Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines he wrote a poem
And he called it "chops" because that was the name of his dog
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an a with a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door and read it to his aunts
That was the year Father Tracy took all the kids to the zoo
And he let them sing on the bus
And his little sister was born with tiny toe nails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed a lot
And the girl around the corner sent him a valentine signed with a row of X's and he had to ask his father what the X's meant
And his father always tucked him in bet at night
And was always there to do it
Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines he wrote a poem
And he called it "Autumn" because that was the name of the season
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A and asked him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because of its new paint
And the kids told him that Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left burns on the pews
And sometimes they would burn holes
That was the year his sister got glasses with thick lenses and black frames
And the girl around the corner laughed when he asked her to go see Santa Claus
And the kids told him why his mother and father kissed a lot
And his father never tucked him in bed at night
And his father got mad when he cried for him to do it
Once on a paper torn from his notebook he wrote a poem
And he called it "Innocence: A Question" because that was the question about his girl
And that's what it was all about
And his professor gave him an A and a strange steady look
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because he never showed her
That was the year Father Tracy died
And he forgot how the end of the Apostle's Creed went
And he caught his sister making out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed or even talked
And the girl around the corner wore too much makeup that made him cough when he kissed her but he kissed her anyway because that was the thing to do
And at three A.M. he tucked himself into bed his father snoring soundly
That's why on the back of a brown paper bag he tried another poem
And he called it "Absolutely Nothing"
Because that's what it was really all about
And he gave himself an A and a slash on each damned wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door because this time he didn't think he could reach the kitchen
-The Perks of Being A Wallflower, By Stephen Chbosky-
This one's for my Grandpa Ray:
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glint on the snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you wake in the morning hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there, I did not die.
-someone... if you know who wrote it, I'd appreciate if you told me-
Yeah, flesh also of beasts and of the fowls of the air, I, the Lord, have ordained for the use of man for thanksgiving, nevertheless they are to be used sparingly; And it is pleasing unto me that they should not be used, only in times of winter, or of cold, or famine.
-LDS Doctrine and Covenants 89:12-
Brought into this world by Hypocricy and Abuse.
Force-fed Deceit and Degredation.
Hate, Anger, and Depression were my only playmates.
Sharp blades and dancing flames, my only playthings.
I am beautiful in my beginning.
See the world in a shade of grey through melancholy eyes.
Sunshine can't penetrate the blackness smothering my soul.
Every scar gracing my body has a story to tell;
As does every crack in my dead and decaying heart.
I am beautiful in my sorrow.
Plagued with painful rememberance of my regrets,
The comfort of darkness silently wraps itself about me.
Try to catch my tears in vain, as if trying to capture the stars.
Left alone with Numbness, abandoned by everything else.
I am beautiful in my solitude.
My first fatal masterpeice shall now come to be.
A glinting razor, my instrument to create;
My flowing and crimson blood, the paint to spill;
My cold and mutilated body, the canvas to behold.
Make my pain and despair a work of art.
The sight of it invades your dreams forever.
I am beautiful in my demise.
-Me-
You are heartache in an irresistable disguise...
"Love is a drug," you say, and I'm an addict...
If words were meant to mean something, there wouldn't be a need for our hands.
-Heidi-
