Price of Being Beautiful by Kezia P - Y9
Some sides
of stories don’t get told,
Truths
rotting in the dark,
The ‘villains’
in the tales of old,
Left
stamped upon, a mark.
What they
don’t tell you is awful,
Secrets
around each door,
They
wouldn’t be considered lawful,
But for
promises she swore.
Medusa didn’t want the snakes,
The burden
that they brought,
But she was
up against the stakes,
It was one
hundred to naught.
For she was
up against a god,
Who reigned
over the sea,
She never
gave him the nod,
He took it
all, ignored her plea.
Throughout
this she did nothing wrong,
But didn’t
receive the same,
As he, the
villain, all along,
Yet all she
got was shame.
That and the
burning taste of guilt -
Guilt she
shouldn’t have had to feel,
Ambitions
crushed from chaos he built,
Forced her
to make the deal.
It was
Athena who she ran to,
Eyes red
hot with despair,
Promised change,
living anew,
But
serpents to her hair.
Now she
sits with her hissing crown
Wary yet
dutiful
Tears spill
down her tired cheeks:
Price of
being beautiful.
This poem was inspired by the Greek myth of Medusa. The author was keen to show the other (lesser known) side to the story - that in fact Medusa was a victim, not a villain.
I look back at the town
I used to call home
So cosy and warm
I never felt alone
But that was back then
Not in the times of now
Where the little things
are lost
This change happened, how?
In the blank city
With dull streets and grey
skies,
Where dreams are congested
And imagination dies
But back then and now
The places are the same
Same roads, same town
Just one worn away
The change is there
And I hate it so much
And I wish with all my
might
To go back to the way it
was!
When the sun smiled down
And the wind roamed free
While plants grew wild
As though just for me
Yes, I still remember
those times...
Yellow sun, blue skies
But then I wake up and
it’s gone
And I realise, it is time
to move on
So I close the photo album
and the past fades away
While I think to myself
“I’ll make the most of
today.”
Skills by Amy P – Y9
A skill is something that’s overlooked,
A skill is something that carries you through life.
A skill is something that sets you apart,
And a skill can be something to make you fit in.
A skill is something that can be a curse,
As little children are expected to excel.
A skill is something that can be hated,
As it can be the one thing you wish it wasn’t.
Two skills can complete each other,
Or one skill could be thought of as better.
One skill could be looked over,
While the other is put on a pedestal.
A skill can be a talent,
Or it can be mundane.
Either way it is expected
For it to grow and grow
A skill can never be
Something that you are ok at.
A skill must be perfect,
At least that's what we're told.
Memories by Mistee O' C-B
Nothing lasts forever
But
I always thought
-Always
hoped
It
would:
A
stupid teenage dream
That
never was
And
never really could
I thought we’d live
In
that moment always
Forever
in rose tint
And
gold
Frozen
in nostalgia
Buying
what Hollywood sold
But that happiness
Unravels
quickly
In
so many unknowable ways
And
then finding it again
Is
like chasing smoke
Or
having again
The
blissful dream
From
which you just awoke
All that is left
Are
fragments
Of
a bygone day;
Yellowed,
distorted
By
perspective
I
try to focus on them:
But
they shift, waver, fall away
My
old mind ineffective
What
then?
For
the words
Which
I command will
Never
be immortal;
Forever
is a concept
I
have grown to mistrust
In
the end
As
with all things
Only
dust
******
We stopped for a rest on the side of the road
And without the sound of footsteps and groans
All the world was silent
No, not silent; but quiet
Quiet
on the side of the road
The sound of crickets in bushes hung in the air
And
a freight train way off was rumbling there
And all the world was still
Absolutely, completely still
As the sound of footsteps once again filled the air
At the foot of the mound I turned
And a group of five
Was
now a group of four
Then I looked up the hill and learned
That she had left and now stood
On the edge with her hood
Over her head
I heard myself say without knowing “I’ll be back”
And made for the summit now shrouded in black
And all the world shone
Though her eyes shone brighter
As my hand came to rest on the side of her back
She pointed out into the night
And all the stars
Lit up the sky
And looking up her eyes were bright
The earth a mix of colours
Us transfixed at each other
On the edge of the world
********
Waiting for Tomorrow by Mistee O' C-B
I remember you:
Eyes so bright,
Lips tickled by unshakeable hope,
Walk buoyant with uncontrollable optimism,
On your shoulders you could carry the world
And nothing lesser
Tomorrow, we’ll have it all
You said
Tomorrow will be our day
Life was more vivid,
Back then:
Emotion heaved,
A touch rippled on the skin
Like a river
Words weren’t just words
They were paintings
Rich in colour and feeling;
A provocation was a war
A small success was a triumph
A slight falter a fall
Since isn’t it better to sob and scream
Than to have no fervour at all?
If only you knew before
They break your body first
Each cut, each scar
Each abrasion
Carves a better worker
It is searing at first,
Visceral
But don’t worry
Soon it will be only a dull ache
For something better
And eventually
A hush
A gradual pacification
Quiet resignation
Acceptance numbs the pain
But no need to think
You don’t have time to complain
Well...you sigh
There’s always tomorrow
Then they break your spirit
You wouldn’t notice it
At first;
Creeping, like a tiger,
It comes in the night
Smothering you,
Killing you as it sings
Soft lullabies
By then it’s a blessing
When there is no more reflecting,
No more stressing
I’m just one person, you protest
I can’t change tomorrow...
That is when days become
Duller,
When a touch is just a touch
And emotion is rusted by time
What used to be words of passion
Whispered in snatches of euphoria profound
Loving caresses from the heart
Now mumbled, recycled
Taken from the lost and found
Cheap and common like stubbed-out
Cigarettes lying on the ground
I remember you,
The round face you once had
Now riveted with lines;
The jaunty poetry
That never quite rhymed
You brimmed with your own creativity
But that has since dried up;
You are no more than a vessel for
Other’s words,
Other’s beliefs,
Other’s voices
Perhaps someday they
Will learn
Tomorrow never comes
By Mistee – Y9
No comments:
Post a Comment