DarkPainInside

i love this poem; i feel i can relate to it (though, i suppose most people do feel like this @ some point in their lives) Why, more often that not, is high school such a bad experience for so many?!? like, did i miss somthing? lol. Anywho, fantastic poem MeThinksUFoolish!!!

:woot: MurderDolls are good. you have to be in the right mood for them though I think! I think this poem is great, Morbid, but i still disagree with the last line….

“The Most Beautiful Person I Have Ever Met.” Sharna; with long, wavy black hair. Sharna; with soft brow eyes. Sharna; the most beautiful person I have ever met. They took you from me. Now I kill them. It was a quiet day in town, most people, scurrying to hid from the midday heat, had retired to their houses. I was out at the stall in the market, selling bric-a-brac, and trinkets to gullible passers by; but business had been slow this morning, and the sale of a single, brass, incense-burner was simply not enough to keep my wife and three kids clothed and fed. Again, I trudged home, amidst cows and stalls, young children and old men, with too few takings for the day; curse the gap between rich and poor! That night I lay awake; what was to become of us? Our small family, surviving on nothing, living in little more than a falling pile of brick and timber? Suddenly, a blinding light was blast in the window. “Allah?!?” I yelled out, as a rumble of thunder shook the ground. There were people in tongues, yelling out in a foreign language I had not heard before. “Allah?!?” I started to pray. Then, deafening booms shook my concentration. As I realised what it was, I got up, and ran into the next room, roused Sharna, and woke the kids. This was no god. Evil was in the air. No god shoots people. Sharna and I ran to the backdoor, pushing the children between us. I yanked the curtain – our makeshift door – aside, and stumbled into the night. The children were crying; they were frightened by the commotion. We kept moving; tripping over homeless people, through alleys, with no knowledge of where we were going. Blind. We were passing through a tight ally way between shops, when a rifle-bearing soldier appeared in front of us. He had funny eyes, and was bellowing something in his native tongue. We backed away, only to hit metal. Metal that had not been there before. I looked up. The grey truck was enormous, but that was not what frightened me the most. It was the large, black barrel of the gun I was staring into that shook me. “Don’t move!” I whispered to Sharna, as she eyed the identical weapon that was facing her. “Don’t move!” Then we heard a shriek behind us. They had taken the kids. “NOOOO!” screamed Sharna; she turned and dashed towards their tiny retreating figures. She didn’t even get five paces. As she ran, bullets ripped into her head and neck, snapping her like a twig, tearing hair from skin, and skin from bone. The most beautiful person I have ever met is now lying dead in an alleyway, blood pouring from her. After checking my ID, the soldiers just walked off. Leaving behind them the life-times worth of pain they had created for me, as if it meant nothing to them. And they wonder why, now almost one year later, I am about to become a suicide bomber.

SINCE WHEN R U TWISTED AND MEAN??? ........not that i feel i could understand........ nice work tho MurderDolls....hmmm Nashie loved this...lol damn talented friends. lol cya.

The boy sits in class, laughing with his friends, passing notes, flicking rubbers; This teacher has terrible class control, and the boys can see he is close to tears- this fuels their stupid antics. Who wants to learn geography anyway? The bell rings and the class files out, paper balls and rubbers still flying around the room. The teacher looks relieved. The boy charges down the corridor, and out into the yard, basketball in hand. Thump, thump, thump, against the warm concrete. He can hear his friends, yelling for the ball, he can see their smiling faces acknowledging him as the center of attention, as usual. “They want the ball.” He thinks “that’s all; they don’t really like you, they just want what you have, then they will come for you, they will hurt you, kill you, they hate you, they are all acting, they hate you!” the boy’s mind goes into over drive. “they hate you, hate you! Hate! Hate! Hate!” hey drops the ball. His mind stops; the voices disappear. The boy’s friends yell for the ball again – how can he have drifted off so suddenly like that?! The boy picks up the orange ball and throws it. The game begins. The boy is not stupid, he is not fooled by their pats on the back, their smiles, or the flirting girls; ‘they all hate him’ He knows that. In classes he laughs with the boys, teases to the girls and gives the teacher hell. But it is all hollow. He means none of it; he knows they all hate him, and want to harm him. He means nothing to them, and they to him. The boy smiles at the faces, but inside he is crying; nothing, always nothing. He will get them all one day, then they’ll be sorry. They all pretend to like him so much- he knows that. His friends sit down next to him; he has changed lately- he doesn’t talk as much , and stares off into space often, as he is doing now. One of the boys punches him in the arm, as if to awaken him. The boy starts, and his friends laugh. ‘There was malice in that punch’ the boy notes. “why is he acting so weird?! His friends think “maybe he broke up with that girl…what’s-her-name, with the blonde hair. Or he’s on drugs….” His friends push their thoughts to one side and continue shooting spitballs across the room. The boy looks happy, as he walks home, with his trademark bounce in his step. But his mind is elsewhere; everyone hates him. Everyone. He cant escape their smiles, their lies that cover for their anger and hatred towards him, The key slides into the door, and he walks into the house, smiles at him mother and dumps his bag in the living room. He heads for his room; dark and cold; like the gun in his pocket. The boy closes the door, once in his room, and silences the voices in his mind.

