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 People like my sister think that poetry is obsolete and that no one writes it anymore in this day and age.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
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.
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.
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
you were made in perfection and love you were given great life from above yet you make him cry do you not know why
Like the harsh wind's howling on a lonely summer night. Wolves in sheeps' clothing prowling, looking for innocent prey.
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?
I Was And Still Am A Fool.
I once met an old man who used to sit by a pool. He'd look up as I passed and would murmur: '..oh, you fool.' I used to think he was mad, or maybe I was in denial then. I thought he was wrong; that I could never escape g-d's master plan.
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.
Black And White And The Grey In Between.
Black as ebony, dark as night. When right seems wrong and wrong seems right. Grey and tar and wisps of smoke, on thoughts we muddle, on tears we choke.
On The Edge
Confidence, a shell, the pigment you see. Confidence, the lie, all, but me.
Suddenly I see the light, It was never far. I was just too engrossed, In my own tiny jar.
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.
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,