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Literature Text
For all the spilt blood
For all the ones who died betrayed
For all the ones who died
at the hand of friends and acquantainces,
For all the ones who died
but never could be mourned,
For all the ones that only bones
could be found.
For all the ones who weren't given a chance
to live and to grow up,
for all the ones who lost their families
but survived,
For all the ones who still cry 20 years later,
For all the hatred that still remains
For all the murderers that are still running free,
For all the ones that hide the truth,
We must remember the genocide
and the countless lives that have been lost.
So that brothers won't have to hate each other
and die at the hand of the other.
For all the ones who died betrayed
For all the ones who died
at the hand of friends and acquantainces,
For all the ones who died
but never could be mourned,
For all the ones that only bones
could be found.
For all the ones who weren't given a chance
to live and to grow up,
for all the ones who lost their families
but survived,
For all the ones who still cry 20 years later,
For all the hatred that still remains
For all the murderers that are still running free,
For all the ones that hide the truth,
We must remember the genocide
and the countless lives that have been lost.
So that brothers won't have to hate each other
and die at the hand of the other.
Akai Yari
Literature
senescent.
she was the girl
in love with peter pan;
fairy dust and
crescent moons-
she dreamed of
mermaids in lagoons.
she was the one
clapping her hands
yelling out loud
"i do believe!
i do believe in
fairies and dreams
and happily ever after!"
now she's sitting
in the dark
wondering where her
fairy tales went-
wondering where
never-land is
and how she's supposed
to get there.
she's looking for all the wrong
answers in all the wrong places.
she's trying to escape,
and she doesn't even know
what she's running from.
she's everything you love
but you don't know why
anymore.
she was the girl
that believed in fairy
tales.
Literature
Loving a Writer
When you read their work –
and it is work,
and you will often come second to the job –
it’s best to know which pieces are fictions,
which ones are wishes,
and which parts are for you.
Literature
dear depression,
(master of the umbra)
i hate you.
broken whispers, lonely promises,
you are the worst of lovers, owning all, but
never seeming to be satisfied
even with your name branded scarlet into my wrists.
i am no longer the golden songbird as when you first met me,
but yet
you still hang onto me
your claws
raking across my heart like
my pen ripping across the bloodstained page, like
lightning across the skies, (vengeance
raining down from the gods i used to believe in)
"don't let them catch you,"
you breathed into my ears.
an ounce of life, in exchange for a cloak of darkness (i thought i'd only stay one night)
the fog was sluggish and deep.
so bl
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