First poem


It is the façade that wakes her up and,

Leaves her covered in sweat on a cold night.

This wall of protection,

The consequence of spite.


It is the illusion of freedom, which propels her forward,

Leaving many paths and people upturned in her wake.

This wall of fading protection,

The consequence of what is at stake.


It is her coping mechanisms which hold her back,

The yearning of men to want her, a need to be alluring.

This broken wall of protection,

The consequence of having an esteem which needs reassuring.


It is the distraction from what causes her pain,

That is the real thorn in her side.

The lack of protection,

The consequence of becoming too old to run and hide.


Her act is getting old, already one has not believed it,

One has questioned it, and one has praised it, yet others can still be fooled.

This rebuilds and reforms her protection,

The consequence of moving to many “new” schools.


The long, sleepless nights have returned,

Broken only by the cusp of dawn,

When her questioning and doubt return themselves to their abyss,

In the dark corners of her mind.

This rips and tears her ephemeral protection.

The consequence of being observant, yet wishing to be blind.

The façade is to protect herself and others,

From what she will and could do.

The necessity no longer protection,

The consequence of discovering yourself, and learning a thing or two.




Author's Notes/Comments: 

This was the very first poem I wrote. It always give me a nostaligic sense of how far (I believe) that I've travelled. 


I knew a man named Fred,
he had no friends, so smoked
instead...He didn't care,
his life wasn't fair...

He'll fry his head, snort crank
and drank. He'll shoot-up to
stay up...Fred had no game,
but wasn't ashamed...

He had so many neighbors,
he slept on concrete floors...
There was no privacy, to
Fred it didn't matter...

Nobody knew him,
everybody seen him...
He'll borrow money, and
never had any...He had no
job, so stole instead...

Food was abundant in a
rotten way...Fred moved
constantly and was always
forced to move...

He didn't pay rent, he had so
many debts. I felt sorry for Fred
but now he is dead...

Fred was a bum, he slept in
the slums...but nobody cared,
his life wasn't fair...

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Fred was a bum I knew!!

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Jacket Poem

Life is a journey, not a destination.
It's what you are,
Not where you're stuck.
So work with what you have,
And when you are compost,
Let it be said:
"He was amazing."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

So this is the first poem I ever wrote (well I guess not technically: "the big fat cat in a top hat sat on the mat and spat" doesn't seem to count.) so it's not really any good but I saw another person post his first poem so I figured what the hell I might as well (GAH I'm speaking in rhymes!) oh and as for the strange title I call it Jacket Poem because I found the first line "Life is a journey, not a destination." sewn under the collar of a jacket (which I still have) and the lines just came into my head and I had to write them down (this bit is longer than the poem now 0_o) so thar you have my first poem =]

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