Poem 1; Don't Succumb: (by the way, all the lines had to start with the letter Y; I hope that explains a lot. x3 )
Yes, you win, you win it all. Yesterday's challenge is complete and you are the only one to succeed. Yell to the world of your accomplishment. Yearn for them to acknowledge you. Weave yarn in a braid of rope and never let go. Let yellow roses shower you, thrown by youthful lovers. Bury the yolk, the burden you endured, which you hated, but don't yield to the world which you despise. You have won; but to arrogance, don't succumb.
"Blah blah blah. You feel trapped in your life. Here is what I am hearing: happiness isn't worth any inconvenience."
Xenophobia; they sneak up on you like Xenon, like xanthopterin in butterfly wings. X-rated, they should be, those terrifying fools. Xenophiles are dead in mind for choosing against Xenophobia; the fear that controls my life.
"Blah blah blah. You feel trapped in your life. Here is what I am hearing: happiness isn't worth any inconvenience."
Hot pavement beneath my feet; asphalt rocks jabbing, ever painful, hard to bear, impossible to succumb to the madness. It’s maddening.
Walking - always forward, never looking back - parallel to a forest edge and also an open field. A lonely walk - a lonely life - forget about the journey. Forget about the starting point, forget about the destination. It’s all uphill from here.
Blazing sun, dreary air; nodding head, ready to crash but never ready to fall. Stop, turn a little, just enough to face away. Bend your knees - not a lot; just do it. Crawl to the ground, lay on the tar, the bubbling tar. Lay and forget about life.
You want to move but you won’t. You want to leave but you can’t. You want to die but you don’t make the effort. Then you see the headlights.
On the horizon, where you must look you see it; the car; your savior. Take me, you think. Far, far away from here, just take me. Maybe the person won’t see you. Maybe they’ll just keep going. Maybe they won’t care. Maybe you won’t need an effort. They’ll crunch your body and never look back. Maybe the screeching’s a dream.
But it's not and your heart drops. The door opens and out steps a beautiful woman, desperate in tone. You imagine she must find you absolutely revolting.
Words tumble from her mouth - questions, perhaps? - but you don't hear. You can't hear - you just say.
"Come here." Her words stop. "Come lay with me?" Another question she asks. "Why?" You think. "Why not?"
She can't. Perhaps. Or maybe she simply won't; maybe she simply doesn't care. What's the difference? She might have saved my life, you think. But does it need saving?
As she drives away, skirting around you, you wish you were beneath the hot tires not on hot tar. You get up; you have your answer. Yes. Because sometimes, alone isn't enough.
"Blah blah blah. You feel trapped in your life. Here is what I am hearing: happiness isn't worth any inconvenience."
Silver ink, stolen from my sister; think she'll notice it's gone? I should care more - care I'm a thief - but I'm afraid it's just not there. And why does it matter, anyway, anyhow? She won't miss it, probably didn't love it, not as I'll cherish it forever. Ink is my medium, my forte you might say, it's everything I need in my life. So maybe I'm evil - should just go and tell her, or at least return it, but I won't - and maybe you won't under stand my dilemma, but I don't really care - I can't. It's my pen, it's my life, and I like it just a little. It fills my pages, better than black. So sue me for my silver ink.
"Blah blah blah. You feel trapped in your life. Here is what I am hearing: happiness isn't worth any inconvenience."
There once was a book from the library, That covered the field of dairy, Cows and goats and the ilk, Yogurt, cheese, and raw milk, Warning certain small kids to be wary.
"Blah blah blah. You feel trapped in your life. Here is what I am hearing: happiness isn't worth any inconvenience."
Stop blaming me; it’s not my fault, not wholly, at least, not all. You asked for help and I tried my best but there was nothing left to work with. The damage was done, only damage control was left, and I’m just not a miracle worker, so shut up and think about why you needed one in the first place. You’re going downhill - I don’t know how long you’ll last, if you’ll make it, how it’ll go. There’s only one fact here, and that’s if nothing new happens, if you don’t even try, then it definitely is going to fail spectacularly. Stop blaming everyone for your mistakes, and instead come to realize; there’s nothing to be done if you won’t open your own stupid eyes. Stop tearing your life apart, and dragging us with you; stop causing your heart ache because it’s not inevitable; stop pretending like you’re perfect when your life’s falling to ruins; stop blaming the rest of us for everything you didn’t do.
