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ok...here's one:

Open Up the Doors to that School

Open up the doors to that school.
You must be a fool
to walk in that place one more time.
Your mood feels sour like a lime.
Walk in at 7:45.
You feel like you’re barely alive.
School starts at 8:30.
You thought the clock said 8:40 instead of 7:40.
You can’t see the clock; your sight is dirty.
Take slow steps in the empty halls.
Take a stop at the bathroom stalls.
Spray the paint.
You’re so high, the fumes might make you faint.
Go to your locker.
Find a real shocker.
Someone gave your locker a new paint job.
Very obscene words; your eyes feel like they’re gonna sob.
Maybe that’s the pot doing its job.
You feel like a slob.
Sitting there; eyes tinted with a light red.
Your brain is throbbing from inside your head.
Your heart feels dead.
It gave up on you; all black and no more red.
What’s the combination to that lock?
Tick-tock. Tick tock.
The sounds from the clock
are invading your mind,
killing the brain cells, leaving nothing behind.
You struggle to stand still.
Take out that container. Just one more pill.
Forget that combo.
Walk back down the steps and leave that mofo.
But wait. Just before you reach that door handle.
You feel like someone just burnt your hand with a candle.
Pull your hand back.
What is making you think so wack?
You can’t walk out that door.
Something is bothering you from the core.
It’s like that clock just bore
into your mind.
It has killed all the cells it can find.
Something about that last tick-tock.
It’s almost like it was a mock
of your mother.
Telling you to survive day after another.
Something about that clock made you stay just one more day.
And the day before that, and the day before that, that clock has made you stay.
Something about that last tick-tock
made your legs lock.
Always right before you touch that door.
In your mind that tick-tock has tore.
Releasing you from every control.
Talking to you from deep in your soul.
Turn around.
Funny how a sound
can be so convincing,
yet so subtle as it is mincing
the fumes from your brain.
It removes the stain,
giving you another chance.
One more glance
out the door.
Then you start to ignore
the idea of opening the door.
Walk back up the stairs
As the ticking seals the tares.
Wiping up the tears.
Erasing the fears.
Changing the gears.
Open up your ears
and hear what everyone hears.


here's another one if u wish to read:

From an Artist’s Point of View

A sculptor is at work.
Each chip a work from the heart.
As she stands back and
admires her work,
she wonders:
‘Is this really me?’
All those rough edges
and sharp turns.
Does this coldness
really symbolize her heart?
Every shape of it?
Taking a small step,
she lightly feels the rock with
the tip of her index.
A chill runs through her heart.
Rough, cold, and interrupted.
Much like the description of her heart.
She pulls her hand back.
Looking down at the carvings,
tears slowly making way to her chin.
The carvings, singed away from
invading hands are useless.
Done for.
She moves her chisel to a corner.
Hammer in her other hand,
she wastes away the rest of the pieces.
Losing more and more.
All of a sudden she drops the chisel.
Keeping the hammer in her right, she proceeds
the hard rock with her left, once more.
As she strokes the rough rock,
she realizes the soft carvings
symbolize the singed hair within her heart.
They are the singed hair within
her heart.
She leans her head against the rock, hopeless.
She realizes her work has been ruined.
Obstructed by her hands.
She slowly picks up the chisel.
She chisels in one more crack,
ruining the sculpture.
Yet another crack.
Making the sculpture colder.
At last the last invading chisel.
At the last touch, the sculpture breaks;
leaving behind only shattered pieces
of her broken heart.

these are my most recent things. i am a 13 year old aspiring writer so i may not be that great yet. so...be kind of nice... 3nodding

I figured that I'd let you see one of my poems and also let everyone else read it as well. I'm not sure if I like this one or not. I'm not that great of a poem writer. I'm more the short story and novelistic type, but here I go anyway:

Cup of Sorrows
She sits there
Rain falls outside
Sending small rivers down the glass
They mock her
In all her sorrows they mock her
The coffee in hand
It reminds her of him
His favorite cup
The small chip in its side
The look of his smile
The rain mocks her
She's loved and lost
He danced in the rain
The waltz of the living
Rain became her sorrow
It was raining then
He whipsered his last good-bye
The warmth of his touch
His last breath
Oh, how the rain mocks her
She sheds a tear into the cup
"I'll always be here
To catch your tears"
The rain continues
She smiles at her cup
He's never really left
He's with her every day
In every cup
To catch her tears

I like all three poems I have read on this thread ^_^ Hey! That rhymes! Whee!

Can you go to my little thread and read the first chapter? Nobody else has read it yet... ;~;