R
Gerard James Parakkat
IX GPS (I)
When your legs are numb,
Blood parching in your veins,
Throat choking from the pain,
And the fingers hitting the keys of the keyboard
ceaselessly,
Trying ever so hard to create something impetuously,
Its poetry, you type.
When you dream of the possibilities,
And in what was once unimaginable,
You make the reader believe,
And change the way how their life, they perceive,
Its poetry, you dream.
When you play with words,
Just as an artist would play with colors,
To create a masterpiece,
That reaches the depths of the reader’s soul,
And burns them inside like coal,
Its poetry, you paint.
When you thread
Your fears, your desires,
Your insecurities, your pain,
All just to stay sane,
Its poetry you weave.
When your heart is melting
Like wax candles once lit,
And drops of tears smudge the ink,
To your knees you sink,
Its poetry, you bleed.
global
public
school
Gerard James Parakkat
IX GPS (I)
He stared down into those deep, brown eyes.
He loaded the gun.
He took a deep breath.
He sighed.
It was now or never.
The small, soft hands of the young boy were
trembling, scared of the reflection that was
in front of him, showing him hold a gun to
his head.
He decided.
He couldn’t take it anymore.
He pulled the trigger.
But not before he moved his hand away from
his head.
The mirror shattered.
Society’s opinion on him was in the same
condition.
But for the first time in months, he smiled.
Unlike the millions before him, he defied the
world.
He was alive.
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