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lies, she wrotei. just a mimicry, really;
uncompromisingly
desperate to shine.

ii. counterfeit & clockwise,
tasting words on her
unworthy tongue.

iii. with a dysfunctional mind
& apocryphal dictionary,
she cannot clone it all.

iv. "say anything," the pen
whispers as she trembles
among ink-scented fraudulence.

v. but she just laughs & plays the part,
forgetting what the pages told her:
"truth is stranger than fiction."

The Pen, The SwordJust lovely
I was happy to fall asleep
in the welcoming warmth of your words and
you were unaware that you held me
so close, and so carefully
from the moment before I heard you speak
to the taste of every sentence you spoke
I knew you were the very truth that I'd
been seeking all along
Just barely
I was loathe to fall so deep
in the sharpened edges of your words and
you were too aware that you had me
so close, and so carelessly
from the first second I heard you break
to the taste of every sentence you broke
I knew you were the very truth that I'd
been avoiding all along

Death of the PoetDear poetry,
This is your challenge,
my eternal chore,
to restate the truth
like never before-
but I’m imperfect
at my very core
and hypocrisy
is what I abhor
so you may expect
my work to be poor
enough for me to
be crushed into gore
with failed attempts
to take wing and soar
when all I wanted
was something much more
than emptiness and
inherited war
and pointless details
of imagined lore
which most of us tend
to simply ignore
at the piercing sound
of a lion’s roar
or the convenience
of a nearby store…
what am I truly
writing these words for?
Let’s merely pretend
that this isn’t me
but the voice of God
or L. Ron Hubbard
or whoever you
wish for it to be
since facts remain facts
no matter the source,
no matter the cause,
since the trustworthy
are also humans
prone to failure;
so prone to a fault
that we hold dearly-
the sum of our faith
measured in dollars-
rewarded by credit
and paper money…
for some odd reason
I find this funny!
So I conclude

False EternityDisillusioned youth was less common in those days,
I assure you, the people even more set in their ways,
murderous and unforgiving, yet unaware of the lie they were living
convinced that faith is stone, they cut faces into gods, they thought
ignorant that being made rendered useless the very gods they wrought.
Shiny carvings into stone, faces, figures, blessed unknown,
Murders, slaughters, sacrifices of the weak, preaching sins and what they seek.
Forgiveness is not for all, all who do not have will now fall!
Greed consumes the mortal mind, rage is all that's left behind!
Amidst it all I rose and found the sun, disowned him for the moon
then sought the horizon, again and again warned my father that doom
would befall him if he didn't seek a better way to live and be
I wasn't willing to follow the dark and deadly rules,
trying to bring some light into the lives of these fools.
Guilds of anti-gods were formed, wars rose higher, nothing to atone!
They all represen

ArrheniusThe birds are
keeping to themselves
this evening
as the earth shifts
slightly-
ever so calmly
(for when you are
this powerful
you only have
to move).

Here and there, I
witness these
beautiful strangers
with perfect bodies
and long hair
walking down the road
in tightly knitted packs.
They are animals
like we are animals-
like we are
animals without
claws and fur,
with scratches on our
skin that yields to
fragile and
familiar hands.

The winds respond
as quiet birds rush
from telephone wires
in panic and
in beauty; she
tries to brush the hair
dancing circles in her eyes
(for when you are
this powerful
you only have to move).

False eternityDisillusioned youth was less common in those days,
I assure you, the people even more set in their ways,
murderous and unforgiving, yet unaware of the lie they were living
convinced that faith is stone, they cut faces into gods, they thought
ignorant of the fact that being made rendered useless the very gods they wrought.

Shiny carvings into stone, faces, figures, blessed unknown,
Murders, slaughters, sacrifices of the weak, preaching sins and what they seek.
Forgiveness is not for all, all who do not have will now fall!
Greed consumes the mortal mind, rage is all that's left behind!

Amidst it all I rose and found the sun, disowned him for

Psychotic ramblingsI, in the eternal void rest,
Am the unwanted thirteenth guest,
Insane, deranged and psychotic,
There are people who even call me sick.

Isn't it joyful and greedy to demand
A sacrifice of strangulation at the reach of the hand?
Cure the poisoned in a prison built of mental sand.

Murder is the solution brought by the resolution.
Is this the final, one and only conclusion?
Better think again, there will be no retribution.

Death is not the liberation, just the beginning.
Is there eternal peace? The solution is sinning.
Unacceptable lies become the truth, the chaos keeps spinning.

WakefulI remain awake with dreams on my mind
and stories that wait to be knit into books.
To never find comfort until my pillows are
stuffed with thoughts instead of feathers
To never let go until I made sure that
the moon smiled back at me
Until the trees, the grass, and every night creature
has whispered good night...
And yet I'm still as wakeful as an owl
afraid that sleep would somehow
grab my neck and drag me to my grave.

Shared HappinessI like it better when you're happy.
The world feels like a safe place -
A good place to be.

Stay happy, even in the face
of great adversity
I know these last few years have been...

