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
-Carry on, carry on, though your burdens you still bear
-I bid farewell to my reflection in the well
-I was am still am a fool
-Is pain a memory, is pain a friend?
-Stifle not the reader
-The inward pleas we all hold
-The reasons why people lie
-Untitled (Text: Darkened moon why do you weep...)
-When the outside doesn’t match the in
-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 People like my sister think that poetry is obsolete and that no one writes it anymore in this day and age.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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What glee does it incite in one to put another down? I will never understand.; Strange how public opinion can be swayed by the hatred of one or two.
-a really busy closet poet who writes to get through tough times and writes for others who are going through the same things.
We tell ourselves the things we listen to the least; so to you my friend, I shall tell you that I do my utmost best to focus on only happy things.
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- Broken Feathered Bird
- Is Pain A Memory, Is Pain A Friend?
- The inward pleas we all hold.
- True Strength, Finding Yourself
- Sinister Isolation
- Forsaken Knowledge
- Wounds that scab, but will not heal.
- Darkened garden
- Release, let go.
- Strength of Agony
- Untitled. wip
- I was and still am a fool.
Are those tears of guilt I see,
running down your face?
Your blood-stained hands
and wounded face,
telling more than you would want.
You carry many burdens,
that much i can tell,
but do you really want to follow the path,