ღWrite it Out: Poetry Blogღ

Call me Amber Grace. I am 23 years old and I am a writer. I love writing poetry. I also want to write novels and screenplays soon. xxxx I love the beach, horses, and I appreciate rainy days :) ♬Maybe...I should have saved those leftover dreams...funny...but here's that rainy day...♬

[lovelyxamber]

The Game

A game was played,

one many tend to try,

and I was the fool to accept the game.

Fools think they can change a person for the better.

Fools fall in love with the person playing the game.

The wise end the game before it can even begin.

[lovelyxamber]

Her Burden

The Earth shall shake unmercifully, cries shall ravage throughout the lands that will never be heard again. 

She has felt every kind of blow that can be dealt,

but this shall be the one that will knock her off the path she travels.

She has dreamed of this moment for the longest time,

although she knows it will be the end of her...

it will also end the evil she carries throughout time and space.

No one should have to carry this load...

all she wants to is be free.

She used to have beauty within her, 

but it has been destroyed by the burden she carries.

The Earth shall hake unmercifully, cries shall ravage throughout the lands that will never be heard again.

Her burden shall end.

[lovelyxamber]

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Poetry-- Why do you bring such joy to my heart...to only cause misery in my soul. How come one day the words can flow like river out of me, but change the next day? Words...can easily come out of a person like making a ripple in the waters. Words...can be hard to form and to explain...like the harsh ocean waves during an unmerciful storm. Maybe, my love, it isn't you causing the trouble...maybe the trouble...is inside me. A storm brews inside me...my weaknesses show on the surface...and it is easy to see them and pick them out. Shall I embrace them or waste time picking at them...like they are useless words...that should never come out of a human such as myself. Forgive me, my love. I should not blame you for my weakness...perfection is hell. Perfection is the end of it all. Perfection is not only my destroyer...but it is yours. Poetry...would it exist if everyone suffered from perfectionism? Would you exist to fill my soul if every one slammed each word with harsh criticism...again like the harsh ocean waves during a raging storm. From now on, I will embrace the storm...not let it consume me. Poetry, fill my heart with peace and imagination once more. I am ready.