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One of the ancients,once said that poetry is "the mirror of the perfect soul." Instead of simply writing down travel notes or, not really thinking about the consequences, expressing your thoughts, memories or on paper, the poetic soul needs to seriously work hard to clothe the perfect content in an even more perfect poetic form.
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What is poetry?

The unity of form and content is what distinguishes poetry from other areas of creativity. However, this is precisely what titanic work implies.
Not every citizen can become a poet. If almost every one of us, at different times, under the influence of certain reasons or trends, was engaged in writing his thoughts, then it is unlikely that the vast majority will be able to admit to themselves that they are a poet.
Genre of poetry touches such strings in the human soul, the existence of which a person either didn’t suspect, or lowered them to the very bottom, intending to give them delight.

There are poets whose work, without exaggeration, belongs to the treasures of human thought and rightly is a world heritage. In our electronic library you will find a wide variety of poetry.
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Scathe by stabmyheart55.books (smart books to read .txt) 📖

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Tears fall softly upon the cheek of a sad face;
tears for one lost,
one dead,
and one sad
and lonely soul.
the soul of the tortured
is scathed by lies
and cruel words.
Some things hurt worse than death.
Blood trickles
and slowly flows
down the arms of the hurt
and unwanted.
The almost pleasant sting of my emotions
fill my mind
with lust for more;
more pain,
more drugs,
it's just one less painful memory
to break my more than fragile heart.
Drowning in lovers and drinks.
I can barely breathe.
So let me sink
lower and lower.
The lower I sink
the more I gush
with blood lust.
Take me lower.
Never to rise again.
Sorrow can break down
even the happiest of people.
Sorrows embrace is cold
and harsh.
Sorrow is lonely
and scared.
Sorrow cares for you,
but sorrow also destroys you.
Sorrow can swoop down
and seduce you
to the painful point of death.
My sorrow lingers on
until I fall apart and die,
but it still lingers.
I am a lover of sorrow.
I'm told I'm hot,
so why am I lonely.
I'm told I can sing,
so why am I so afraid to.
life would be better
if people told you the truth,
even if it hurt.
otherwise we just humiliate ourselves.
The truth helps.
I just want the truth.
My heart hurts,
I scream,
I cry.
Why am I so sad
when I have no reasons.
I walk by lovers,
basking in their beauty,
why can I not enjoy
one's embrace.
I have no love.
Surrounded by pain
and suffering.
Death feels good,
I'm ready.
You act like you love me,
and act like my friend.
You say that your single,
and you need a man.
But I fell into a love-sick trap,
painfully scared.
You just laughed
as you slaughtered my heart.
You probably don't know how bad it hurt,
to be used as a piece
in your sick games.
You lie,
and you cheat,
that's just how you are.
Now get out of my head
so I can heal these dreaded scars.
This goes out to you.
You're one sick freak.
I hope you rot in hell.
No wait,
you'd like that.
I hope you get eaten alive
by rabid wolves and ripped apart,
limb by limb.
I hope you get curb stomped
every day
for the rest of your life.
With utter hate
Addison Jones

Imprint

Publication Date: 02-16-2011

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