with the feisty blond. She never thought of the adventures or the headaches, the heartache and the laughter, the good times and the bad times. She just thought it’d be fun to have a friend like him.
“...So that’s what I....” Jun stopped speaking and kept his eyes on the girl. He sat on the floor in Indian-style, pointing to some place on the map, while Hikari sat, zoned out, on the couch. “Hikari?”
She blinked. “Are you done yet?”
Jun jumped to his feet with a finger pointed to the girl, his other hand flailing at his side. “I’ll fine you for not listening!”
“Then what did I say.”
Hikari diverted her eyes with a bashful smile. “You’d go make a cup of hot chocolate?”
They stared at each other for a couple seconds as if to think over who was
IB Drabble 3
1) His smile
Gary's smile was like something out of heaven in the hell-like place. It did something to the small girl that nothing else in her life did to her. Even though she was scared and didn't know what was happening, even though the world screamed all around her, with him by her side, she found the hard times fun and bearable.
He was always cowering behind her, seemingly scared of everything, not exactly your perfect prince charming. His voice was feminine and his manners quite intact. He always made her smile. His hands always with hers led the way when she was unable.
He wasn't a prince or a hero, but he was smart and kind. Eve wondered why someone like him had to have to go through with this. He's much too nice, she though as he would smile at her, dauntingly protecting her with everything he had. True, as it all was, she didn't need him to protect her, his smile was enough to light the way anywhere.
2) The Last Petals
It wasn't like he w
XIV. JudgementSeven people stood in front of a golden throne. In the throne sat a hooded figure, the gatekeeper to Hell. “Do you know your sin?”
It was his punishment. He knew what was in store for him when he committed the crime, when he stole his house, his love, everything he had. Yet, when he found the man years later he was still smiling happily. He wanted it so badly—his smile. His heart burned with the slightest memory.
She was just a young girl who held her body close in fear of the unknown. The girl was a type of pretty that caught eyes in seconds. Her body had been scared more times than she could account for and her smile was twisted. There was always a long desire in her body for someone to hold her, to take her into their arms and fulfil her most wildest desires.
The man searched his pockets, not paying any attention to anything around him. His face was sweating like a horse’s rear end. A dime fell out
EyesIt was the smell of fear. It was a mouth-gagging, nose-pinching, putrid smell that Emily had inhaled as she walked home. Her feet echoed, each step a shrill scream in the silent night. The streets were deserted and the night cold. She clutched her thin, knitted sweater that protected her little against the thrashing and bashing of the wind's icy whip. The lights flickered and provided little light - the only thing being provided was an electrical buzzing sound from the broken down street lamps that made Emily think of the tortures of being fried alive.
A trashcan rattled from inside an alleyway Emily had just passed. A black cat stuck its head out, its golden disks glowing in the moonless night. It circled around her legs slowly two times, and just before it left, the cat tilted its head crookedly to look at her and turned away from her with uninterested eyes.
And the eyes; the eyes that burned into the woman's back as if someone were standing right behind her, looming over her entire
NatureHikari stood over the sleeping blond that laid curled up on the grassy hill just outside of Twinleaf. She tilted her head with silent contemplation as she looked over every detail – be it small or big – of the boy that she could find. The girl bent down on her knees and whispered, “Jun. Jun. Jun.”
The boy opened one of his orange disks, starring straight into the blue-haired girl's eyes a small smirk on his face. “Hikari,” he whined with childlike vigor, “you're no fun.”
“Your mom's looking for you,” she said, ignoring his comment (a trait she had gotten used to over the years of listening to his nonsense rambling). “She's on a rampage – something about going off without permission.”
Jun rolled to his other side away from the girl. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I know.” He spun his head back towards her and sat up. He patted the ground next to him. “Come on, Kari, you know you want to.
rise and rage
with a new year
untamed and glorious,
pulling the years together
with a snap of your fingers.
but some days you are languid,
stretching like the summer dusting
of freckles along your forearms, the
slumberous strands of hair shuttering
your sky-eyes from the morning light.
on these days, I think the earth spins
slower and the birds sing a little
quieter. on these days, I look
at you and I think:
a fatal case of writer's blocki wanted to write of stars and wings and nameless things
of fog-choked dawns on unfamiliar city streets
of razor-edged sunrises and silk-smooth twilights
and the whispered panic behind nightmares
but somehow it all comes back
you and your empty eyes
your auburn hair and pianist's fingers
and cheap cigarettes offered with easy smiles,
you word-stealing, book-burning boy.
all i wanted was to look inside myself
and see poetry nestled among these ink-stained veins,
see moonlight and monsters and broken glass and roaring silence-
see words the color of the broken insides of marbles
words like the first thunderclap of a storm
or the last bow of a play
but all i see
muse-killer, i want my words back.
