Bpd Poems Novels & Stories

* I saw the beauty of the sky Colors so vibrant you'd think they never die * I saw the beauty of the waves Every splash telling a story of younger days * I saw the beauty of the rains Every drop falling freely like horses without reins * I saw the beauty of the night For only then were the stars alight * I saw the beauty in the flames of a fire Each one burning with a different desire * I saw the beauty of Gold Glistening with bitter stories untold * Oh I saw the beauty of dust and clay Simple reminders of our end someday.

I break myself, With words, thoughts, From my own mind. Everything I ran away from, I became. Everything I tried not to be, Everything I walked away from, I see them now. Taunting me, laughing at me, For my darkness was my fault, No other's. So, when I love, it's living death. I walk alone in this path, I made darkness my creed, Formed depression, With hands of flawless poetry. I created my demons, Now I'm haunted by them. Everything I am,

I remembered how we had our first camping, our first diving lessons, our first times trying the rides and my first time to feel that I lived a life. My disease is my greatest motivation for now. It made me realize I have a shorter life than others and it keeps on telling me that I should not waste any moment. It was scary at first knowing my days are just numbered but now, I am not that scared anymore. I want to seize my seconds with everything I had. I want to make sure that the people I loved are going to be okay without me. I hope they will. “Hearbeats Of Poetry.” I stated as I read the poems Tim created. I feel like he could write better than me. His words are like him-simple yet elegant

Russell Samurai and Other Stories by William Meikle Stuck On You and Other Prime Cuts by Jasper Bark Poetry collections: WAR by Alessandro Manzetti and Marge Simon Brief Encounters with My Third Eye by Bruce Boston No Mercy: Dark Poems by Alessandro Manzetti Eden Underground: Poetry of Darkness by Alessandro Manzetti If you’ve ever thought of becoming an author, we’d also like to recommend these non-fiction titles: The Dead Stage: The Journey from Page to Stage by Dan Weatherer

I'm fired up and tired of the way that things have been Oh Oooh The way that things have been Oh Oooh Second things second, Don't you tell me what you thing that I can be I'm the one at the sail, I'm the master of my sea Oh Oooh The master of my sea Oh Oooh I was broken from a young age Taking my soul into the masses Writing my poems for the few That look at me, Took at me, Shook at me, Feel at me Singing from heart ache to the pain Taking my message from the pain Speaking my lessons from the brain Seeing the beauty through love .................................... "Mother, please! I didn't want to hurt her! I didn't cut her!" A little girl 8-year-old little girl cried, her eyes begging for

You are a bone in my throat I can't swallow, I can't vomit. I am bracing from the pain, I am ready to let go, a thousand times of pain just for a measly ecstatic memory with you ‘ When I concluded the poetry I immediately wanted to understand her frame of thoughts, why she would write such a depiction of pain. Was it because of my interference? Just then, the GPS i placed on her beeped, she was on the move. I followed her to a local restaurant.

Raisa wrote a poem entitled in the quiet, she then reread her work. In a lonely corner of the silent night, I hug your shadow in this loneliness. The longing that slices the heart, Flowed with tears that did not stop. In every beat of my heart, There is your name that echoes sadly. The hope that used to strengthen, Now only a painful memory. I walk in empty hallways, Without direction, without light. All the promises you once made, Are now just shadows that disappear slowly. Time passes slowly and cruelly, Leaving deep wounds.

It was only two streets away from the beach, and the sunset promised to be one to remember. She walked down the stairs and on the tricky pebbles up to the shore, were she sat, face to the west. Without stopping to think about it, she grabbed her tablet from her bag and opened the notepad to write down the words that had been echoing inside her head all afternoon. When she was finished, she found out they were a full poem. "Tear yourself for ever apart Let the darkness hear your cry Weeping over forgotten moments Your mind keeps calling a life. "Let go of your precious sunsets

I sighed, "What about when you hit her? Was that BPD then? Does it make you violent? Make you drink?" "I spent every second of every goddamn day regretting what I did. I cheated on her that night and I lashed out my anger and frustration in the worst way." He said. "BPD does make one violent, yes, but it really doesn't affect me like that." "I was fucking 8. I was just a fucking little girl and you hit my mother right in front of me." I avoided his eyes as I spoke, flashbacks replaying in my mind. "Mom begged you to calm down and control your temper because I was there but do you know what you did? You hit her in a way I had never seen before and that was-"

My thoughts kept circling around Zinnia, and I kept pushing those thoughts away. Suddenly, a poem popped into my head; In my head, I am fighting fire with fire. The flames are getting bigger and brighter. I can hear it crashing. I can feel it burning. I am tossing, and I am turning. I am burning, and I am screaming. I am crying out for help. Why are they not putting the fire out? They are making it bigger. It is burning faster. I can feel it spreading through my body. Why are they making it worse?