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Literature Text
This Is How You Remind Me
The way you ask me politely in public,
The way you gently kiss my hand,
The way you laugh at jokes,
The way you put on a sick show.
The way you demand me,
The way you sneer,
The way you hide your true colors,
The way you order me around like I'm nothing.
The way you lie and accuse,
The way you charm and use,
The way you take for granted,
The way you stomp on everyone below you.
This is how you remind me,
Of who I'm not,
And who I will never become.
The way you ask me politely in public,
The way you gently kiss my hand,
The way you laugh at jokes,
The way you put on a sick show.
The way you demand me,
The way you sneer,
The way you hide your true colors,
The way you order me around like I'm nothing.
The way you lie and accuse,
The way you charm and use,
The way you take for granted,
The way you stomp on everyone below you.
This is how you remind me,
Of who I'm not,
And who I will never become.
Literature
dont write under the influence
Dr. Asclepius called me;
he told me i'm bipolar
(i still say it's luxuria)
My prescription?
Fucking medicine.
Take two pills:
Doctor's Orders
(as if anyone actually
obeys those, anyway)
Take another pill.
One for each time
you looked at me,
then two more if
i had looked back.
i'll take one more for that time you
branded fake
Literature
He Is Not An Edward.
He is not an Edward.
He doesn't stare at me every minute he is with me.
Or smell my hair and watch me sleep.
Won't follow me, like a lost puppy,
Sometimes, he'll even walk away.
He doesn't love me for my faults,
It's in spite of them.
He'll notice pretty girls, even think of
past lovers
When he laughs at me, it's because I'm silly,
Not cute
Or Perfect.
The thought of me getting hurt does not bring tears to his eyes.
He would not die if I died,
He is not an Edward.
And I am not a Bella.
We are real.
Our love is real.
And that,
Is more important, and genuine
Than idealistic, impossible fantasies.
Screw Edward.
Literature
i call this a heptahedron.
i'm nothing but a washed up cliché
with pages of poetry locked behind my eyes
and forced under my damaged fingernails.
skin is my canvas, an empty slate,
and i'm painting stars in colors that do not have
names; colors that only exist in my mind.
every day is a wait for 11:11 and the opportunity
to discuss my darkest secrets with four-leaved clovers
and moving lights in the night sky.
i'm dancing on the tips of my toes
to avoid stepping on cracks in the pavement
and killing a family of ants.
i spend afternoons making up religions
and teaching them to my stuffed animals
just so i can f
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Yes, the title is sort of inspired by Nickelback's 'How You Remind Me', but the poem is sort of off the topic. I truely believe everyone will meet someone like this, completely
opposite of who they are. They may not match my discription, but they'll make them think, "Man, I'm so glad I don't act like that." or something, I guess.
Not really one of my favorites, but eh, what the heck.
opposite of who they are. They may not match my discription, but they'll make them think, "Man, I'm so glad I don't act like that." or something, I guess.
Not really one of my favorites, but eh, what the heck.
© 2009 - 2024 oWilloWo
Comments24
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this is really good Will!!