Ignorance and stubbornness is everything of you,

Treating her like a slave is true.

Her time, energy and love is what you consume,

Leaving me with nothing, but her gloom.

Blame is what you give to her for all she helps you with,

Saying all your problems she made forthwith.

All she does is not good enough in her eyes,

Still, she will do anything to please you until her demise.

I’ll never understand what she sees in you whom is so cruel,

Someone who cheats and lies; you’re some tool.

One day soon she’ll leave you,

Then all you will feel is rue.

Finally she’ll be free and abloom,

And leave you alone to suffer your doom.

Once again we’ll be happy as goldsmiths,

Our memories of you will be only myths.

I hope your tears for her never dries,

Feel all the pain we felt from your lies.

This fantasy of mine is my fuel,

To get me through my life that you made into a whirlpool.

Emotional Loneliness My Personal Life Pain Poetry

Mayella Ewell- Court Scene

I sat next to my father in the courtroom, 

Then they call me to stand, making me feel gloom. 

 Everyone’s eyes were me as I sit down in the wooden chair, 

Looking at Atticus I feel as if I’m in the lion’s lair. 

He smiled at me and called me Ms. Ewell, 

Then proceeds to ask me questions just to be cruel. 

He asks me many questions, but none I didn’t expect. 

Making me repeat myself about how I was inflict. 

I said the answers my father made me rehearse, 

Because if I didn’t my injuries would be much worse. 

Again, he called me Ms. Ewell making me mad,

Oh, how I hated to be mocked so bad. 

I finally snapped and called him out for his rudeness, 

But the Judge stopped me and ignored his lewdness. 

Then he asked me questions about all the bruises, 

I told him the lie, but thought about Father’s abuses.

Atticus kept asking for every detail he could think of, 

But, Father had a year to think of more details than just the behove.

That despicable man supporting that black was getting too close, 

He’s dancing around the truth he and I both know. 

I prayed he wouldn’t say it or else father will be irate, 

And a horrible beating for me would await. 

But my fears came to life and he asked me this, 

“Did your father beat you”, making everything dehiscence. 

It rattled me when he said that, more then I wanted it to, 

For a second I thought of committing a coup. 

I could ruin my father and be free of his drunk wrath, 

But that could backfire on me so I took that idea back. 

Atticus asked me the question again making me scared, 

I started yelling at him denying what he has declared.

Out of all the people starting at me in my fit, 

Father’s eyes boar into me, daring me to admit. 

So when Atticus asked me again how caused me pain, 

I told him, “Tom Robinson”, once again. 

Deep inside me I knew it was wrong to do so, 

But he’s a black man and they are all below. 

And I’d rather it be him being doomed, 

Then all of the beatings from Father be resumed. 

Poetry To kill a Mockingbird


My mind is always going,

Wether I’m depressed or glowing.

It’s overanalizing everything I hear,

Making me wish I’d just disappear.

It’s second-guessing all my decisions,

And wariness of all in my visions.

It never stops, never ever.

It drives me into insanity,

But, there’s one thing that saves my humanity.

A thing that everyone does everyday,

A simple thing called sleep keeps my mind a bay.

God, how I love sleep,

It make me not feel like a sheep.

I can forget every problem without a care,

In my dreams my true colors can flare.

Those good night sleeps are the only time,

That I am sincerely happy for a quicktime.






My Personal Life Poetry

What If

What if someone already wrote this?

What if I post too many things at once?

What if I don’t post enough?

What if my writing’s too generic?

What if no one reads it?

What if I made mistakes?

What if I’m not a good writer?

What if I just stopped writing?

What if they can’t tell what I’m writing about?

What if I accidentally offended someone?

What if I lose all my writing?

What if this doesn’t make sense?

What if I never become a noticed writer?

What if someone hates my writing?

What if… I stopped being paranoid?

Would I be able to write something that feels original?

Would I be able to post as many things as I want?

Would I be able to not posts things for a few days?

Would I be able to write something comepletly unique?

Would I be able to overlook how many views I have?

Would I be able to write something flawless?

Would I be able to not care if I’m a good writier or not?

Would I be able to never stop writing again?

Would I be able to write things that gave people meaning?

Would I be able to make someone feel good about themselves?

Would I be able to make my writing last forever?

Would I be able to write carefree?

Would I be able to become a well-liked writer?

Would I be able to write something everyone loved?

Would I be able to… be content about my writing?

What if I could stop asking myself these questions?

Would I be able to see through my strengths and weaknesses?

Monologue My Personal Life Poetry


Alone in a barn so close, yet so far,

A black mare stands ready to spar.

She yearns to race, but isn’t trained,

Her time to race is waned.

As a foal she was pampered,

Now her future has been tampered.

She was breed for greatness,

But has to start her life in lateness.

How great she would have been,

Of only her trainer didn’t sin.

Her sloth training for the mare,

Is leaving the horse with a future bare.

All she can do is wait for her,

Hoping it’s not too late for her training to occur.


My Personal Life Poetry

Ocean Waves

Some days they’re strong and others they’re not,

They can’t control their own plot.

Those ocean waves are but a marionette,

To what ever disturbes them yet.

The poor ocean being used and abused,

While not being able to punish the accused.

Her waves are never orderly anymore,

Always high or always low like a war.

Her want to be free from control,

Is overpowered by her inability to in a whole.

So she takes it all in,

The hurt and the happiness with a grin.

Forgetting the one who caused it all,

The moon which is too far to hear her bawl.

Emotional My Personal Life Poetry