My poem for english :/

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Preview of My poem for english :/

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Describe `This Room'.
I stand, in this room closed mouth and halved eyes; battered but not done in. They stare
upon this wreckage that I am left to clean. My mind is dazed by the same colour in every
corner of the room as the lights brightly shine on it but reflect nothing in my eye. This colour
never escapes me. The tables are dressed with white and silver blue ribbons dyed round the
candles. His favourite colour; but as I pick them up and start to place them into my sack of
debris it starts to die and fall out of my hand. As it falls deeper it loses it colour and the life it
never really had.
I can't stand these stares on me. `She is the exact image of him' they had said before
muttering on in their old way. Everywhere I walked I seemed to be the guest of honour in
this room. How ironic, the guest with a pinafore saving her from defect.
So called friends whom I had never heard of had invited themselves, their perfume some
said brought emotion and perfection to the room. It was disgusting, the amount they had
on was enough for me to drink or even drown in.
Photo's of us all displayed on booklets and each mirror polished thoroughly. So much that
you can still smell the staling polish to make what the salesman says `Shiny' glow. Their just
a bright as the walls.
I continue to each of the tables and remove any debris, walking across the cluttered floor I
stumble on a toy car. It's neither from this room nor this so called celebration. I call the
owner of this car and hear footsteps running towards me. She sees the car and smiles
before running off with it again in her quick little steps. The colour or presence of this room
not taking any affect on her.
I then hear a thudding on the stairs and I watch as another person, almost acting like the
murder. She places ear plugs blocking us out and heading for the main door, not caring
maybe even glad how terrible this whole day was.
I continue to pick up the draping ribbons and sweet wrappers of the tables and floor walking
backwards and forth to deliver the polluted kitchen finery to my mother again and again and
again. We work in silence, no `thank you's' or `everything's going to be fine'. None of those
little black lies are needed. Even in our warmly home I can feel that presence from before it's
starting to irritate me now. Forcing me into despair.
I stare at the remnants of food on them. Exquisite and perfect it was, that is if only I could
taste it. I remember sitting there the murder and the car owner sitting with me as I sit next
to my mother. As half of her, I can normally tell what she's thinking but I don't understand at
all. Smiling and but sad, happy as well.

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Grace is said and we ate. I was off my appetite entirely however, I didn't want to waste so I
too ate as well. Expecting a divine taste from my mother's cooking skills I was disappointed.
My attitude it seemed had drained the food of its flavour, it was now nothing but texture.
A man opposite who I've never seen before stands with my uncle.…read more


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