Around the Corner | Charles Hanson Towne

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Around the corner I have a friend,
In this great city that has no end,
Yet the days go by and weeks rush on,
And before I know it, a year is gone.

And I never see my old friends face,
For life is a swift and terrible race,
He knows I like him just as well,
As in the days when I rang his bell.

And he rang mine but we were younger then,
And now we are busy, tired men.
Tired of playing a foolish game,
Tired of trying to make a name.

“Tomorrow” I say! “I will call on Jim
Just to show that I’m thinking of him”,
But tomorrow comes and tomorrow goes,
And distance between us grows and grows.

Around the corner, yet miles away,
“Here’s a telegram sir,” “Jim died today.”
And that’s what we get and deserve in the end.
Around the corner, a vanished friend.

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Among the Beautiful Pictures | Alice Cary

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Among the beautiful pictures
That hang on Memory’s wall,
Is one of a dim old forest,
That seemeth best of all;
Not for its gnarled oaks olden,
Dark with the mistletoe:
Not for the violets golden
That sprinkle the vale below;
Not for the milk-white lilies.
That lean from the fragrant ledge,
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
And stealing their golden edge;
Not for the vines on the upland,
Where the bright red berries rest,
Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip,
It seemeth to me the best,

I once had a little brother
With eyes that were dark and deep;
In the lap of that dim old forest
He lid It in peace asleep;
Light as the down of the thistle,
Free as the winds that blow,
We roved there the beautiful summers,
The summers of long ago;
But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And, one of the autumn eves,
I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.

Sweetly his pale arms folded
My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face;
And when the arrows of sunset
Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light.

Therefore, of all the pictures
That hang on Memory’s wall,
The one of the dun old forest
Seemeth the best of all.

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Life | Adaline Barry

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Mushroom with butterfly

 

Life’s always fun where you’re little

You run, you play, you jump, and giggle.

But as the years go by,

People become sly.

Slowly does the fun fade away,

Like the sun at the end of the day.

All of a sudden you’re there by your lonesome

With no one to talk to, to play with, or hear from.

Everyone’s off doing their own thing,

Leaving you there like they’re all queens and kings.

Boy, do you wish things could be like they were,

But no one will act their own age and mature.

Maybe someday they’ll realize they’re wrong,

But until then you’ll just have to hang on.

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Dying Inside | Adaline Barry

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Crying Rainbow

 

Lack of motivation,

Mind full of the stress.

It’s like a starvation

Of my happiness.

Stop the fucking crying,

Stop all of the hurt.

Stop with all the lying

About feeling like dirt.

Internalization

Is usually the key:

The root of my frustration,

Abandon all hope for me.

I wish I had a real friend,

Someone who I could call.

Not like I would use them,

Typical withdrawal.

So let’s just stop the whining,

Let’s stop the to-and-fro;

Kill the inner lining

That contains my soul.

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