I'm just a teenager who feels that writing is a better way to vent than doing bad things. I'm fairly normal, though what is normal anyways. I write what I feel, and I read constantly. I'm a total bookworm, which people find odd. I hope everyone likes this but if not i do and that's what matters. :) more »
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Mary Gilliam Poems
We all know life ends, We may not know the terms, We may not know why or how.
Reality is a Blade
Reality is a blade It kills hope Hope is a luxury Hope is the bubbles in a bath
Valley of Death
I was promised a paved path to follow But I fell into the thicket and lost my way I was promised smooth sailing But I'm in a hurricane
Beneath my mask hides my pain. Hides my imperfections, My insecurities, all my flaws.
There's a knock on the door Hard times are here and they are staying a while. We make them as comfortable as possible, Praying they will leave.
Why don't people realize, what they're doing, when they ignore someone. Don't they realize,
They make and break us, Big or small we all have them. They are the clothes in our closet. They are impossible to keep,
Ode To Happiness
I strive to be with you always. You feel like the sun on my skin. You smell like spring rain. You taste like chocolate melting in my mouth.
Demons are living in my brain. They are evil. They have sharp claws,
Sitting remembering, Happy and sad times together. Listening to love songs, Wishing for a feeling that strong.
When she makes good grades people say, 'I wish I was as smart as her' When she helps a random friend they say, 'she's so sweet' When she works out they say, 'she's so strong' (stupid, mean, weak)
It's exhausting, it's never ending It's suffocating, it surrounds me always It can't leave well enough alone It twist everything you do or say
Like little children we all believe The promises that we speak The oaths and pinky swears that we all declare We believe in happiness that we cannot compare
Comments about Mary Gilliam
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
We all know life ends,
We may not know the terms,
We may not know why or how.
But we do know the pain,
The sadness, the desolation,
We can't escape it, no matter how hard we try.
Eventually we become numb to the loss,
The pain, the depression.
We move on.
Even though it stings.
We don't know what's in store,
After we die,
But we trust in God to carry us home.
It comforts us.