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Desmond (Garrett) Kinds Jr.

Grade: 12

Orange High School

Instructor: Jessalyn Boeke

Untold Stories Upon Our Eyes

Writing Portfolio

Untold Stories Upon Our Eyes

Untold Stories

The letters in my eyes tell the news never told;
when coverups come to fold,
families become shattered in the cold of darkness,
the turret comes to mold the war.

Soldiers were shaped of trauma,
ghosts knew the secret in this mold on the lawn;
with my cracked mind thrown from different understandings,
I come to realize the river that I was dipped within:
lies and truth feuding with one another;
what is rich to consider is how this is symbolizes my true family within vessels of decay.

Every truth I ever tell turns to lie with the reverse used against my flesh;
With the framework of the labyrinth mentioned throughout my brain,
each lie throws a new path along my way.
No directions and no maps can be made in this ever changing maze,
for with my maze with my fellow soldiers never daze in the stormy rain.

My untold stories remain in the shadows of my premonitions,
what seems to be forever rots in my brain and expanding it's parasite once again;
I reconciled with my stories, yet other stories and myths come to light based off intuition and opinion rather than what photosynthesis brings forth, My truth deserves to be eaten but avoided like fungi surrounding an area of decay, with that,
my stories are forever enclosed within a sealed envelope waiting to be sent out with will.


False Dimensions

I started off within a paradox,
My past and future coercing my conclusive memories in control of my drugged corpse.
Each parallel dream I have always had shown a gray,
A worn out,
A production of nightmares;
Yet I noticed that in one of my worlds, one of my realities,
I refuse to be seen in this gray remission, I will not contribute to what should not be to become reality.

The sound that continuously rings in my ears stops at the occurrence of grief now I once again withdraw from what reduces my happiness of cloves.
It's that simple.
Some live to listen to that ring,
others are sorry they missed them;
it's that simple.
In my different realities,
there is a congruent difference between their stories;
Yes,
their as in one or multiplestories.

I am veined in psychosis;
I am laid under noses;
I am happy on doses of nature shadows hidden upon a ronin.
It's safe to conjure the consideration calling my corpse a ronin of reality,
and again I say:
I am trapped in a paradox between past and future,
And my family is under past,
I am concluded in a future dimension hidden like a black rose in the night;
it's their pill of picks.


Prelude of 12:00 AM

Destiny is reckoned to be hidden within scriptures,
the confidentiality of where each person has upon their future,
their after of night.
One has their god while others have gods or none,
yet each is blindly ruined between division of belief;
each ruin is symbolic to hold what answers people have about others,
our profits of the divine.
Our art includes the innovation of belief while the disagreeing heads shake with certain stability,
as they are surrounded by their own black rose,
the bandwagon relieves its mistake.

Skulls carry out their lasting revenge on their range of legacies war,
outland and inland rampage over their differences without interpreting their own pace and symbol.
I watch my newly droplets of war stab and run away with attacking accusation and discriminatory mindset filled with dirt and rain in the mixture of,
as there is face to this point,
I am aware that my job is done.

The prelude to all these battles between war and peace is instituted by our ancestors,
our authors leave their legacies that grow into hatred,
within these terms defines us under segregation and slaves in our own mind;
Prelude of 12:00 AM.


Shattered Eyes

My own pride used to swallow me whole,
it was an everlasting touch to my life that gave stems.
As the twilight dances and breathes, with the daylight is strong and dazed,
the reflection of the land from the sky puzzled the stars and their offsprings, the
gems.
There was a certain tree in the yard that told the story of her tale,
of how the grasses who came before and after live to be an experiment, so tragic as they bend.
The swines and wines that branched off one another, swine making the wine and
the wine controlling the swine, remained a simple lust of demand in the world;
She noticed that everyone who had walked had some purpose for care, and it
wasn't fair for them to be forever daring to obliterate her illuminating stare on her
vesseled lair,
Her eyes were somewhere, unknown of presence that is classified as pretense,
but only she can repeat the rest of the tale at her best;
The unfortunate behind the crops is how deadly our poison is, but it is only
survival of one than another, and Mars loves his vision from the stands.

The one day is remembered from this lifetime, when the tree died;
the tree's fight with death fortuned over centuries beyond a scope of a swine's life.
The day the tree died, fantasy particles began to formulate off its kind and brittle
skin,
I began to feel the race and embrace the wind of memorial and identity,
I finally found the heart of the beast,

It wasn't the tree.
The refurbished version of civility bounces off the diversity of rainbows and
divinity, ol' boy, ol' world;
Appleseed never got to see lively cord of his tree.
When I first seen the tree, before it shivered away, its beauty displayed the gem's
fight for adventure to the stars once again;
It was a sight that wheeled the fortune.

