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Laura Withers Nov 2015
It shines on those who wish.

It's rays shun the doubters.

Here's for the dreamers.

The Wishers.

The Believers.

It shines for those who don't run away.

It smiles upon the brave.

It opens it's arms and lets them in.

It shines on those who wish.
It shines on you.
Laura Withers Nov 2015
Their melodies
sing soft and sweet
bringing forth their light.

They never rest,
or fade away,
working all the night.

They sing and sing,
without a stop,
and give their wings some flight.

And if their tune,
did ever die,
I would not be all right.

For their lovely song,
I sing with them,
and I keep my light.
Birds
  May 2015 Laura Withers
cath
There was once a girl,
sweet as a candy
Innocent as a butterfly

She existed like everyone else
Not a single soul disliked her
She realized the real meaning of life,
When she was in Love...
A girl, who everyone loved
was in love

Ready to do anything for him
Gave up everything for him
But... he never felt the same
Instead, he hated her
He treated her like she wasn't meant to live
She asked the reason why?
But he never replied...
Still for her, he was her prince

She asked herself "Don't I deserve love?"
None noticed her pain
One day she disappeared
with no clue left behind
None knew whether she was alive or dead
She came like an angel who made everyone smile
And was left with nothing
She was gone...
No one ever knew
#Love #Life #Hate #Pain
the orb of light is my destiny.

in my dark valley
escape is a blind flight
on the moonless night

when heavy lies the fog on wing
neath misty sky crickets sing
beckons me the halogen

come embrace forget pain.

be afraid not of the one recourse
come what may fly to the source
soak in the fire of the drizzled night
life is precious with death on sight.


caught in wire stuck on fence
dying this night makes only sense
i fall like rains and at last free

the orb of light is my destiny.
Between September and November each year, Jatinga, a village on the Halflong Ridge, Assam, India, sees the unique and as yet not fully explained phenomenon of birds "committing suicide" at nights that are foggy and moonless. They fly to the light, do not try to escape and are often killed by villagers.
Laura Withers May 2015
Looks can ****
so they say,
but words can't hurt at all.

But whoever came up with the idiotic saying,
"Sticks and stones can break my bones,
but words can


Never

hurt me."


Has obviously never had a dictionary thrown at them.

Because words do hurt,
they think we can ignore it,
but the breaking point,
when is that?

They say it'll stop eventually,
but what if eventually isn't soon enough,
before...

The Breaking point.

The breaking point,
no one knows where it is,
but it kills,
everyone dies in the end.

But others aren't that lucky,
when they aren't looking,
tragedy happens,
and it sneaks up on them,
it forms,
from their own thoughts,
a knife,
it will ****.

they are called words.

Words make the breaking point,

the breaking point,
where no one knows where it is.

But,

It kills

Words are the deadliest of weapons,
they cause death, destruction,
and everything.

Wars form from...
words.

They are the destroyer of the human race.

So next time someone tells you to toughen up,
or that stupid saying,
or that it will eventually go away,
don't believe them,
it won't,
you have to be strong and break the words.

Like a wall,
they block you,
destroy them,
be a wrecking ball,
because they will come down,

and you will be,

victorious

You will win against...

*The Breaking Point.
stop bullying please. They don't know, it hurts.
Laura Withers May 2015
Watch into thee,
that bitter night,
where goodman go and turn,
hither where the yonder tree,
of death and gore be ware.

Thee hears them marching,
one by one,
into the shadowed field,
where blood has soaked the ground,
and untimely death appear.

"Tis a battlefield!" shouts thee,
into the dark, cold wind.
"No man hath cometh and gone alive,
with all his soul inside."

Death hath cometh to his door,
many, many a time.
At which hour his heart yearns for treason.
to help the fallen men.

And at which hour the marching drums appear,
from the other side,
the man knows that he should surely die,
if he had ever tried.

For treason is a haggard crime,
which all in death, result,
and then the man should surely mourn.
the death of angels near,
he cries to them with painful voice,
"Tis a battlefield!"
Old fashioned poem.
  May 2015 Laura Withers
LB Parker
The pen moving even before
My mind forms thoughts
I write in surges
Of jibberish
Only I can then translate
Into legible expression
Poetry
Hypergraphia is a behavioral condition characterized by the intense desire to write.
With love, kelsey
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