:yuiwink: Great poem…fantastic actually…… but good god Morbid!!! “I already broke them up once before, I don't want to hurt him anymore.” You didn’t do anything!!!!!! It was NOT your fault!! You couldn’t have done anything… They’re adults, they make their own decisions. In fact, (with out me knowing anything about anything, as I do, lol) , they possibly stayed together in the first place for you. Sorry…..I feel I cant offer any real words of comfort, not having had any personal experience on the matter … Why does really good poetry often come from events of pain and sadness and alienation??!! Have fun punching Johnny Howard for me lol (JOKING ALL!!) :yuiwink:

thanx morbid and BCH!!!!! very encouraging!!!!!! (if not a little odd!! )

Morbid!!!!!!!!!!!!!! thats really good.....shame about the topic though DONT DO IT (dont care how u look its just how u feel come on and do it)....mmmmmmm spice girls...................sorry! carried away.....seriously thats so good!!!!

forgive me if this is crap....i havent written propperly in ages.... Freedom is something You can’t obtain Just by wishing and Staying the same With one swipe of her hand, The writing was gone, And with that movement She knew she didn’t belong. The punch for the boy Was just a confirmation That they hated him; A victim of alienation The bruise on the cheek Was just a sign That she couldn’t pay Her debt in time The rope on the rafters Was a cry for need And it came too late; For done was the deed Freedom is something You can’t obtain Just by wishing and Staying the same…

i think im gonna cry! so tru!

goddamn i like ur writing,friend! its unreal!!!!!! good work!

hey Morbid, u handed this into o'sullivan?!??!! damn its so good but she'll flip!! nice one.... luv ya! CD

(Wow! the post i just sent looks so bland!!) Good job Arwen! You have excelled yet again lol

nice!

this is really good! (I LOVE linkin Park!!!) I CARE ARWEN!!! Have hope!

the last poem 'arrow' is very good and heart felt- what i feel, yet cannot express as beautifully as you. well done!!

i care!!!! great poem i am so sorry 4 you! Stay here with me; we can be lost together!

god damn! this poem is so good! I'm jealous! lol good work!

mmm, shoulder, that not a bad idea! lol legs are good too.... (this is sounding sus!) the only peoblem is when u go too far and cant stop and the tempation is there to just cut ur throat, if u kno what i mean! i think i scare people. haha!

Talk Of Life Note: i wrote this duriong a RE class Talk of love Talk of hate Talk of death Talk of fate Talk of things That are yet to be Talk of you Talk of me Talk of loss Talk of sadness Talk of suicide Talk of madness Talk of my death Talk of yours, Talk of fighting Talk of cause Talk of love Talk of hate Talk of destiny Talk of fate

Thanks Damon; i dont understand either; i hate hiding my cuts- its my choice to do it for god sake! The only time it 'upsets' me is when others see them and go nuts! I am probably what you'd call Left Wing nutcase! i am a part pacifist, part anarchist, part psycho. i sparypainted the word "FREEDOM" across my school's head office. according to sum people i have problems. LOL!!!!!! Love 2 chat! PS (i'm female. i may not look it, but i assure you, i am! the amount of times i have been asked if im a 'trannie' down the street, i tell you!!) lol

V nice Morbid! i wouldnt have even thought about getting inspiration form my yard!! lol nice... cya sweetie!

i'd love to do that, but i dont have irc, just MSN messenger.... (AAARRRRRRRGHHHH) sorry, that was just a bout of uncontrollable rage, bought upon me by power freaks lol Know how u feel! In response; u prob. feel bad seeing others go through it, coz u kno how much it hurts, even if you dont show it.

Hey Arwen, i wrote this for an assesment task too! The teacher didnt like it. suprise suprise! http://www.themightypen.net/public/style_emoticons/default/ohmy.gif Thats where i got the inspiration from; real life; myself, and friends. I think i know about this stuff coz unfourtunatly i see it first hand. 'Once you cut, you cant stop' Thanx for the encouragement!!

As the girl trudged across the dewy oval on Monday morning, her feet leaving depressions in the grass, she shivered, for the morning was cold. The sun had not yet risen above the pines, on the far side of the field. Pulling her coat up around her frail body, she heard the clink of metal against coin in her pocket as she did so. Her razor. The girl never went anywhere with out it now., she couldn’t stand to be apart from its slicing blade, or its smooth handle. When times got too tough, like her father beat her brothers, or she heard her mother crying in the bathroom, its cold, unemotional tearing of her flesh, calmed her. The blade cut out everything, blocked out the emotions and left only physical pain, as it stung her wrists. Her guiding light, her saviour. Her Razor. She would not be lonely today. She entered the school grounds and saw the Beautiful Ones- with make-up, fashionable clothes, and style. The girl didn’t care anymore, because at least she wasn’t dead. As they stared at her, her black coat billowing behind her, she smiled. They didn’t have a clue. They had never felt the blow of her father’s wrath, or the sorrow of her mother’s crying. They would never need saving by a razor or knife. How could they, or anyone possibly hope to know what she was going through? How could she possibly hold hope that they did? She didn’t, anymore. After school, the girl dragged her feet, back over the oval, towards home and terror. The door was open when she got there and it appeared there was no movement inside. She stepped over the threshold and into Chaos. Her father was standing in the kitchen, drunk, as usual. He was holding one of her brothers cricket bats in his shaking hands, over his shoulder, swaying slightly, staring at the ground, several feet away. The girl followed his gaze, and to here horror, she saw her mother, lying, on the kitchen tiles, her fair hair matted with blood. Her mothers’ eyes were closed, and she had gone into the foetal position, clutching her wounded head; the gaping hole in the back of it was covered in blood, bone, and grey fluid. There was also a trickle of blood creeping from her mothers’ mouth. The girls’ father had murdered her mother. He had finally gone too far. She rushed up to her bedroom, and slammed the door, tearing off her bag and coat as she went. The blood flowed easily this time, as the girl made two identical cuts up and down each arm with the sharp metal edge of her razor. She stood in front of her mirror, string blindly at her crimson wrists, the blood oozing from them. She hardly felt the pain, only the tears as she fell to the ground, in a bloody heap.