Poem About Me Novels & Stories

I say, to no one, to everyone, to a version of myself four thousand years gone. I keep walking. ~~~

you know it amazing – U-umm ohh So --- So what ? When are you taking me for a coffee ? see I need the same hospital coffee ok.. I-if you want the same coffee ..then why don’t you come and drink here and go – Are you serious ..its a hospital ..if the hospital authorities get to know that I only came for a coffee ..m-my image will be tarnished ..i-I just cannot embarrass my self like that .. Ohh so finally you understood that it’s a hospital not a café –so please pardon me ..i need to leave ..

You have no idea what I feel every single time that I've seen you. N: O.o please don't tell me you've written a poem about it 😂. M:... N: P.S if you have, I'm not speaking to you again. M: Maybe I have 😉 . That's for me to know and you to not find out. N:.... M: What's wrong with poems by the way? N: I don't think there's a problem with them. I actually think they're cool and appreciate them when I see them. I just don't like the idea of having one written for me.

My favorite poet is Emily Dickson. If at all I died, it is because I wanted to, I have always wanted to, because I feel unworthy, I dint love myself at all. I hope this doesn’t break your heart or diminish your spirit. Anyway, my part on earth is over, I am sorry that it is. Maybe reincarnations are real or perhaps they aren’t. I am sorry papa, sorry that I didn’t live up to your expectations. I am sorry that I wasn’t worth it, I wasn’t a perfect child at home and at school. I have always been flawed, and my flaws are too big, they can’t be covered or repaired. Tell the bullies that I give up and they win.

The voice says. "Yeah... wait, you are me. What the fuck is happening? I just spent the last 10 minutes talking to you.. no me. Myself. Argh, kill me please." "Well you've gotten used to it. Stick to the demon you know, yeah?" "I guess." I feel overwhelmed. All these problems are just piling up, I need to write. I get out my book to resume my poem. "I need just one word... just one." "Do you have any ideas?" I ask myself.

He asked. I scoffed wondering if he was expecting me and the kids to starve and experience total misery... POEM BY MERCEDES. You are the sun that shines brightly throughout my day. You are the gravity that holds me down in every way. You are the moon that shimmers throughout my night. You are stars that glimmer oh so bright. You are the oxygen that keeps me alive. You are my heart that beats inside. You are the blood that flows through me. You are the only guy I can see.

She has no choice but to shut her mouth, go inside in complete seclusion, and speak to God, whom she knows, once she learns how to pray to God the Highest. "You, O Lord, see me and are aware of my innermost thoughts; nothing is concealed from Your mighty eyes." I am honestly realizing that I am still too immature and unfinished to pretend or disguise myself as someone else. “Olga feels depressed by her own self-knowledge, which doesn’t fit with what other people know and see in her real situations. They all make fun of her, making Olga feel disgusted and starting to get rid of them.

"We shall one day stand on the stage of highest honor and shine as brightly as the sun." I muttered softly, "I did it, Shawn. If there's a next life, I hope you'll achieve the same." A gentle breeze caressed my ears. I finally let go of my past in pursuit of a brand new future.

In there, in that low-ceilinged wide-spaced poetry club house, with all those new people who had only just shown me their cores in stanzas and verses; I feel in my head something bright. Bright, bright, bright lit. *

It simply softens them until they no longer sting. I think that’s what healing really is not forgetting, but remembering differently. Before I sleep, I check my emails. There’s one unread message from the poetry studio they want to feature one of my pieces on their site. I laugh softly, surprised. I scroll through the list of poems I’ve written, and my eyes land on the one that started it all the first poem after he left. It was titled “The Weight of Letting Go.” I open it, read the first few lines, and realize how far I’ve come.