I'm new at this whole blog thing. So I don't really know what to expect. I'm just trying to put myself out there into a world of people that understand the passions of poetry and reading. I've been writing for over 15 years. I'm 24 years old. So I have gradually gotten more mature with my writing and over the years have developed a deeper passion for this art. My passion began when I snuck into my sisters room and read her journal only to realize that it was silly little poems she was writing. So I began to write some of my own. It turned into something I constantly found my self doing and loving it more and more. I'm no Shakespeare or Poe, but I write what I write and people will either like it or not. I have also been playing the violin for over 13 years, don't know if that matters. I like beer. Winter is my favorite season. My favorite book is The Storyteller by Jodi Picoult. Second is The Old Man and the Sea by Earnest Hemingway. Third is To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. Fourth is The Catcher in The Rye by J.D. Salinger. Fifth is Easy Street by Ron Perlman.
I curl my arms effortlessly, order of restraint towards fighting a disability. I can resist a turning twisted tale of short and false. I mutter a sound having capability during a storm searching a strength. I find that a hero masked in resemblance of my face is only emotion withdrawn from a feeling of mistake. I can't form the sentence you spoke for the life of me, yet when a danger erodes false hope, a steaming strain of dignity lies beneath the road. I happen to walk by those hills that daunt a haunt towards dreams. I slip past the corner that holds a can of whiskey so my patience remains the same. I crouch, I hide, I live in fear sometimes. I breathe in the same air as do my neighbors breathe out their lies. I, for once, am not alone in a story written by my hands that posses a positive affect when it's read in your eyes, behold a book in palms that I can never deride. I pour it down the glass, never ending, adding. I simply stake out a way to surpass a feeling that every one finds troubling. I. Oh, I. I cast out votes reflecting a mirror of path's I have chosen. I type out meaning behind every curtain as if I'll always have an explanation. But, my arms are curled effortlessly against my chest. It is not I who wrote these lines, but a mind fierce of contempt, yet erased to disguise an event hurled down past the lines. I discovered an evening filled with tears. An evening filed down to its last years. An afternoon, a morning, a time of no judgement. I filed down the minutes to a last gathering. I shaved off extra skin in which they decided to decreed an exemption. But loneliness, it assures, is an example of duration. I can never fail to see the light. It bends with my life, it stretches so I can see. I can fail every step if I please. But the hill is never too tall for me: over and about, past the burning faces in the crowd, it bows past the tops for its shimmer to frost the drop. I climbed past buriers built beyond a sky of black. It came tumbling in rain over my head, sheets of ice, wind of power, I crawled back in shame. Not once did the light drawn away from a body withered in pain. I no longer contemplate a day of dark dooming a city of a drought. I seem to place on my desk a folder of collected history to sort out any doubt. In finality of a seamless wonder of hope, it crashes on a plate with a fork. I purchased this plate with money borrowed from a bank, borrowed from a country which borrowed from hate. I fold up my take. I fold it so dear. I watch it dangle on its strings for greed to be cleared. It dines with hours, it sleeps with time. What a whore to be donned to a senseless rhyme. I forgive a favor in which it forgets my mind. In parties of desert, the main course is eaten alive.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
None to compare. (16/02/2015)
I sleep with violence (06/01/2015)
Loyal to You. (02/01/2015)
My sin I misunderstood. (31/12/2014)
I escaped the reaper. (31/12/2014)
Depression. And not the money kind. (30/12/2014)
Our World. (26/12/2014)
Blog link: https://www.writeoutloud.net/blogs/amelia
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