Every second of every minute of
every hour of everyday, I feel the pain growing stronger and stronger inside of me. Many have suffered, no one has survived For this is a battle you cannot win. You cannot fight it, all you can do is lie back and watch as you lose yourself, Until there's nothing left to save, just an empty shadow, And a trail of broken dreams.
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Fear
pulses through my body, reaching the depths of my heart. Whiteness fills my eyes, sweet voices and whimpering tones arise from across where I lay Where am I? the idea occurs with No answer. What happened? the memory, Lost. Who am I? I jerk my head up with no identity I find myself, whoever I am, under soft woolen sheets, crystal white walls surround me, trapping me, peoples cries echo from the light wooden door, “You fell off a roof.” A blinding mask
In the shade Is where I hide Can’t be caught Can’t be alone They can’t see me. Can’t see them. With my blinding mask. No one for me. No one for them. The stench of filth, And cruelty Is here to stay. Will I ever leave? Even if possible, I couldn’t. Because I can’t see anything With my forlorn face, And with my blinding mask. Can I make a difference? I most likely cannot. Will he ever come back? He most likely cannot. Will my country ever let go? To all the bombs, And all the warfare, And all the terror, And all the gunfights? It will most certainly not. But can I make a difference? I most certainly can. It’ll be a challenge. And will take some guts. With my blinding mask. The people we are. The people we stand. We will never let go to others. And even ourselves. We’ll do it together. Against all the warfare. And all the terror. And all the gunfights. And I’ll help fight against it all. Even if I have to stand and fight. With my blinding mask. a child,
stares at the insane sky. walking toward the street, it rains the storm clouds shaped, as snakes and spiders the sky cries, it’s tears of crystal for the morbid world the child cries for the skies sorrow, the sky turns into a beautiful sunset on a very wild day. Protector,
at least supposedly. Done for own gain, to save face. Father’s careless eyes, pretend to guard, but only for own gain. Seems pure, but corrupt in every way. Protector, should be there for the people he “protects,” but instead works for own gain When loneliness and sadness strike, Protectors Should, Protect. yellow, which
tinged the bodies lying limp, in the street, I searched the cobbled stone road, littered with lifeless bodies, and yellow, unmoving eyes, until my gaze fell upon a single figure. It was contorted into an unnatural position, engulfed in a pale yellow. I staggered dizzily toward the stiff body. Too young. Too young. The words echoed around my head as I picked up the limp body of what was once my brother. He will always be too young. mass graves, piled up to the heavens, creating a mountain of death, of decay, of sorrow, I am vaguely aware of being lifted by a black hood, and I'm sure I am peering into the face of death itself. My body is rocked violently up and down as all of my weight is rested on a single, squeaking wheel. Suddenly, the jerking stops, and I feel a sensation of falling, but am quickly cushioned by a soft mound of…What are these?! I muster enough energy to lift my head and take in the pile of decrepit bodies I have come to rest on. Without warning, I feel an implausible amount of weight press down on my person, causing me to suffocate between the stench and ragged clothing. My eyes begin to close, and the last thing I see is blood trickling from my wrist. Darkness has taken me hostage, as I become one with my surroundings. a shadow had been cast, over the lives of the lost, of the spared, Why couldn’t it have been me? Why couldn’t it have been me? These thoughts fill my skull as I stare at what once was the living body of the women I loved. Why have I been spared? I wish I could join her. Depart this plague-ridden world forever. But the guilt would overwhelm me. They need someone to care for them. They need a father. They need me. shrieks of longing, blended with the foul miasma of death drifted, toward the sky, becoming lost, before the hand, of God. Leaves twirl before my eyes,
as they turn miscellaneous colors in the wind. Carols calling from the glass window fill my ears with delight. Flickering candles dancing on a cake, bring exhilaration to the butterflies in my stomach. Laughing, cheering, and clapping, fond memories I withhold. Crying, hugging, smiling, and comfort, infuse my memories with segments of confusing days In the end all is well. These fond remembrances penetrate my thoughts, leaving myself pristine and pure in my bed of memories. Victimizing,
Slaughtering, remorse………None Anyone could be a sacrifice But……. Matty is unique he wanders the bone-chilling area, with dignity. WHY? Even Matty, doesn’t understand. the week drags on
and on, essay after essay after project after test, i need to recharge. my eyes close refusing to stay alert: no longer fueled, i cannot sleep. toss turn flip the pillow sit up lay down think. my thoughts keep me awake. sounds outside and inside of me interrupt slumber, stress, anxiety, worries too much to handle: what if what if what if. i cannot sleep. toss turn flip the pillow sit up lay down think. they say “we all get tired” but not like this: hearing the seconds tick by: heartbeat, watching nightmares reach from under my closet, hoping to sleep again. i cannot sleep. toss turn flip the pillow sit up lay down, insomnia. Through the Hidden Eyes
Alone Nothing but rubble surrounding The racket of bombs crashing against the parched ground Ceramic pots dropped and trampled Each piece carefully picked up The whole country is blown apart Wearing a burqa, wear a tent That hides beauty Mouth is blind Have to eat my voice Hands are locked in a cage Not able to move or shake Amber eyes stare Never seeing the world clearly Burqa sweeps the dust Feet sliding on the ground The fabric thrashing against legs The rays of the boiling sun seep through the cloth pressing on my face Flesh is concealed These drapes are the prison But there’s nothing more than wishful thinking. |
All work on this page was created by Middle School & High School students. We hope you enjoy reading their amazing poetry, essays, and stories.
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