Well, difficult, to say the least.
But as long as your heart shines
I can hear it...

That devilish smile on your lips
the one no amount of miles
or hardships can erase

Remember, I'm always watching
With the eyes of my heart
I see you clearly

And, as long as you are happy
No matter where this life leads me
Then I am happy too.

HumanDear Hypocrite,

What do you do?
Throwing insults when you're insulted.

Dear Coward,

Where went you?
To your "peaceful" sanctuary you have bolted.

Dear Liar,

What say you?
Your poison corrupts innocent ears.

Dear Human,

What are you?
A sinner trapped in endless tears.

Watercolor PainWhen you smile,
I turn colorblind.

It turns into a somersault
whenever I gain contact
with your skin,
bare back touching
bare back.

But I'm not hungry
for bedposts.

I just want to
savor each moment your arms
lock into mine,
the romanticism of
the moons in my eyes
and the skies in your words.

There's smoke
behind all those hues
of hazel and your fingers
are porcelain,
but I still love you.

Redeeming Light
Read bottom to top:
.
there
journey
e
h
t
and the stem is
than the flower must be redemption
n
i
s
are
If the roots

a true writer's souli write to release
i write to breathe
i write to feel
i write to bleed

i don't care
if you don't understand
i don't care
if you can't relate
i don't care
for your opinion
i don't care
about you at all

my words are thoughts
my words are emotions
my words are curses
my words are memories
my words are everything
i want them to be
and fuck if you can comprehend

i could write in measure
i could bother with rhythm
but i'm better than your rules
i'm beyond the margin

i'm a fucking psychotic mess
of ambiguous lunacy
that only the ones that think
can understand
the ones that
are just like me

fuck your critiques

fuck your citicism

fuck your opin

bad nightmy mistakes are on my head,
and the cigarettes taste like metal;
on the street curb of a suburban block,
the lights jaundiced and flickering
like drunken fireflies, your reflection
that emanates from me covers every face.

ConstructDelving into the origins
Of what makes an individual
Who are you? Who am I?
There’s a lack of understanding,
Yet we jump to judge
And claim to know
That which we could never understand

Attempts are seldom made
To investigate the unknown
To strive to discover
Those we claim to know
From the inside out
Extract the innermost thoughts

In place there is an idealist mirage
To which our beliefs shall cling to
In desperation, or disbelief

It’s the construct of our mindset
That leads us all astray

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More from =dawn181

Once Lost, Forever ForgottenThe Once Lost, Forever Forgotten

This is a poem for all the lost things.
The lost socks and pocket books,
The lost remote that was never found.
All the lost lines inside your head,
All the words left unsaid.
The lost hopes,
The unreachable dreams,
This is a poem for these.

This is a poem for all the forgotten.
The forgotten sweaters that can't shed a tear,
The meals that go uneaten.
This is a poem for all the forgotten friends,
Memories,
And lingering touch of a lover.

This is a poem for all the lost souls.

This is a poem for the forever forgotten.

IntroductionWith an introduction so sweet
How could I not accept,
The olive branch you held my way?

You introduced me to a world full of unknowns,
Yet as scared as I was,
I never looked back.
Your case was so alluring,
Your introduction so sweet.

This world I lie in now,
This world thanks to you,
I've been introduced to happiness,
A peaceful life,
Hope,
I've been introduced to Jesus Christ.

The Boy in NeolaThe sun peaked out from behind the clouds,
The rain finally stops,
It's been raining for years.

The girl looked up at the sky,
Squinting from the sun.
God answered her prayers once again.
She couldn't help but to wonder how many other prayers he had answered for her.
What had happened to the boy,
The boy named Max?
She smiled and hoped the best.
She carried his name in her heart,
The name of a stranger she had never met.

It was his courage that gave her the courage to live through the days.
It was how close they were in age that made her stop and think,
And reevaluate what she thought she couldn't do.
It was this boy,
Boy

Perfect StrangersThey sit there,
All alone across the high school cafeteria.
They couldn't have picked a worse place to be who they are.
They couldn't have chosen the wrong time to be children.

They both sit there,
Oblivious to their own awkwardness.
For them it's bliss when they are with each other,
For them they are perfect.
For us it is strange,
Strange because we don't understand.
They are the perfect strangers.

She has short red hair,
Red blotches all over her pale cheeks,
And a turned up, pig nose.
Her voice hits you like a ton of bricks,
It has no lift.
Her body has no shape,
And people whisper, "She's the ugliest girl in

Perfect StrangersShe sat perfectly still,
As instructed by her mama to do.
At times she'd twirl her hair or tugged at her balloon,
But quickly looked at her mama's back and went back to being a statue.

She held his hand and whispered words of comfort.
He had gone into one of his fits again,
Shouting and screaming about the war.
The old man was as gentle as a deer,
His wife as patient as a can be.
She kissed his wrinkled cheek,
Her's slightly tear stained.

