Iām introverted too, so I struggle a lot with my words because sometimes Iām not used to speaking with people. Thatās why I write, because I have no other way to express myself
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Do you have any other poems or short stories to share?
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Iāve got thousands of poems/song lyrics, but Iām not really proud of them 
But Iāve written this one yesterday and I think itās okay
I wanna stand out of the crowd,
but still be in it.
I wanna go with the flow,
but on a highway.
Iām trying to be perfect, trying to be plain.
Trying to be different, trying to fit in.
Trying to be worth it.
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Amazing!
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Thanks 
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Now I feel like writing spontaneous poetry
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Yaay.
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I never really know if what I write is good or not because it seems good when I write something but a week later I look at it again and I just think itās stupid 
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Same
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Spontaneous poetry.
Humanity complains and whines,
Time is too fast or too slow,
More, more, more,
Is all they ask,
They complain that they get less and less,
Yet - mother nature gives them all she has,
But they are not satisfied.
No, they must take more and more,
Even when there is nothing left to take,
And Iām afraid - that one day,
Mother nature will sit idle no longer,
And surely,
When that time comes,
Humanity will be doomed,
If not already.
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Me all the time
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Girl, I love it!
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Thx
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No problem
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Question.
Would it be appropriate/on topic if I asked for help on annotating a poem on this thread? If not is there a thread for that?
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On topic, yes!
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Okā¦ So hereās the situation.
I have homework due tomorrow.
Said homework is to annotate a poem called Exposure.
Help pwease?
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I wrote this short story like a year ago. 
The Life of a Chocolate Bar
Day by day, I sat on a dusty shelf with my other fellow chocolate bars. We had been sitting here for countless months, never getting to experience the light of the day.
For us, life just consisted of being manufactured, stored in a cardboard box, and shipped off to some random store. Once weād arrived, we would be placed on a shelf until a human being buys us and eats us. That was the day we were all fearing ā being bought and broken (literally).
Starting at dawn, when the store comes to life, shoppers start to come and go. Every day, several chocolate bars get taken. And at the end of the day, when the store closes, we all feel relieved, we have survived another day. We are one day closer to the expiration date ā although, very few bars live to the point where they get expired.
The lights just got turned on, time to (hopefully) survive another day. I imagine crowds of people flooding through the doors, eager to buy their items. Iāll just have to hope Iām not one of them.
For hours and hours I sit in fear, watching these humans pick candies up and drop them in their cart. Finally, evening arrives, and the store is about to close.
But then, the unexpected happens. A little human strolls into the aisle where I am kept, her eyes widening at the sight of all the chocolates and candies. Another human, very bigger than the one I just saw, comes in the aisle and says something to the little one. The little human nods in excitement, and skips over to one of the shelves ā where I am kept.
She reaches into the box. The next thing I know, Iām being pulled out and dropped into the basket.
I guessā¦this is the end.
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Sure.
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Hereās a copy of Exposure by Wilfred Owen that I got off the internet.
Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knive usā¦
Wearied we keep awake because the night is silentā¦
Low drooping flares confuse our memory of the salientā¦
Worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous,
But nothing happens.
Watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire,
Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles.
Northward, incessantly, the flickering gunnery rumbles,
Far off, like a dull rumour of some other war.
What are we doing here?
The poignant misery of dawn begins to grow . . .
We only know war lasts, rain soaks, and clouds sag stormy.
Dawn massing in the east her melancholy army
Attacks once more in ranks on shivering ranks of grey,
But nothing happens.
Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence.
Less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow,
With sidelong flowing flakes that flock, pause, and renew,
We watch them wandering up and down the windās nonchalance,
But nothing happens.
Pale flakes with fingering stealth come feeling for our facesā
We cringe in holes, back on forgotten dreams, and stare, snow-dazed,
Deep into grassier ditches. So we drowse, sun-dozed,
Littered with blossoms trickling where the blackbird fusses.
āIs it that we are dying?
Slowly our ghosts drag home: glimpsing the sunk fires, glozed
With crusted dark-red jewels; crickets jingle there;
For hours the innocent mice rejoice: the house is theirs;
Shutters and doors, all closed: on us the doors are closed,ā
We turn back to our dying.
Since we believe not otherwise can kind fires burn;
Now ever suns smile true on child, or field, or fruit.
For Godās invincible spring our love is made afraid;
Therefore, not loath, we lie out here; therefore were born,
For love of God seems dying.
Tonight, this frost will fasten on this mud and us,
Shrivelling many hands, and puckering foreheads crisp.
The burying-party, picks and shovels in shaking grasp,
Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice,
But nothing happens.
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