A Piece in the Games

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The scratching of fingernails across the steel,

The never-ending sorrows of screaming reels—

I call for help, but nothing comes.

I’m alone by myself. The darkness succumbs.

I hear them coming, the deadly pain,

And I know I’m finished, the blood pumping in my veins.

But I won’t fall without one last stand.

I’ll fight until death takes my hand.

I pull out my knife and stand in range

As the killers come like deadly mange.

In what seems like slow motion, they burst through the trees

And come straight at me with unstoppable ease.

But I remember my training and stand steady and strong.

The hours of labor; the days so long.

I raise my knife and as they come in for the kill.

I slash down and the first blood of battle spills.

A boy falls before me, grabbing his neck as he dies,

But I don’t notice, not falling for the lies.

The others are coming, their swords flying in deadly arks,

But my knife meets them all. They lay not even one mark.

I slice about as I remember what they’ve done,

Killing my sister, my brother, and my loved one.

And before I know it, they all lay down dead,

Lifeless eyes looking up from lifeless heads.

I look to the sky and scream in rage,

“Are you finished with me yet? Have I pleased your bloody sage?”

I hear four cannon shots and I know that it’s done.

I have beaten the odds. In the games I have won.

But I feel no glory as I look to the beyond.

They’ve forced me to kill, and to lose my loving bond.

“I’ll never forget you,” I look forward and say.

“I’ll avenge your death. I’ll make them pay.”


*(Note: This poem is written based on The Hunger Games, if you didn’t get that. I wrote it a long time ago, just before the first Hunger Games movie came out. I found a soundtrack that some fan put together and wrote this while listening to it. It’s got some weird punctuation and wording, but I still think it turned out pretty cool.)

Picture source: wattpad

My poetry belongs to me. All poems under the category “Poetry by Me” are mine. Use of my poetry without my permission is prohibited. If you wish to use any my poetry for any reason, ask me for permission first.

Albino

WARNING: Very, very dark. Nothing detailed, but still.

You have been warned.


White hair and red eyes:
the testimony of a phenomena
feared and fraught.
Innocent beings cursed from birth
imagefor no reason but to be different.
Scorned and scarred,
abused and misused
for being born.
Unique beings
twisted into monsters
by shallow minds and hollow hearts.
Beautiful bastards
wrongly mistaken for black sheep.
Brilliant beasts
hated for being misunderstood.

Red hair and white eyes,
bleak and colorless,
void of their once beauty,
never again to feel worldly pain.
Do you not see the horror
of what you’ve done?
Do you not care that an innocent life
has been unrightfully
stolen from this world?
Do you not feel shame?
Do you not wallow in your filthy guilt?
Your wicked ways
of hatred and uniformity
kill.
The systems you so regally uphold
can only destroy.
This unified world
drowns in uniformity.


*(Note: I have a really dark side, if you hadn’t noticed. Basically, it was late at night and I read some story that said something about an albino girl being made fun of for her looks and eventually taking her own life. For some reason, it really upset me, and this poem was the result. I won’t apologize.)

Picture source: pinterest

My poetry belongs to me. All poems under the category “Poetry by Me” are mine. Use of my poetry without my permission is prohibited. If you wish to use any my poetry for any reason, ask me for permission first.

“Skinny is Good”

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One day I was proud to be a child’s large.
The next I was proud to be a junior’s small.

Voices surround me and preach,
“Skinny is good.”
A constant siren, echoing my every breath.
I have been morphed into the world’s version
of what I should be, a vision of who
they want to see, and I am
controlled by their words and will.

“Skinny is good.”

My mind has lost its ability to define
beauty based on me, but rather
on what the world says it should be:
the sinful eyes and hungry voices chanting
“Skinny is good.”

And so I look in the mirror, and my eyes
travel to my sides, and I think,
“Skinny is good.”

And my meals become small, and my hunger
weakens
until it is nearly nonexistent, because
“Skinny is good.”

And I step on the scale that
weighs my life, and I peer down at the number
so far away, and I frown and whisper,
“Skinny is good.”

And in no time, my waist is nothing more than
stretched, pearly skin over
weak, pearly bones.
And I look in the mirror, and I can’t
see through my tears as I promise myself,
“Skinny is good.”

And the clothes that once stretched
as I wiggled into their depths
now hang loosely from my disfigured frame.
I move them, tug on them,
beg them to make me look whole,
but they can’t lie for me any longer.
I can practically hear their laughter,
their jeers and taunts at my murmurs of
“Skinny is good.”

And then I’m on the floor, trying to
stand, arms shaking and breath heavy because
I just can’t.
So I curl up on the ground in a tight ball,
praying that I might survive long enough
to see the reflection of a girl
who’s beautiful.

And I can’t help but wonder,
how can skinny be good?