take these loose-leaf notebooks and all their stillborn poetry
because now i write
broken bonesI want to write rough and raw and unbearable
the way cigarettes taste at midnight
to a tired atheist knocking on a locked church door
wondering whether to pray or scream
I want to write cold and brutal and honest
like fog-choked dawns on unfamiliar city streets
when the silence presses behind your eyelids
and breathing feels like blasphemy
I want to write like the midnight air that burns the back of your throat
like cold fury and boiling hatred
like the panic that eats into bone marrow
the fear that runs prickling fingers down twisted spines
I want to write of you and me and everything
pin the stars behind my eyelids into letters to no one
I want to scar you with unspun metaphor
To write until my hands shake
until I break myself with honesty
until I empty myself or
until my wrist
DualityI can run.
I'll find you.
I can hide.
I'm inside you.
I can forget.
I'll remind you.
I can erase.
It is permanent.
I can deny it.
I'll reveal the truth.
I'll wait it out.
It'll last forever.
I can't run.
You are trapped.
A Nerdy Love PoemBefore you arrived,
you annoying buffoon,
My life was more barren
than the sands of Dune.
And then you appeared,
Like a Doctor from space,
with your ridiculous clothes
and your comical face.
We're not like Edward and Bella
and their blather of fate:
We're like Sauron and Voldemort
deciding to date.
See, I'd travel to Mordor
with you any day.
We'd be like Frodo and Sam,
but a little less gay.
The Capitol couldn't stop us!
. . . that's totally a lie:
if we started rebellions
we'd probably die.
We'd feast in King's Landing
on lamprey and tarts
then murder our enemies
with thousands of farts
Our house words would NOT
be "stupid and fat"
though I like "moon of my life"
much better than "brat."
Whenever you're sweet
I think it's a fluke,
but if you were nice all the time
you wouldn't be Luke.
But I like you a lot,
even though you're a pain.
Like how Serenity's crew
still hasn't killed Jayne.
You give my life meaning,
you silly old man,
like the Joker needs Batman
for all of his plans.
The Poet and the SpiderWith script as thin as spider's legs,
she scrawls her web
of metaphors and lies.
Mapped across the backs of her hands,
with ink veins she weaves
a silver spun tale of
thin, spidery lashes and
that leave a bad taste behind.
She fears the tickle on her skin,
the itching sting as it bites.
She fear the sticky, dew encapsuled
web as it strangles and swallows her.
When asked of her fascination with the creature,
though she fears it so,
the poet has none left to say but
that it is a metaphor,
you tremble at that which sits on your palm
(The fearsome, eight legged monster)
but you do not flinch as it bites.
Between Heaven and HellEveryone has a story to tell
The time and place the falls from grace.
We all walk at our own pace
forever attempting to win the illusionary race.
So I took the time, to sit and rewind....
granted pause to the cause, reflections of the mind.
Years upon years slowly drifted on by...
Journeys left behind slumbering alongside the road of unknown,
collecting dirt and debris, anxiously awaiting to be set free,
but could not flee...no one to save me and turn the key.
Everything has a time and a place within the enchanted space.
A story to tell of heaven and hell...
Realise this upon states of bliss,
In the beginning we all fell--in the end we all shall fall.
Can no longer ignore the ancient call.
Please, Push me AwayI'm starting to n-e-e-d you,
I'm starting to depend on you.
& I'm starting to want you way more then I already do.
From my past, I know that this feeling is
& All that's going to come out of this is b/r-ok/e-n hearts and salty tears,
I'm going to hurt you,
The LyricistAn optimistic pessimist
The bliss without the ignorance
Even when she's happy she's always pleasant
There's a difference between naive and innocent
A people pleasing introvert
Making others smile to heal the hurt
A mission failed if it didn't work
Lying to herself so it can't feel worse
A selective failed perfectionist
Never good enough to deserve the bliss
She hears the screams but she wants the fist
She doesn't deserve any better than this
The invisible shining light of hope
The quarantined and the antidote
Afraid to speak of the words she wrote
When she sinks a boat to keep the world afloat
The clearest sense when the world's a blur
Are the secrets of the insecure
Through apologies of the most demure
And the poison in the secret cure
Writers and Poets“Why are you a poet?”
“I’m not a poet.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Then what are you?”
“A word-rhymer, a heart-breaker, a word master. I could go on for a very long time, you know?”
“Oh, I know.”
“And how do you know?”
“Because I’m not a writer.”
“Then what are you?”
“I am a word slinger, a heart’s reflection, a person maker, a story teller. I can go on you, know?”
“Indeed, you are not a writer.”
“Nor are you a poet.”
“We’re much more than that.”
“We’re the guides to our worlds.”
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