phillipskid32

A photograph is more than a snapshot of times past. It's a reminder of where you come from. What makes a photograph special, is the emotion it evokes. Just like an emotional photograph, I've longed to create emotional poetry. Emotional word is less appealing then a photograph to most. Thus the writer must be witty with his words, he must wrap his readers mind around his work. If I can make you jump out of your seat, long for a loved one, fear for a protagonist, or cry for a lost soul, than I have achieved my goal. What I love about writing is that it's art, but it comes purely from the artists imagination,  more than any other art form. It

One more tour I sleep I wake I march I bathe I sleep One more war I shoot I scream I cry I bleed I die One more dead They mourn They sleep They wake They laugh They live

I don't know who I am. I look at my hands. Then the mirror. I find no answers Nothing to prove my existence I fear nothing, I know nothing, I am nothing. As I Gaze into my eyes The brown between pupil and iris reminds me, I regain my bearings, At long last I know my name, Who am I? I am an answer. I am the ring of holy matrimony I am the circus that is war I am the bliss that is death I am what you are not I am whomever I wish to be The sword in the stone The leaf in the wind The sigil of excellence and the badge of defeat.

Please explain why this friendship quit. Did you grow tired of my wit? My one true friend, Does your wife disapprove? One drunken night was I a fool? Am I an anchor... a burden to you? Is it hard to put into words, have I become so absurd? My one true friend. I do not understand, please tell my why the fun must end.

They say that only good die young Many good still carry guns Men are always first to go, mind you widows soon follow They all end up with tail lights lined flashing blues and blinking orange mourning those who left behind

When I fly, the birds will wedge behind me, My tribe will morph into beautiful natural symmetry. When the winged beasts prey on us, I'll strike them from the sky with a swift fierce blow. Nothing will disrupt this beautiful harmony. When I tread the fields, I will be alpha. No other feline will tame me, No creeping monster will assassinate me, for I am alpha, and I am protected.

I'm stuck in my room. Day after day I sit in my armchair doing nothing more than replaying video's that get me no closer to the achieved goal of a normal social standing in life. I miss work constantly, I don't even know if i still have a job, as I haven't left my house in a week, other then for trips to fast food joints. Yet here I am in my chair, still the unproductive teen member of society, the social outcast, the lauded sociopath pariah of my time. Perhaps, months will pass without change, even years. Perhaps, I'll be nothing more than a cadaver in an armchair, by the time I'm ready to rejoin society as a normal human. Maybe eve

any angsty teen can type secret message in these texts desperate attempt to impress free speech allows me jovial when applauded kawi-wowi-cool when not like it or not my poem is this. ;

Tormenting thoughts rummage through my mind. I can only imagine the worst. I think, what would I feel if they were true? How would I change. It felt so urgent and ended up being nothing, well nothing to them, but for me, a whole new perspective. Maybe in the morning I'll return to normal, though this time must be different. This time I missed her more than I could ever imagine, and for the first time in my life, felt true sadness. My mind often goes berserk, though never this dramatically. I vividly imagined in great detail the loss of a sibling. One that I had just began to know, to truly know. And my new perspective, if it last me to