The old man was wheeled to a picnic table,
Under an umbrella and out of the way.
"I'll be right back," the old woman whispered.
"No! No! They'll kill me!" he shouted, delirious as always.
He

My selfish waysMy selfish ways

To be selfish as a child was to be naïve and unaware.
When I sat in the corner and tried to learn the ways of the world,
Struggle with what little philosophy I thought I knew.
Just six years old then and already losing myself.
I asked, "Does everyone else feel, or are they just here for my entertainment?"
That got me a smack from my mother, and forever kept my mouth shut.
Not once again did I share my wonders with her.

And older I got, wallowing in my selfish ways.
Grade school lunch room was where I practiced that awful sin.
Just two cookies was all I ate,
When just one I'd be fine with.
Genny there needed i

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The truth behind every poem

by =dawn181, Jan 30, 2013, 7:58:31 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

This is no longer poetry,
it has long become the ramblings
of a self-centered teen
who likes to see her thoughts written aloud.
It has become anguished cries
over bullshit problems
and petty insecurities followed by
idiotic worries.

The girl just happens to have a knack
for transposing fears onto a page and
making them sound viable.
She just happens to find readers as
angst as her.
She just happens to enjoy the
misguided spotlight.
She just happened to find it in writing.

The truth behind every poemby =dawn181

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

Wow, I've written some pretty pessimistic poetry lately. I guess that now that winter break is over, I no longer have time to focus on writing structurally sound poems, and I'm going back to using it as an outlet.

^{You may not use this, under any circumstances, without my permission. The truth behind every poem (c) dawn181, a.k.a Taylor (me)}

love 1 1

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~~neutral 0 0~~

~weird-ion Feb 25, 2013

I'll be honest with you, I'm not loving this poem. But it totally makes sense. All writers have felt this way I'm sure. However through a lot of reflection I've come to believe all poets are utterly and completely honest in all things they write. Poetry, no matter how silly, dramatic, or whatever is just a petty set of words to get some emotions across (negative or otherwise). Of course, you don't have to agree with me, but I just want you to know I think everything you have written and will write is an original, beautiful and honest work of art.

=dawn181 Mar 25, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Well thank you so much

I get what you're saying, and I agree with you when you say poets are honest when they write, because I feel like, to be a poet, there is no other way to write.

~Adonael Feb 10, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

I agree with dogmatic...poets can enjoy and sympathise with how poetry can be seen in a multitude of perspectives. It made me smile reading and feeling included in that we are always our own worst critics.

Someone who can't see/appreciate the value in that is blind - more so, if they can't criticise constructively, I question the very reason they're on this website in the first place.

*DogmaticKerr Feb 8, 2013

Wow, that guy is an asshole ;D I hope you know that he was way off-base in his comment, Miss Dawn. As far as I can see, your poem is exquisitely specific to and about you and in no way generalized all poems or poetry. Incidentally, I am positively positive that his undies were in a tizzy as evidenced by the tone and word choice of both of his comments and even if there was no 'tizz' he was definitely bothered. I hope you don't mind my language as I do not feel that his comments deserve anything but contempt and dismissal! Long story short - fuck that clown.
This poem actually made me smile as many poets, if not most or all find themselves, at some point in their experience and development, at-odds and emotional. Angst is unavoidable in even the most protected and sheltered life and your youth has little bearing on your voice and your words. Being a fan of Buffy The Vampire Slayer I could not help but recall Xander's generalized-but-often-true quip about poetry as "pretentious inner-turmoil".
There is a lot I could say about the marginalization of the importance of youth and their views, feelings and the level of seriousness with which to approach them and their problems but it'd be a much longer and much more boring comment than I had planned

Suffice it to say that I do not think that you should be at-all included within the group of laughing-stock, stereotypical teens whose biggest problems seem to be not getting what they want. You have a beautiful mind and, as a writer, are uniquely gifted with not just more pure thought processes but with the means to express them eloquently, beautifully and poetically.

=dawn181 Mar 25, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you so much

~SarxTheJew Jan 30, 2013 Hobbyist Digital Artist

A poem stupidly complaining about how all poem's are just of people complaining stupidly? Someone pretending to have the highground because they hypocritically mock an overgeniralized common enemy? No, yea, no, you're so deep.

=dawn181 Jan 30, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

I was not commenting on every poem, I was commenting on my own poetry. Lately it's just been an emotional outlet, not my usual stuff where I actually sit down and put a lot of thought into form and such. This was a spur of the moment outlet poem, about my spur of the moment outlet poems. If it got your undies in a tizzy, then you need to take a moment and chill out, because something so silly as my poetry shouldn't do that.

~SarxTheJew Jan 30, 2013 Hobbyist Digital Artist

Did it look like I got my undies in said Tizzy? Don't go all bumbley at me for not knowing what you mean by your poem. If you want people to know what your poem means, try to show it in the poem, not in a reply to a comment on such poem.

=dawn181 Jan 30, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

You sounded like your undies were in a tizzy. Of course, tone doesn't transfer well over the internet.

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