The Poetry Dropbox Of A Wallflower

po·et·ry [poh-i-tree] noun 1. The art of rhythmical composition, written or spoken, for exciting pleasure by beautiful, imaginative, or elevated thoughts.

Here's a collection of my poetry. They're quite personal, and they all have a moral that is often hidden. So if you don't understand them please just ask in the comments :)

POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNING

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11. Flaws In Science

There's a place in the park I like to go,

Where you lose yourself without complaint.

You forget the noise of cars,

The industrial grey concrete buildings,

The ancient yet freshly painted expectations of society.

And you lose yourself,

Without complaint.

 

Some fall into those who don't question,

That the way we live our lives is somewhat unnatural.

Laughing in sheer happiness,

Amongst the dull colours of the city,

And not seeking a less simple, peaceful existence.

And they go on with that one life,

Without complaint.

 

And some fall into those who do pursue some great 'perhaps',

Who revel in works of fiction as an escape from reality.

Who do not feel at home, 

In nor the industrial grey concrete buildings,

Or the woods that I like to go,

But in fiction, for excitement they cannot discover. Undoubtedly,

A flaw in science.

 

And it is that that gives us chills as we watch heroic film scenes,

Or the final chapters of a characters life unrolling in the pages of a novel.

For we subconsciously want that 'impossible' life. 

The excitement, thrill, 

And yet so many do not question,

That the reason they enjoy fiction,

Is a flaw in science.

 

In which we were not given our great 'perhaps.'

 

In which we must find our own in a world where barriers are frequent.

 

And the noise of cars,

The industrial grey concrete buildings,

The ancient yet freshly painted expectations of society,

Are so hard to ignore.

 

And it is a flaw in science,

That these ancient yet freshly painted expectations,

Do not include the need to seek out our own work of fiction.

 

It is a flaw in science,

That barriers are so frequent,

That your longing turns to numbness, 

 

And you lose yourself,

Without complaint.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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