"Blah blah blah. You feel trapped in your life. Here is what I am hearing: happiness isn't worth any inconvenience."
Something needs to be done, or this isn't going to work out. Someone needs to step up; take stand with a bang and a shout.
Something needs to be done, and someone somewhere needs to do it. I don't care who you are, or your race; just as long as you're not going to screw it.
Something needs to be done, if we have any hope for tomorrow. Build on the present and past, and try to steer clear of past sorrows.
Something needs to be done, something needs to happen. Or our world is now a wool cloth, once dry but is going to dampen.
"Blah blah blah. You feel trapped in your life. Here is what I am hearing: happiness isn't worth any inconvenience."
I lay awake, but not by choice; an incessant buzzing fills my ear. Cold, I shake, my thoughts I voice, boring any who might hear. Insomnia beckons through the harsh steel rain, chattering onwards as my madness-driven mind. I’ll die first, I reckon, before sleep eases my pain, because when have I ever received a gift so kind? The ceiling in popcorn; I imagine it drenched in butter. Sprinkle on some salt and maybe my hunger will fade. All my counting sheep are shorn; I can almost hear them mutter, as they look upon each other and see the travesty just made. Madness comes upon my room, on all the things I see and feel, never knowing what is next and if I’ll ever escape this torment. Have I my answer, as I hear a sweeping broom - one sent to sweep me to places unreal? I’ll only know as my insomnia ferments.
"Blah blah blah. You feel trapped in your life. Here is what I am hearing: happiness isn't worth any inconvenience."
A perfect first line narrowly escapes; the treasure I need to make this explode with fire and power and essence of rose, it comes and it goes before I’ve a chance to capture it wholly, reminding what I lack. Slivers of majesty, the few lingering scars, are enough to pull a poem from; but enough for a good one? One worth reading? One worth writing? Maybe - probably not. How could I let that line escape? Feelings bottle in me, longing for freedom, which I cannot deliver. The transport is halted as memories falter; why would they flee from my grasp? I don’t understand it - does, really, any writer? Probably not. Probably one never will. Does that make it any less a loss for literature? Not at all. But that’s life. I just wish I had that line.
"Blah blah blah. You feel trapped in your life. Here is what I am hearing: happiness isn't worth any inconvenience."
You want me to write about me? I won’t, I can’t, it’s just too much. The pain that delivers is too great to bare. Do you even know what you’re asking? My life is unique - singular to me. My feelings, my thoughts, my experiences. You know me, and you know of my actions. You think you know of my thoughts. But you don’t, and you never will, ever at all. I’m too guarded, you say, but isn’t that best? Better than burdening you with my load. Better than relinquishing all my shed tears. Better than exposing my soft, tender flesh. Better than letting you in. See, all these things happen; you see them unfold. So why do you want to know my thoughts of the matter? To tell you the hurt, the joy, the anger I felt, is too much. You can’t know how much this bothers me. You can’t know how much I just want to cry. But I won’t - I can’t - it’s just too much. It’s too freaking much.
"Blah blah blah. You feel trapped in your life. Here is what I am hearing: happiness isn't worth any inconvenience."
Sometimes I wonder what you’d do if you knew me - really knew me, not just the girl you know. Knew that I write, how I live; knew my opinions and judgments of the world. Knew how I hate her, but not for why you’d think; knew how I want him, but not because I love him; knew how I wish I were her - because I hate being me. Knew how I view myself - as little more than trash - how sometimes I want someone to look at me and tell me I’m not, never was, never will be. But you don’t know, do you? No, not at all. You’re too busy not caring; because, you don’t care? I don’t know. I don’t know your opinions or judgments or thoughts on the world - even though I really want to. I don’t know any of the things that I should, don’t know what I’m asking you to find out. And guess what? I never will. Because I’m too scared - what if you’re not as great as I think? Or what if you’re better, and you don’t like me back? Or what if none is the case - what if we seem to live happily ever after, and then… something ruins it. Or someone. Anything. Because fairy tales don’t exist. So maybe I just won’t know you.
"Blah blah blah. You feel trapped in your life. Here is what I am hearing: happiness isn't worth any inconvenience."
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