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The poetThe trees write poems of the beautiful green
The leaves tell the story of the early spring
The sun tells the story of the flowers that
The flowers write a poem about the sun's
The stream tells a tale of the rocks and the
While a lone standing well harbors a wish.
The willow writes of shadows that dance
in the day.
Till the moon starts to rise and they all run
The birds and the bee's will write of their
The wind writes the breeze that makes them
The frogs sing a song as the moon starts to
The fireflies will dance as they light up the
The owl cries as the stars start to
We copy what we see as the earth starts to
Maybe we hold the quill but destiny is the poet.
the artistIf I were a painter id paint despair
My colours would be gray
Black and white would be my heart
For I know no other way
Id paint a heartache wounded and red
Oozing from black and white
People would come from miles around
Just to witness this sight
Id paint your lies as blue as the sea
With its waves crashing the shore
The blue would stretch to the ends of the
And then just a little bit more
Id paint my trust with invisible paint
Like all the promises you made
Id paint them all as fast as I could
And then I'd watch them fade
If I were an artist I would paint goodbye
To all the things that remain
But I'm just a poet without a brush
So I'll write away my pain
Teenage TaoismGiving birth is the closest I’d ever felt to dying.
Before that, my near death experiences had consisted only of my silent announcement of pregnancy—silent, being that my social media accounts were all deleted almost simultaneously and I never returned to school in the fall, saying without really saying that I had caught the malicious disease of “teenage pregnancy”. I’m sure the whisper spread in the hallways like the Bubonic Plague. That September, sitting at home on what would have been the first day of my senior year, I imagined friends I’d never talk to again saying “she was only seventeen, and so full of life!” at my absence in the cafeteria tables, as if they were attending my funeral instead of talking about me behind my back.
"Full of life," I had snorted then, folding a never ending stream of what had once been my own baby clothes. "Literally."
I walked around like a zombie for the months of my pregnancy, deciding t
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