Wednesday, 12 January 2011

Sunday, 16 May 2010

  • the perks of being a wallflower

    Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
    he wrote a poem
    And he called it "Chops"
    because that was the name of his dog
    And that's what it was all about
    And his teacher gave him an A
    and a gold star
    And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
    and read it to his aunts

    Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
    he wrote a poem
    And he called it "Autumn"
    because that was the name of the season
    And that's what it was all about
    And his teacher gave him an A
    and asked him to write more clearly
    And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
    because of its new paint


    Once on a paper torn from his notebook
    he wrote a poem
    And he called it "Innocence: A Question"
    because that was the question about his girl
    And that's what it was all about
    And his professor gave him an A
    and a strange steady look
    And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
    because he never showed her


    That's why on the back of a brown paper bag
    he tried another poem

    And he called it "Absolutely Nothing"

    Because that's what it was really all about
    And he gave himself an A
    and a slash on each damned wrist
    And he hung it on the bathroom door
    because this time he didn't think
    he could reach the kitchen.

     

Wednesday, 17 February 2010

Monday, 15 February 2010

  • hungover

    My life is a portal,
    that everyone walks through mindlessly.
    This portal is a path to better days.
    Yet I am left behind.
    You'll never look back.
    Who could blame you?
    My words have left you drained and empty.
    I've sucked you dry of any feelings you had left.
    This love thats been thrusted upon me years ago,
    is a bottomless pit.
    You look down upon me and laugh, HA HA.
    However it will be me who has the last words.
    Goodbye.

Saturday, 13 February 2010

  • Everything (Thanks)

    I've reaked havoc onto your life.
    Making you care about something for once.
    And then you give up.
    You've got blood on your hands.
    death is knocking at my door.
    You make it look so easy.
    You've found the way under my skin,
    killed me single handily .
    Oh, don't tell me this doesn't mean anything.
    I guess i can learn how to forget,
    once i'm underground.
    I'm too proud,
    to purchase my own coffin.


    P.s
    Thank you for calling me every six months.
    Thank you for leaving me alone those sleepless nights.
    Thank you making me think you cared.
    Like i ever meant anything in your drug-infested life.
    • Name: microchica
    • Birthday: 3/15/1993
    • Gender: Female
    • Member Since: 1/3/2010

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