horohura

                                                                                What's it like to write a story                                                                                                     that isn't yours?             The photos we pin on our bedroom walls, they remind me of nicknames on bathroom stalls. The tears of our eyes that our fists have shed, have rung to tell me ‘ your scars haven’t bled.’                                                                                    Poems were meant                                                                                                 to be read out loud.

Society has become injected With a poison That slowly strips away All the individuality That used surround The heart that beats inside us. The uniqueness of each separate person Protected that flame That burned bright throughout our lives until we died.But now that brilliant beacon That used to shine through our eyes Has been smudged by the mascara Lining girls’ visions, And the tattoo ink That covers men’s bodies Has splashed over Our personalities So that every person becomes a label, A slut, A jock, A bully, A victim, And so many other names That spew from our televisions And blast from our headphones Into our listening ears.How do we f...