ThePoetsDen

Je me mets à écrire, c'est pas comme les histoires Y a pas d'encre ni papier, tout est électronique On entend comme la pluie, légers bruits du clavier Comme la nuit, quand je n'arrive pas à dormir Et ces vers qui m'étouffent et me sauvent en même temps Et me font rêver aussi, quand je lis Corneille Lui, par exemple, ses vers l'ont rendu célèbre Et le doux bruit s'arrête quand je dois bien penser À ces alexandrins qui animent la magie Et des fois, quelques fois, en plein cours de français Je lis un texte qui est trop beau pour être vrai Ou comme Ann

Just leave me be! Let my past be something of glass, that I can shatter and sweep away, without effort or nostalgia. As a snake strips it's skin, I shall start again. As new as baby's first breath, I shall be reborn. Let the wind blow away, what is left of my past, and leave me to restart again.

I sit down on the chair After such a long day My entire body sighs I pick the cello up I know its shape by heart Elegant amber curves Beautiful polished wood All carved so carefully I pick up the long bow The ivory horse hair Turning gray at the edge Honey colored rosin Dusting the bow lightly The smell I learned to love I poise it on the strings And I begin to play Sometimes it's hard to do For each and every day My cello is sometimes My bitter enemy Can't play anything right Giving up is tempting But for most of the time We're real accomplices I dust it off each day And always tune the strings And together we sing Soaring high melodie

            New school, new beginning. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself. How old am I now? Fourteen. How many times have I moved? This is numero six.            What should I pick now? The girl fresh from France that makes the boys drop at her feet? The shy girl who buries herself in books and has only one friend? The football coach’s daughter who’s swimming in money? The emo girl who talks to no one but is hurt by her dark past?            I chuckle, remembering the look on my dad’s face when I bought all black clothes. I’d gotten a whole bunch of friends who were all pierced up, and punk. La

Starting Again. I stare at myself in the mirror, seldom giving any facial expressions to my backwards self, apart from the often downward glance at the new me. I have changed my self, my look. I used to be so happy, I was blinded by love, the world was hazy and soft. Until the fog of passion all cleared and all the lies and betrayal was sharp and hit me like a pound of bricks. He only wanted as a trophy, as a boasting toy. I hated myself and him and the foolish game that was. But I loved him and he made me feel like I was beautiful. I tried everything to find that blind happiness again. I hurt myself and others to try to get lost like I was

Choking on ash Scrawny humans Dying on their own Suffering in silence Or maybe it's the destruction Raging mutely on The barren, frozen Wastelands All that's left to live on How did this even happen? People can't really say Are we even people? Pieces of human decay Ashes of burnt things Carried by a dusty wind Everything's been covered Animals run around The ones that haven't died Patiently await their turn The water is contaminated Chemicals are everywhere Chemicals are in us Killing us from inside People have named it The death of all and any It is the Apocalypse.