UntitledThere are things about her that most do not understand.Untitled by ~jamyjamj
Things even she herself does not understand.
And that has lead to a very trying life.
She is often left feeling like she has done wrong in some form or another.
She oftentimes feels like she has angered the people in her life by doing the things she has no control over.
Maddening thoughts plaque her consciousness more times than she can count.
Thoughts that center around how much displeasure, anger, frustration, and burden she brings into the lives of the ones she allows herself to let in.
She often feels herself believing that solitude is the best course of action and that the peop
CollageSometimes we have to learnCollage by ~jamyjamj
to let it go.
When you have to fight everyday
to keep something together,
sometimes you'll find yourself wondering
if it's worth it.
And that's when you need to stop fighting
and let someone else
pick up the sword and shield.
I love you,
PersevereWe've all made mistakes.Persevere by ~jamyjamj
We all have our regrets.
We've all done things we aren't proud of.
We are sinners.
We are humans.
Those things have helped shape who we are.
Those things have made us stronger.
Those things have shown us that life gets better.
Sunday Morning, 3amTake away the cure for if i'm dyingSunday Morning, 3am by ~DaveyDrayton
Let it consume, no sense in trying
To prevent an irresistable force, curb the crying
Pass by the five stages and a reign of heavy sighing
There's a hand on my shoulder, comforts source
A parade of thoughts in my honour, they conjure an image of a cop on a horse
But they don't say what they mean, what's on their mind
Still looking for a way to make life rewind
And if i don't speak it's with good reason
The ability to do so is effected by seasons
Perhaps i simply have nothing of note to say
Nothing of consequence that will clear obstacles out of my way
There's no time to worry, stress doesn't slee
The Real WritersThe Real Writers:The Real Writers by *WordOfChen
There are those who sit with their laptops and tablets,
Clothed in a scarf and an artistic hat of some sort.
They ponder; leaving a stack of books beside them,
Sipping their decaf as though they are literature personified.
What works do they prepare, other than blatant copies,
Perhaps a half-baked romance designed to woo a lady.
So convinced are they, of their own aptitude;
They are blinded by the beams of their burgeoning ego.
For the writer is not the man who is tapping away at keys,
He is not the man fervently reading with lensless glasses.
He is not the hipster debating ancient literature.
For he is a monst