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Literature Text
Cry if you need to
Do it for yourself
Cry if you want to
Over someone else
Cry like you mean it
Make it all okay
Cry like you have to
Get it out the way
Cry in the darkness
So no one can see
Cry in the sunlight
So you can be free
Cry like it kills you
Feel every tear
Cry like it’s healing
Nothing else to fear
Cry for the moment
The last goodbye
Cry for the memories
Cry, baby, cry
Cry, cry to Heaven
For the angel that fell
And if that doesn't work
Then cry, baby
Cry like Hell...
Do it for yourself
Cry if you want to
Over someone else
Cry like you mean it
Make it all okay
Cry like you have to
Get it out the way
Cry in the darkness
So no one can see
Cry in the sunlight
So you can be free
Cry like it kills you
Feel every tear
Cry like it’s healing
Nothing else to fear
Cry for the moment
The last goodbye
Cry for the memories
Cry, baby, cry
Cry, cry to Heaven
For the angel that fell
And if that doesn't work
Then cry, baby
Cry like Hell...
Literature
Gun Within The Mirror
It feels as if my reflection
Points a gun at its own head,
As my bullet shoots the mirror
And paints the floor with red,
And it feels as if my gun
Just isn't steady in my hand,
Because darling, when I jump off cliffs,
Do you think I always land?
It feels as if the razor blade
Might be my only friend,
And it feels as if the broken glass
Might soon begin to bend,
Because my reflection is distorted, love.
Can't you see that, love, can't you see?
I'm pointing a gun at the mirror,
And the mirror points back at me.
Literature
PTSD
When I was younger my dad was my hero
my mom said, look up to your father, he's the smart one
he fed me dreams of harvard in small spoonfuls ,
college ideas at the mere age of eight
i swallowed it, caught it like a raindrop
always begging for more, a little more please papa
fifth grade came, and my dad became a harder man
my mama repeated , still look up to him honey,
he knows, he knows
seventh grade brought shouting anger and sadness
my papa gave me the talk, the talk about ptsd
he said it would change him, make him not my papa at times
the monster isn't me he says, just something you can't find under your bed
throughout his screaming and
Literature
No rest for a weary heart.
Yesterday my mother asked me what I
would name my children and I told her that
I did not want any. She scoffed at me
and shook her head, insisting
that once I found the
"perfect man"
all of that would change.
And I thought back
to all the times when my palms
sweated and my throat ran dry
and my cheeks heated up just because
a girl walked by whose lips
were so pretty and pink that all I wanted
to do was taste them.
"No,"
I replied, swallowing the acid
that was threatening to crawl out of
my mouth,
"it will take a lot more than that
to convince me."
Because despite the fact that
the mere thought of a man
with arms that could carry the we
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I started thinking. This is what happened.
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Comments36
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This poem really helps me feel better, crying is a difficult thing for me to do. I have always heard "Don't cry" and I can't tell you how wonderful it is to read this poem. Each time it feels like it's healing a layer of pain, I hope you look at your art here and smile. <3