enslaved
she is a slave
to fashion, 
to her appearance,
to society.

she starves herself
to be gorgeous.
they beg her to stop,
they say she'll kill herself
if she carries on like this.
her response?
"well, at least I'll die in style."

(I actually really like this poem and now I have an idea for a poem thanks to Panic! At The Disco.)

Hi! I'm rather new here (to the Chatterbox, that is.) I love writing poems!

Here is a poem I wrote several months ago...

Fine.

Have your own way

If I can’t tell you

when the grass could grow

or

where the moon might go

Seems as if

I could at least say

that I love you.

Love is dangerous.

Too much in one direction can

take it from others.

I know that now.

You -

having eyes only for one, the one

- ignore the love lying on

your doorstep

and begging to come in.

Life is hard

but too hard

that only the noonday sun

and from then on

matters to you?

I am the sun in the east

new, but the dawn is

vital.

For one who wakes up

with it

I am surprised that you

do not care for it.

Do not try to keep me

in the dark

for the dawn will come

whether you like it or not.

Do not misjudge me

for I can see the forbidden flames

and I wonder

why not me?

This actually happened to me, and I think I was feeling rather Christopher-Robin-like when I wrote this poem because the rhythm reminds of those poems in When We Were Very Young and Now We Are Six.

Candles 

Beeswax candles

smell like

summer,

whether they're

burning

or not, but once,

when I lit a candle bear,

and brought his brother,

another bear, out into his

new-found light,

the not-flaming one,

in the flickering shadows,

looked so terribly sad,

that I wondered if I

had done something wrong 

and whether candles really

want

to have that beautiful light 

melting away their wax.

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