Trapped...
Stuck playing the obedient daughter,
forced to succumb the rebel inside.
Laughing...
Screaming....
Crying.....
Wailing......
She wants to do more,
she want to be more.
She closed her eyes and dwells on her past,
their love they had for her was like a tattered sheet,
it'd never keep her warm.
She can beat it,
stretch it,
but it'd never be enough.
It'd never fully cover her,
it'd only manage to cover her face, as she screams,
"Go ahead make me a prisoner,
but you can't take my will away!"
They can control her body,
but not her mind,
it's free to imagine the wonders of the world
.
.
.
She can't imagine it
.
.
.
Never has she been outside these four walls.
She's lost the will to live,
her blood freezes in her veins,
then her eyes glaze over, as her soul fades away.
In her hand there's a note to her parents saying,
'Just think you could've stopped me...'
Author notes
this is like my 3rd or 4th non rhyming poem...so tell me wat u think...
A contest entry
- RANT!!! by written-in-ink.
1100 points, ended September 7, 16 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
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i think that it was good
i mena i understand you and you made yourself heard
and i love that
andi love your concept
in any case very nice job thank you for entering and good luck -
I personally love this, the picture it paints is so real and intence and I envy you for that. You are a very good writer, and you should never let anyone tell you anything different.
-
I'll tell you just "wat" I think.
I think this is some hideous piece of teenage rebellion raping the sorry cunt of literature. You've got it screaming, crying, begging for you to stop. What more do you need?
Where is the feeling here? I only see abused punctuation, cowering behind the flimsy smile wrapped over a black eye. Do you really want to make a battered woman out of the once beautiful thing that the English language was? Just think, your suicide notes wouldn't be without language.
There is nothing poetic about not understanding that sometimes adults want what is best for you. There is nothing remotely beautiful about some melodramatic bitch killing herself in an ultimately feminine way like overdosing. Where is their a little blinking sapphire of wonder beneath the cold blanket of cliches and teenage rebellion? If it isn't there, how am I supposed to justify this as just another blemish on the waking world?
You have no talent.
I could have came up with this. I expected that ending. I did not yearn for something different. I felt nothing; I feel nothing.
You're not a poet; you're not emo.
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