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Weak I can't force myself to write these days.
I'm so tired. So weak.
I barely get out of bed these days...
Some sort of closure my body seeks.
See I start writing something close to that up there
And I hate it....what am I even trying to say anymore?
I can't confuse what I want to say with what I want you to know...
I've been doing that a lot lately.
It may seem I'm just talking now, but I'm speaking from the heart..
Let me go because instead of being your Juliet, dear Romeo,
I've become your poison. That sweet dagger.
With the last energy I have I'm trying to save you.
I'm proud of you for saying in one night you will.
But you won't. We both know you're lying to yourself...and to me.
And I don't appreciate that girl....saying she's helping....I don't think she's helping at all.
Sticking her nose where it doesn't belong. She doesn't understand anything about us.
(You can tell her I said that too if you like)
When it comes to you and me... there's nobody who can save us.
No one pers
Story of Her Life The pain behind her eyes is a dark result of unjust.
The tears she dries outside those eyes...result from tries at trust.
Her soft pink lips of truths and honesty, lie with every 'I'm okay'...
Her rosy cheeks she hides and covers... gain red in times she feels betrayed.
The rhymes she spits come from the bottom of her always broken heart.
With each word she hears a thunderous crack, as she falls even more apart.
At times her sore brain wonders if her body can take much more of this.
At times she wonders if she died yesterday...today would she be missed?
But when times got tough this time around...you came into her life
The hope you showed her...gave her, shone brightly in her life's night.
She saw the sunrise within your kiss, saw goals, and dreams, and slowing tides,
She saw a new life, an undying hope, she saw....with you...she could survive.
What to write about... So what do I write about then, I often wonder.
A tale of hate? Of heartbreak? Life's mistakes?
How do writers escape their own thoughts I ponder...
How do they hide from the tales they create?
It's as if they come to life when they're down on paper.
And no one is assigned to be a writer's saviour.
With dungeons and princesses lurking about
A young lad to prove to her that he's mighty and stout.
In my mind and yours they all come true
These stories we write, become a reality.
In day dreams and visions, feelings exhumed.
You know they're quite dangerous, these ideas; lethalities.
But shhhhh I won't tell I know they're real.
You can't make me speak, my pen is sealed.
But careful when you dream and it feels wonderfully realistic.
Because in reality, they can be quite narcissistic.
Warm up 1 I won't write about a cliche' tale of love.
I refuse to. Into old wounds, salt I cannot rub.
And even if every one out there isn't good enough.
I'll always be here looking for my diamond in the rough.
Romeo and Juliet's Song... (him)
As I was growing up..my parents gave me a lesson I won't ever forget
Told me to live life to the fullest and never live with regret
Saying love was most important..but then father left..all i remember is him in silhouette
But till this day mom still smiles..and tells me to go look for my Juliet
Looking back I was tough through things I had to undergo
The past six years hold an ocean of tears but even so
Every girl has a dream to someday let go
And in the end live happily with her dear Romeo
I never understood how people could give anyone all of their heart
it didn't seems smart..because that person could easily tear it apart
Leave you in tears as you watch them depart...disappearing into the dark
I guess I just didn't believe in love....but when I met..Her....I was willing to Start
He came along, gently swept me off my feet
Thought it was what I wanted, thought it was my dream.
Got comfortable talking, trusting
A New EndingThe tale begins with star crossed lovers
Against all odds they saw each other.
She held the knife within her palm
Deciding the ending was all wrong.
She stabbed her lover in the back.
Not thinking twice not looking back.
Took the vial and drank it all.
Ending with a bang and a curtain call.
Leaving Southampton She was in the kitchen when he stumbled in noisily, tripping as he went past the shelves and catching the edge of the table to keep himself from falling.
Pretending not to hear the stream of curses that followed, she kept her eyes fixed on the dishes, letting her hand trail in the soapy water. There was a loud scraping of wood against grimy concrete as he drew a chair and collapsed into it. At this she looked up, and after a moment's hesitation, she said, unnecessarily, "You've been drinking."
He clutched his head and said nothing. He hadn't shaved in weeks and stank of sweat and alcohol; he looked much older than his eighteen years.
They sat in silence for a while. Then he announced, loudly, "Fuck."
She didn't bother to tell him off. She just waited. And jumped when he suddenly brought his fist down, hard, onto the table.
"Our lives here are s
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