*(Note: I mentioned in a past post that there was a time in my life where I struggled with self-esteem and confidence. This poem is a recollection of that time of struggle. It is written from real-life experience. If you are struggling as I did, always remember, you are beautiful. Love yourself, no matter what others say. You are never alone.)

Picture source: AGENDA

My poetry belongs to me. All poems under the category “Poetry by Me” are mine. Use of my poetry without my permission is prohibited. If you wish to use any my poetry for any reason, ask me for permission first.

Poem for Campbell Williams

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Nothing right, never right…

Useless as the faucet dripping…

I tried, how I tried!

She deserved so much more.

I can’t even fix this faucet dripping…

The gun, there’s a gun.

I could take my life.

A farmer turned store worker,

only hired for my wife.

I loved her so,

but she wanted more.

I tried, how I tried…

Nothing left to live for.

If I died, would they notice?

Would she even care?

The gun, the gun.

I’ll write a note.

Tell her I love her,

how I loved her so.

A bullet in the head.

I’ll take my life.

My blood pools like the faucet dripping.


 

*(Note: I wrote this poem for my class 20th Century Literature last year. We were supposed to choose a character from Cold Sassy Tree and write a poem about them, so… I chose Campbell Williams. It was also supposed to be a group project, but… Writing poems as a group? That’s crazy talk.)

*(Another Note: This is obviously venturing into the really dark side of my poetry. I don’t what that means, but… Maybe I should start including a warning label? D for dark content… Oh my gosh, can someone create a poetry rating system? That’d make my life!)

Picture source: credit.com

My poetry belongs to me. All poems under the category “Poetry by Me” are mine. Use of my poetry without my permission is prohibited. If you wish to use any my poetry for any reason, ask me for permission first.

One Last Moment

Husband comforting wife in hospital bed

I’ve only time

for one last moment

(one last breath,

one last smile,

one last laugh,

one last tear)

 

I’ve only time

for one more blink

(one more sight,

one more sound,

one more thought,

one more memory)

 

When my eyes close,

they’ll never again open.

When my chest sinks,

it will never again rise.

 

I’ve only time

for one last moment,

and then my life

will finally be gone.

All my fears

and all my dreams,

all my failings

and victories,

will all be gone

after this last moment.

For the next moment,

I will be gone.


Picture source: The Guardian

My poetry belongs to me. All poems under the category “Poetry by Me” are mine. Use of my poetry without my permission is prohibited. If you wish to use any my poetry for any reason, ask me for permission first.

 

 

The Voices

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I can hear the voices.

They’re screaming in my head.

I can hear the voices–

the voices of the undead.

Every single person

that’s died because of me;

all of them are screaming,

screaming to be free.

I try to tell them sorry,

but they don’t seem to care.

Then again, I killed them,

so I guess that’s only fair.

I just keep on wishing

that I could set them free,

but they wouldn’t be trapped

if it wasn’t for worthless me.


*(Note: I don’t know what else I can say other than, you guys have spoken. You guys were so encouraging about me posting my dark poetry, so… I’ve decided I will, and this one’s going first. Thank you all so much, and I hope you enjoy!)

Picture source: Medically Daily

My poetry belongs to me. All poems under the category “Poetry by Me” are mine. Use of my poetry without my permission is prohibited. If you wish to use any my poetry for any reason, ask me for permission first.

Whaler of the Stars

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In the night, I sailed through the skies
As a whaler of the stars.
My giant harpoon glinted in the moon
As I hunted near and far.
I brought them down in packs or alone.
There was nowhere to hide.
I sold them to merchants. They wanted more.
I was happy to abide.
The brighter they were, the better the price,
So brighter stars I downed.
I was always kind. Their deaths were quick.
They never made a sound.
I kept a collection of the brightest stars,
The alpha of each drove.
They were my trophies, my spoils of war.
The treasures of my trove.
All was well for quite some time.
I was rich in every sense.
But, strangely enough, my people grew angry
And argued my offense.
They told me my work was darkening the skies.
True, but it lit their homes.
They said what I did was destructive and wrong.
This cut into my bones.
“How dare you blame me for such wrongdoing!”
I yelled, angry and shocked.
“You egged me on, encouraged my work!
Bought each time I docked!”
But the people cared not what I had to say.
Someone had to be blamed.
So as I pulled into port the next time,
I found the end to my reign.
And as I floated in waters turned red,
Drawn in by a glinting harpoon,
I saw a night sky as black as fresh coal,
Lit only by the moon.


*(Note: I wrote this based on a dream I had. It literally happened exactly as I described it, and it was insane. And yes, it had just as much depth to it as I described in this poem. Yeah… Sometimes my dreams are a bit… Haunting.)

Picture Source: This is actually a digital art piece called Sailing Through The Night Sky by a man named Andy King. He’s pretty darn talented. Check him out here!

My poetry belongs to me. All poems under the category “Poetry by Me” are mine. Use of my poetry without my permission is prohibited. If you wish to use any my poetry for any reason, ask me for permission first.