Poems
~Sick of Crazy~
Day One- I am sitting here happy...
Day Two- I might be sad...
Day Three- I could be angry or peaceful that depends on the counsellor I had...
Day Four- I could be feeling nothing which is quite normal for me...
Day Five- I’m going crazy, but no one ever notices me...
Day Six- I’m fixing myself and also everything else too...
Day Seven- I’m remembering that no one else is ever as messed up as you...
I survived my whole life this crazy insane way.~
Listening to what everyone else has to say.~
One major thing I forgot to do on my agenda was pray! !
Life got too hard for me so I planned an accident something big you know a scandal~
The first attempt didn’t get the attention I thought I required, so a jump would surely show them that I have blew completely off the handle....
I feel at times like I am back at square one.~
I feeling like screaming, crying and yelling at my evil- self ~
I really want to run.~
[...] Read more
poem by Cassanya Anderson

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The Beautiful Camellias
The camellias bloom in Winter when the skies are cold and gray
When the sun shines at it's weakest and the Spring seems far away
Each tree an individual by the shade of flowers they bear
An avenue of camellias of one shade of flowers more often than not rare.
In shades of pink and creams and reds the colours one might name
Each is an individual for no two look the same
The beautiful camellias resplendent in their flowers
They bloom in lawn and garden on Winter's coldest hours.
In late fall in Victoria in the Southern Hemisphere
The flower buds on camellia tell Winter days are near
And before the wattles come to bloom towards the end of July
The flowers on the camellia tree lose their petals and die.
The beautiful camellias bloom in the cold winter showers
And long before the southern spring they will have lost their flowers
And on June's coldest and wettest day great beauty I can see
A mass of pink flowers blooming on the green camellia tree.
poem by Francis Duggan

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Tarantella
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the spreading
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of tar?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
(Under the vine of the dark verandah)?
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
Do you remember an Inn?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteeers
Who hadn't got a penny,
And who weren't paying any,
And the hammer at the doors and the din?
And the hip! hop! hap!
Of the clap
Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl
Of the girl gone chancing,
[...] Read more
poem by Hilaire Belloc (31 December 1929)

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