I am 16 years old, i go to highschool and try to pretty much live a normal life. more »
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clayton young Poems
Pain, Hate, Love, gone. I say I have this hate, this unbelievable, unconceivable, and unbearable hate, that lashes out from in me,
When you’re with me my heart leaps, When you’re angry at me my skin creeps, Not to Mention I love you Heaps.
My heart, Sometimes Is so full of Despair. So much that I cannot Bear Sometimes I feel like I am Flying,
Broken promises, Shattered dreams, Dead emotion, Heartless uncaring devotion, All thrown in my face.
The girl strides desperately and painfully through the wide open desolate escarpment of pain and hate she strives to be rid of, and which seems
Medication or Discretion
The boy climbed higher and higher for he knew the danger in his temper was dire and though he knew it hurt those he adored out his anger continued to pour.
Forgive and forget doesn't exist
Just won't you forget it? I'm sorry for everything and I hate myself for it. I think I would do anything to take it back, and I swear I will never forget.
My shattered soul
My twisted broken soul lies in venomous pieces strewn across the dark floor. It lays here for you to take and to with what you please, but no
Chains, Tears, and dead bodies
I sit here, Chained between Between these horrid clenched teeth That leave me trapped in the abyss Of my own despair.
I remember those things you threw so uncaringly at me. I remember the dark blade dripping in the poisonous remorse
Burning flame and bright light
In the fire that lies before me, I see my flaming emotion and hate Burning inside of it. Now does this Mean that I no longer have hate, or
As I roam aimlessly through the void, I scream at my lost destructive Agony. But the only answer is that Knowing voice with an emotionless tone.
In my dream, Lost in a pinnacle of despair, thrown down, left, and forgotten. I remember that place;
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Pain, Hate, Love, gone.
I say I have this hate, this unbelievable,
unconceivable, and unbearable hate,
that lashes out from in me,
and explodes in fury that I have locked
deep in a vault somewhere that must
remain locked forever.
But why? Why do I feel so much hate,
or was it love? No. it can’t be love
, who could possibly…
but wait, I love her and she loves me,
does she not? And them,
they’re there too and.. I think they love me.
As I fall into the abyss of that dark
place I see hate, and I see love,
but.. I can no longer ...