Joshua Cole.

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Poems



Little Girl

 

Little girl, little girl
Laughing and smiling
Big toothy grin
And sparkling eyes
Little girl, little girl
Hopping and skipping
Dodging the stones
And cracks on the ground


Little girl, little girl
Dancing and twirling
Golden hair shines
And pigtails fly free


Little girl, little girl
Running and jumping
Chasing butterflies
And pretending to fly


Little girl, big girl
Growing and stretching
Laughter grows scarce
And tears more frequent

 

Mental Illness

Children shouting in the street: 
You're a mental idiot! - What a treat! 
They call me names their mothers taught them - 
Oh, what ignorance, to heck with the lot of them! 
But, strictly speaking, that's not true: 
The stigma hurts me through and through. 
Sometimes it makes me cry 
When I hear a passer-by 
Say: it's a sin 
They've been in the loony bin! 
The truth is one in four 
That mental illness will land at your door. 
It shows in many a different way: 
Some people can't speak about the way that they feel, 
Others shout and swear at passers-by. 
It could be a chemical imbalance in the brain, 
It could be that living is a strain. 
No matter what the answer may be 
They are all people - like you and me.

 

Paranoia

paranoia, paranoia is taking over me
everyone's laughing and their laughing at me
why are they talking behind my back

when I write to people why don't they write back
nobody likes me I'm sure that is why
when I send them an e-mail they never reply
their calling me names, they think I am mad
don't they realize that makes me sad 

is it all true or just in my head
do all these people really wish I was dead
I'm convinced everyone's against me all of the time
this paranoia is taking over this life of mine

 

Questioning Child

 

A ocean of questions, ebb on the edge of the sands of fear.


How come
nobody spoke gentle words to me? 
How come
nobody looked into my eyes with care and attention?
How come
nobody touched without taking?


I am alone, I thought. 
I am unloved, I felt. 
I am unheard, I whispered.


I lay so still so that my heart might stop, 
stop pumping blood around my body, so that I couldn’t feel, 
stop feeding my mind, so that I wouldn’t think.


I am unlovable, I thought.
I am in pain, I felt.
I must try harder, I whispered.


I watched myself from a distance,
and then simply switched myself off
until the room was silent,
and my body was left in a heaped, bloody mess on the floor,


Am I dead, I thought.
Maybe I deserve this, I felt.
May this is the last time, I whispered

 

Scars

Making scars on my body only make the pain go away. Self-involvement with
the unknown is a true deep secret. I must scar myself until all the pain
goes away. Even if it means suicide. I don't know why the way I feel this
way, it's just a lifestyle that I have come across in an early stage in
my life. I just want to runaway and never say goodbye and I want to know
the truth, instead of wondering why I have live my life this way. My life
is like a flower that is slowly dying . It's a petal falling as if my
life is just wasting away at nothing to believe in. Scars make everything
okay, it helps me through the pain and suffering. Scars help me go
through the agony that life has brought upon me. I just hope that one day
that people realize when I'm gone that they're the ones to blame for my
departure from this horrible place that they call home. The scar is to
cut and the reason to cut is to bleed, and watch the blood drip fr4om the
cut that you made into a scar as the pain slowly goes away. My life as a
flower wasting away. 

 
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