Poem 1-

Who created the mold we force ourselves into

And why must the shape be so hard to express

We lay ourselves thin pressing down on anything different

Allowing our bodies to be shaped and sectioned into a standard cookie cutter

Some may overflow and fit too largely, others barely meeting the mold’s edges

If we fail to keep the shape pressed into us, maybe our body begins having cuts, or stretched too thin

One ended up darker than the others, or maybe was undercooked and was left pale

One has dots and cracks from their growing years 

Ones shape is off when compared to the rest

We are picked out and separated and deemed different

Growing on, so does our distance from the standard

The world is burning with wrath and loathing 

As we grow and bake, it hardens our bodies and burns our edges

We will be decorated with sweet somethings from an iron lip

Sent out into the world we go, dresses in sweet sugar that really just burns and scratches, bruises that the world gave us

Those who look best go first, those who look different are saved for last

Even though we are made from the same dough

Poem 2-

Who drew up the image of love 

Decided it’s name and what made it identifiable 

Why must it be a nice red or pink, Why not black and blue

Why must that image be followed 

To the point of devotion or deceit

What could possibly be found in something so unprofound

We rush to hide behind a thin piece of paper and call it love

Proudly boasting of how red and round the heart is

Why should we spend a day in celebration of this image

A standard we seek to fulfill can leave one empty and still. 

Poem 3-

My neighbors and I 

Talking quietly as we wait in line 

Each holding out our buckets

prepared to receive our compensation 

One by one the bucket is filled with substance 

Some receive truckloads others a simple teaspoon 

When the pouring is done the uproar began

In a frenzy and commotion 

Screams claim justice for themselves

Why did they get more than I

We both dug holes, enduring the sun as it burnt our skin

They continued on and on as those who acknowledged their defamations were either with or against them

Those who joined screamed in anguish

Provoked by the constant ringing, another screams out refuting them

“Those who dig deeper need more dirt, it is understandable those who only worked less would receive less.”

Slowly the sides began to split, many being pulled from side to side

Those who gave the dirt yet to acknowledge the conflict, it continues 

Poem 4-

Deep, dark 

The small crack of light dances around 

Trying it’s best to hold out it grows stark

Replacing it is more and more darkness

It creeps in grabbing at anything it can

There in the center sits a girl, expressionless 

She is busy trying to keep the light alive

Huffing and begging it to keep still and to grown 

She cries

Her tears ending the glimmer of Light’s hope 

Sitting in silence, nothing can be heard 

“What a joke”

A voice echos 

How could you have possibly allowed your light to damper,

 She chokes, slowly lifting her head, she whines and pleads

It’s is impossible to keep a light without any flame

“You are the flame”

It scoffs, “you must be able to lead”

Giving up, she sits still

The words continue to flow from the shadows mouth

Constantly nitpicking at her and she starts to shrink

Every word pushes her further down, eventually she is as small as an ant

She is crushed under his words and left flat and empty

Random poems:

A murder behind parliment

What was the rush

People lament in shock of the mangled man

A body left warm and soaked in blood

Gushing it pours into the streets

Who seemed to be nothing more than a clerk 

His demise were so meak 

Many scream with rage as though the act was for political gain

Others use it as an opportunity to call out the government

He who simply chose the wrong place in the wrong moment has become a person excuse to criticise 

A girl makes her way to the sun.

Rumours of her depart slowly creep into everyone’s ears.

People mourn for her loudly, as though they knew her so well.

No one who spoke loudly was dear to her, yet they were the ones talking about it vigorously.

Her disappearance was the gossip of the day, while those who knew her closely cried silently in pain.

What right did they have to post and boast about knowing her and being sad,

And why did it make those so close to her so mad?

Unsettling as it is their efforts to breathe life into her through their gossiping words, were nothing more than momentary goals.

Now all that’s left of her sits under a tree, were she rests.