Biography of Joshua Wyatt
Hey everyone i am Joshua. I am 17 years old and have been writing for about a year now. I started because i really need to get my feelings in order and figure out who i was. I write about the people i love and myself most of the time. If you want to talk just message me and i promise that i will respond back or email me at Joshua.R.Wyatt@gmail.com.
I hope you enjoy my poems as much as i enjoy writing them :)
Joshua Wyatt Poems
Lily, that was her name and she was my friend. We never said a proper goodbye, just went our own ways silently.
A small flame, just warm enough to keep me a alive. You find me shivering,
Roll out of bed, I hit the floor. Pick myself up and stumble into the shower The water washes away my sleep, it washes away yesterday's worries.
The bleeding has stopped The wounds have closed and healed But the scars still remain
Line In The Sand
I draw this line in the sand. It's a line that i will never cross. No matter what's on the other side,
On Top Of The World
The joys of success. The feeling that you are on top of the world. The warmth never seems to end. Past failures seem to be irrelevant.
Finding An Answer
I can't seem to figure it out. I look and look, but still nothing. The answer doesn't seem to be there.
You love her so much, shared some amazing times together. ...But that's over now, just a bunch of memories.
I walk the path, the path of life A path that everyone walks It has it's ups and down, its twist and turns Sometimes you see miles ahead
Could You Do It?
You would do anything, to make the one you love smile. No matter how hard it is
Nightmares never scare me, they don't last long enough to that. My dreams are the ones that scare.
I will fix this I will make it all right This will take all my focus
Your fear has turned to anger Your love into hate Afraid to lose it all
I told her how i felt and she just wanted to be friends. That is all that happened
Memories of good times,
but also of bad.
Our memories shape us,
mold us into what we will become.
At times we think,
of memories that we might have been.
Dwelling on the past,
fearing that our new memories will only be lousy.