Biography of Mandy Lee
My name is not Mandy Lee, but for anonymity purposes, it will suffice. The poems I have here are poems and pieces of writing that span my short existence. I don’t profess to be very old. I’m nineteen this year for the record. If there’s anything that poetry has taught me, aside from cliché-ly learning to appreciate who I am(poetry is hard to get out of your bloodstream) , it is the certainty in which poems written from heartfelt personal experiences carry far greater weight than poems crafted for the sake of themselves.
I daresay I have writings of both, and that left with more vanity, I might feel inclined to sift through them to tease out only the former. But, as much as I would like to be more meticulous in how I present myself, human faults make us human, so there my mediocre and bad pieces shall stay. To counterbalance this though, here are some poem titles that I like to go back to when times are rough (a.k.a. read as: the should-be decent list) :
-A pink sky gone grey
-Broken feathered bird
-Is pain a memory, is pain a friend?
-The inward pleas we all hold
-Untitled (Text: Darkened moon why do you weep...)
-Where white walls meet on painted cracks
-Wounds that scab but will not heal
As for the content of my poems, there are pieces from when I was 8-10 jumbled in. Those have no common theme. One should not take my uploading as an accurate chronology, unfortunately. Poetry has had a very staccato occurrence in my life. I spent most of my younger days feeling embarrassed for doing something(poetry) I was sure people would call stupid. Because of that, I gave up poetry for a long time, believing it only a phase. Writing poetry for me surfaced later on as a coping mechanism. I’ve always liked how you could say so many things in so few words. People like my sister think that poetry is obsolete and that no one writes it anymore in this day and age. To which, I can ascertain that she’s certainly never come across my laptop screen unattended to. But, no matter, I’ve expected it. And I’m glad, frankly speaking, because I’m in a good place; good enough to warrant a few blows to my self-esteem such as this. In and of itself, dealing with a low self-esteem would chronicle the gist of the majority of my poems. It is from a low self-esteem that I never thought I could be loved; from a low self-esteem that I was hurt so much that my closest friend fell in love with and still loves somebody else; a low self-esteem that made me endure what I hope are some of the darkest days I will ever come to know in secondary school when I suffered from severe depression and was suicidal. In more recent years, my writing has taken on a Christian slant in a few pieces. Finding G-d in my life has changed many things for me. I don’t profess to be completely fine. Fodder for my recent poetry is clearly still streaming in, but at the very least, it has been trickling instead of running like a loose faucet like it once did. For that, I admit, I’m glad.
Apologies if this is jumbled, I had to rewrite this from memory after poemhunter glitched and deleted my prior hour of work.
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-a really busy closet poet who writes to get through tough times and writes for others who are going through the same things.
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Mandy Lee Poems
Broken Feathered Bird
Broken feathered bird, don't mourn your wing. You can't fly, but oh you can sing. You can sing of your dreams in which you soar, You can sing of your hopes that form your core.
Is Pain A Memory, Is Pain A Friend?
Is pain a memory, is pain a friend? Is this pain real, is it just pretend? Is it a hurt I've lost, or a hurt yet found? Is it just inside, or all around?
How can we live in so much excess, when people live out on the street? How can we let them die alone, out in cold and desert heat?
True Strength, Finding Yourself
Failing doesn't make you a failure, it only makes you stronger. Don't listen to their hateful words, For they see the truth no longer.
The Inward Pleas We All Hold.
Someone needs to hold my hand and tell me it's okay. Someone needs to warm my heart and brighten up my day.
Release, Let Go.
You gave me your hand, you took me away. Now I look at you, you've taken my heart away.
What Is Identity?
Identity is not a given; it is a song; it is a quest. It is a journey and its trials, not just the outcome of a test.
It is when the stomach is not filled with food, that the mind can be filled with thought. It is when the fisherman looks to the sky, that he gains more than what he's caught.
Have you heard of isolation? Being with yourself... Isn't none too fancy, even for your health.
The tree of wisdom, once proud and tall, now a shadow of its former self.
Wounds That Scab, But Will Not Heal.
A broken heart once healed, will never be the same. Don't take things as they come, but take it as a game.
Wilted blades streak the lawn of this cold and empty heart. Death and vice and love's despair have come to play their part.
Victory But A Veil Of Lies, Treachery An...
Victory but a veil, of lies, treachery and deceit. The web spun around your heart, that makes it believe it's complete.
Strength Of Agony
The weeping willow cries, the wailing sirens screech. The gulls call up above, the word of death beseeched
The dawn of a new age approches,
the light of the old era fades.
Ways of the old are now forsaken,
like the pass of the elven glades.
There is no place for magic,
for magic there is no hope.
Books are its last remenance,
for no where else can it cope.