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Poetry is a way to let our positive and negative feelings out, our ideals and such. In a structured way, the flow of words makes poetry an easy way to express ourselves without worrying somewone will read that and judge us. It gives us freedom, knowing that only we understand what's there. Only we have the real interpretation, but not the only true one. A poem belongs to everyone, not just to the writer. We all read poems and feel a certain way about them, even if that is not what it really says. It's still true to us. When writing a poem, no one will tell us "you can't use that word" or "that word isn't appropriate" or "you can't use curses". We decide everything, yet we are controlled by it. I invite you to read, criticize, comment and expose your poems here. I'll begin with some of mine: Forever Once I once lived a hollow love, The only thing inside was me And that just made it emptier. I once flew away from here, It was only to find out That I was falling in a well. There was a colour in my heart, Painted over a cold grey stone Made out of your lies. I once lived a hollow love, The only thing inside was me And that just made it emptier. I was hoping everything, I was waiting for you, And that was hoping for nothing. I know that I’m unfair, That’s my scar burning away And know I don’t regret it. I once lived a hollow love, The only thing inside was me And that just made it emptier. I moved past your fields Of green and blue and life, To feel the pain that shines. You once lifted my love, But now you breed my hate Because I was inside you. Now, I hope you know That I’ll be forever free. The chain you leashed on me Is now completely shattered And I forever free. Filipe Dumas, 17th November 2008 A Tree's Poem Your wind swallows our life, Your wind takes our children, Your wind takes our pets, Your wind kills everything. Your hands mutilate our life, Your hands are our pain. Your wind swallows our faces, Your wind takes our arms, Your wind takes our feet, Your wind kills everything. Your hands mutilate our life, Your hands are our pain. Your wind swallows our green, Your wind takes our breath, Your wind takes our lovers, Your wind kills everything. Your hands mutilate our life, Your hands are our pain, And our pain is your death. Filipe Dumas, 24th September 2008 Bats In Silence We want more than there is, The reason is a mirror of sounds. We're not a unit anymore. Across the world's landscapes Broken pieces of a perfect jar, We're shattered in millions. If we suffer we will not cry: The witches have no more potions, We will fly in the night. There's a feeling of doom in us, Hope has faded from our eyes, Our souls cannot go back. We have constructed this Hell On this Lord given land of Heaven, There was a lady after all... Forbidden thinking saves our death, Its lovers are dying in hunger And no one will ever care. Filipe Dumas, 29th October 2008