Ladra101

Said to be as delicate as a flower, Yet her mephitic thrones are disregarded. Said to be vulnerable, Yet her ferocious strengths are disregarded. She is rallied to become the embodiment of power and force, Yet these tasks are removed from her bitter hands. She was forced to harden her rose-petal exterior, Yet when she reveals her walls built of steel and iron, They are meet with faces of horror and disgust. She overlooks as her ‘idiotic’ dreams of adventure and courage Are given merrily into a boy’s hands, While the chimera was snatched from her robust fingers, For the world is not a safe place for a fanciful girl.

A girl, Destroyed by bygone bullets, Scars engulfing the last flicker of hope inside her desolated, hollow form. Tears burn into her tender skin, Pooling along the cracks of her her porcelain mask. She cries for her sins; For redemption; For trusting fallien angels; For offering her innocence as a blood sacrifice, For handing them the daggers used to pierce her weak, pure heart. She fell for no reason, Yet expected to be caught. She cries for she was the epicentre of her demise.

Please don’t forget me when I’m gone, Like how I’ll never forget you. Alas though you will have to try, For I am not a forget me not. Please don’t let my memories hunt you, For my mind is a trouble-some -thing. But if they do, Forget me, while I shall never forget you. If you look inside my mind, you would be lost, For it is like a scribble on a piece of paper. It is like a door with a thousand locks, But I give you my skeleton key. If I leave without saying goodbye, It is for one reason and only my mind knows why. But I shall see you again one day, not far from now, When I can be safe in your arms once more, And

Remember me, I am a mask hiding behind a mask, With nothing behind, Anxiety and stress collection. The GCSE years are not ones to remember, But ones to fear. Anxiety push tears from mascara  coloured eyes, Already destroyed by time, In the little years of life. Remember me, I am part of your memories.

Dreams and aspirations; words that are now seen as having the same meaning. The thin line separating the reality of an aspiration and the impossibility of a dream, has nearly vanished completely. Oceans are being crossed, stars are being created and altitudes are being reached. This is what I would hope to happen to my dream of becoming a journalist. Journalism isnt a common dream, more often Olympic medals or fame is more sought after rather than writing in a newspaper. Yet for me, and others like me, there is a deep desire in our hearts to help end the silence that engulfs part of the world. It is a necessity for us to try to help the peop