Wild Writing Lines

Orange laughs at the joy it brings to others who look at it and wear it

The colour is funny because it doesn’t hide what it is

It’s bold and beautiful and colourful and vibrant

The beach is a calming place but at the same time crazy –

So much danger to be found there.

Dumping waves,

Crashing little kids to the ground with their stupid arms of watery strength.

Claire Connor

My World and Yours

As my insides start the day in pain, rumbling, aching,

The world continues revolving, moving.

As I lift myself from my dirt bed, restless,

Greater men rise from their soft clouds, peaceful.

As I hear the cries of my three younger brothers, weeping, sobbing,

The smell of breakfast fills the kitchen of another house, wafting, enticing.

As I slowly move towards my begging place, frowning, pleading,

Lights turn on in offices, brightening, greeting.

My stomach still grumbles at me, imploring, complaining,

While others’ waistlines continue expanding, bulging.

Dirt persistently covers me becoming my skin, tainting, staining,

As pure water flows from silver spouts, cleaning, refreshing.

I stumble back to my brothers, sorrowfully, heartbrokenly,

As many fathers greet their children joyfully, exuberantly.

I never know if this day will be my last...

Will the sun rise again?


Anonymous

My Song

The freeing melodies reverberate through my soul

Lifting me up out of the deep valley I have dwelt.

I no longer feel the weight of control, of oppression, of pain –

I am free.

These songs take hold of my pain,

Smothering and dissolving it til it disappears into oblivion.

I do not hold this alteration back, I cannot,

For if I did, I would surely waste away into the darkness.

I let those internal melodies rise up through my feet, my legs,

All the way into my lungs, my gut, my heart.

They continue to rise and spread through my veins, into my throat

Where sound begins to form.

I cannot contain the uprising any longer.

I close my eyes,

Smile,

And let my song out.

Anonymous

Why? Because okay?

I thought I was done with this.
I thought we were done with this.
We let the past get to us like sugar,
Like it's ice to our wounds that heal the broken parts of our hearts.
We make it okay but it's not,
I know it's clichéd but when were we ever okay?
These voices speak to us and we keep listening....
Why?
Our hearts are the pages to books,
We let people write in them,
Scribble on them,
Rip the pages out and throw them away.
We let the tears flood our eyes like it's normal.
And let the cuts become scars like it's okay.
Our skin, like the canvases we create art on,
But instead of art we make scars,
Instead of beauty we make messes.
Our feelings are like precious roses,
Unpredictable.
If not cared for we wilt and our petals fall.
If not watered, we change.
If we are cut from our stem and gifted we can't go back to our rose bush.
We simply die.
Why?
Because we let everyone throw away the pages
And we let everyone pick us from the rose bush.
But me?
I will no longer supply the pens or paper
No longer will I be a rose to be picked but a thorn that tells you not to touch.

Anonymous