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Laura Cummings

Typing To Hard

Thumping away with no remorse
Typing too hard
No need to take out anger on a keyboard
Scream at the wall stamp the floor
But don’t type away as if each key is a member of year 9.

They’re rude
They have no sense of personal hygiene
They don’t want to learn
Scream away at them if will
But don’t take your anger out on a keyboard.

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Memories And Heroes

We had the chance
But it never happened
And now im left with the ghosts of memories
Saying whisper something nice and ill make you scream twice.
Thinking of all the good times we shared
Even though, the good times were never really there
Because we are walking on the graves of heroes
You left me broken searching for a hero
Until i learnt that everyone is a hero
We are walking on the graves of our heroes
The graves have our names chiseled into them
Everyone is a hero
Everyone is a God
Everyone is evil
Question.
Have i become my inner hero, God
Or have i become my inner evil?

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Pink

Feather light wings that float softly through the air tickled by specks of dust.
Bright white light inflamed with pink and laced with gold.
Raising flowers, changing seasons,
singing in high pitched voices that only children can hear.
Little tiny people in little tiny clothes.
Pink, White and Baby Blue,
Only innocent eyes can see.

Pink nail varnish, Pink lipstick, Pink eye shadow, Pink blusher, Pink clothes that reveal too much Pink skin.
Standing on street corners innocent eyes forgotten.
Long ago were the days when fairies were believed in.
Lost memories and lost dreams,
innocence killed, for a life of nightmares and love ripped at the seams.

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The Song That Triggers My Memory

As she lay dying with the radio playing softly in the background,
The notes of a song so sweet tickled and triggered her memory,
Number one in the charts the week she was born,
Playing at her eighteenth birthday party as she floated and swayed in a glorious dance,
The first dance with her first and only boyfriend was during this melody,
Playing at their wedding as a song they claimed ‘theirs’,
Playing its gentle coaxing notes as she made love with her husband on their wedding night,
Had danced and spun to it with her children, spinning them in her arms until all fell to the floor in a dizzy heap,
Now it plays softly in the background as her life slowly trickles away from her,
As she loses that once firm hold on a life so dear,
Triggering her memory to a life that would end with the last single note of a now bittersweet symphony.

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A Vicious Cycle

Taking life and feeding death
a broken path, a fork in the road.
Screaming, beating, defeating,
not making any sense but still vital to life and death.
Whispering cruel thoughts, stealing breath
voicing once hidden intentions.
Taking life and feeding death.

Gentle heat, steadfast heart
killing death to take a chance on life every fourth.
Fighting, winning and losing,
not making any sense but still vital to life and death.
Encouraging and coaxing, giving life
pushing back the darkness until its turn to submit.
Taking death and making life.

Whipped around, a vicious cycle
full of life and death, each vital to survival.
Giving up, making a new start, taking a chance on something new
Still making no sense at all, but perhaps it's not ment to.

[...] Read more

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