Poem From The Outsiders...nothing Gold Can Stay Novels & Stories

a woman who loved hearing the praises of others! He racked his brain and found the poem he had learned in language class back then. “The white lotus grows out of the mud, yet it’s unsullied. It’s bathed by clear waves, yet it isn’t seductive. It’s hollow inside, and it’s straight outside. It neither sprawls nor branches. The farther away it is, the purer is its fragrance. Upright and elegant, it establishes itself cleanly. It can be viewed at a distance but can’t be toyed with!”

I began to bawl as cold death gripped my ribs. Their terrible song poured forth: Little flower of Hell, where the clear creek runs. Woodwind reeds grow on the Styx, in soil of blood. I go a witching down in the brine, digging a stick through the mud. Golden fish gleam, alight in the stream. I am a woman of mud. Whipporwill Therese, I have no King, only lovers I left in the lane. Two pence a heartache, three pence a distaff, the run of my fiber is blood.

And the gold goes out of the font. I am standing over her when it happens, and I understand it about half a second too late. That light was never hers. That was three hundred years of everybody else's breath going through one woman on its way up, and once it stops going through her there is nothing to see, and the bowl of black ice at the bottom of the world goes as dark as the rest of it with an old woman still lying in it.

" each voice cried. But you didn't stop,you know what you'd to do, though the wind pried with it's stuff fingers at the very foundations, though their melancholy was terrible. "It was already late enough,and a wild night, and the road full of fallen branches and stone, but little by little,as you left their voice behind, the stars began to burn,through the sheets of cloud, and there was a new voice,which you slowly recognized as your own, that kept you company as you strode deeper and deeper, into the world, determined to do, determined to save the only life you could save" ~by Mary Oliver. The poem ended. Rick knew that the poem was meant for him and someone else but he didn't know who,he t

I went outside Just as I said I would last night You promised you would be there But you weren't there. I passed time staring at the skies It was beautiful Just like your eyes The wind blew across my face And I shivered at the contact A sudden cold spreading through me But I still stood waiting with a strong sense of determination I laid on the grass Hoping you would come soon To make me warm again But you never came. It is morning now And just like the night passed away My heart died as well.

I met a traveller from an antique land, Who said-"Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal, these words appear: My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away." P.B Shelley

I ran my fingers over the smooth page, my eyes roaming the poem he had left open for me. My love, you have too many smiles left in you to be so sad. -Atticus

Penny trembled as she opened her mouth slightly and read Darryl’s poem. “Over old trees wreathed with ancient vines and flying evening crows. “Under a small bridge at a nearby cottage, a stream flows. “On an ancient road in the west wind, a lean horse goes. “Westward the setting sun goes. “Far from home was the heartbroken one!” Westward the setting sun goes. Far from home was the heartbroken one! The entire city rumbled in cheers in the blink of an eye. It was a great poem! There was nothing like it!

after everything I went through, still just insults I did my study on those creatures for years, and I can still remember some of my favourite poetry and poems I read as a kid A Last Word by Ernest Dowson Let us go hence: the night is now at hand; The day is overworn, the birds all flown; And we have reaped the crops the gods have sown; Despair and death; deep darkness o'er the land, Broods like an owl; we cannot understand Laughter or tears, for we have only known Surpassing vanity: vain things alone Have driven our perverse and aimless band. Let us go hence, somewhither strange and cold, To Hollow Lands where just men and unjust Find end of labour, where's rest for the old, Freedom to all

In fits and starts, I wrote about the quiet bitterness of those on the margins of society and the moments they were made to feel invisible. One day, I typed out, "In that lavish estate, all the applause and spotlight belonged to them. I was nothing more than a superfluous ornament—fit only to stand in the shadows and watch in silence." That post went viral without any warning. Within moments, tens of thousands of comments flooded in. Countless people wrote that my words mirrored their own feelings of being abandoned by their family. As I read those comments, I suddenly felt like crying. It wasn't because the post had gone viral, but because I finally realized just how many people out there w