On the last night of life, I stared at the twilight that was dancing and watched the
stars cry for help and the gems fall silent, it was real shot heard across the world.
I began with a yelp,
Then the Earth began to cry,
I began to lay on the grass and continued on staring again at the stars.
The Earth cried over it's shattered eyes on the beautiful tree on the fact of life
leaving its vessel again.
The swine and the Earth began feeling fond of each other once again, or maybe
they never did;
That is the lost tale.


Reflection in Our Shattered Eyes

My mirror lays shattered upon the wet ground;
blood surrounding my corpse and scars of war open to show my decayed insides.
The wet ground is surrounded by tree and a river the runs East;
As the sun rises and crimes linger upon the damaged lawn, my corpse continues to lay on the wet ground as lost spirits roam by;
Hundreds to thousands walk near, over, and on my body;
I can't be sad because it's what I know I do as well:
walking near, over, and on bodies;
the only language of war is war when death shadows upon his brother.

My reflection on war is simply laughable by my own and your own lemons,
for who will play chess with their casualties bones;
as my ghost once again reckons from my nest
the less and less my spirit will never surprised when my family takes no action and rests.

My own pride used to swallow me whole,
it was an everlasting touch to my life that gave stems.
As the twilight dances and breathes, with the daylight is strong and dazed,
the reflection of the land from the sky puzzled the stars and their offsprings, the
gems.
There was a certain tree in the yard that told the story of her tale,
of how the grasses who came before and after live to be an experiment, so tragic as they bend.

The swines and wines that branched off one another, swine making the wine and
the wine controlling the swine, remained a simple lust of demand in the world;
She noticed that everyone who had walked had some purpose for care, and it
wasn't fair for them to be forever daring to obliterate her illuminating stare on her
vesseled lair,
Her eyes were somewhere, unknown of presence that is classified as pretense,
but only she can repeat the rest of the tale at her best;
The unfortunate behind the crops is how deadly our poison is, but it is only
survival of one than another, and Mars loves his vision from the stands.
The one day is remembered from this lifetime, when the tree died;
the tree's fight with death fortuned over centuries beyond a scope of a swine's life.

The day the tree died, fantasy particles began to formulate off its kind and brittle
skin,
I began to feel the race and embrace the wind of memorial and identity,
I finally found the heart of the beast,
It wasn't the tree.
The refurbished version of civility bounces off the diversity of rainbows and divinity, ol' boy, ol' world;
Appleseed never got to see lively cord of his tree.
When I first seen the tree, before it shivered away, its beauty displayed the gem's
fight for adventure to the stars once again;
It was a sight that wheeled the fortune.

On the last night of life, I stared at the twilight that was dancing and watched the
stars cry for help and the gems fall silent, it was real shot heard across the world.
I began with a yelp,
Then the Earth began to cry,
I began to lay on the grass and continued on staring again at the stars.
The Earth cried over it's shattered eyes on the beautiful tree on the fact of life
leaving its vessel again.
The swine and the Earth began feeling fond of each other once again, or maybe they never did;
That is the lost tale.


The Stairs

I am tired of hate
my only love is the condensed definition of love and peace
the something that is always taken in the worst mistake
from sun up to moon up.
It is the breathtaking cycle of the days of judgement that resemble the todays news
the news of the unknown but written.
There is the one person that can only come to mind
no matter the relation
blood
nor spirit.
I guess the person I can diagnose this meaning to is the person that idolizes the idea of prediction and symbolization
the broken glass of a relationship in simpler terms.
To the person I can speak to through the depths of ink and pen and words of reality;
consider the fact of that I am the doctor of our rivalry of your basis
for of which was smashed with the hammer of the love used against my flesh and flash.
Little by little,
I learn what it means to grow my mind;
learning from wrong to right to right again with the carnation you formulate with the delusion of hatred you rely on for survival.

I speak in the first person I always have
begging for the fur that sheds constantly to start to refuse to attach to my coveralls.
I believe there is the blood that could be the problem
maybe used as an excuse to behave with certain anarchy
the only question that can only come up is the why of all hate
the hate that I feel numb toward
the hate that keeps me repressed for the fact that the revolving forgiveness given off by myself is never being taken for consideration.
It could be the fact of belief
the teachings that were described to me had given off a negative impact to the person I am talking to
and I give my condolences to your broken and shattered mind that let you burn the bridges with the specimens what gave you trust but never did the reverse.

In the elaboration to the pain and best friend of my deep gemini that is always told to hope for
the June that is my Juno;
I guess the only thing I can never comprehend,
nor the birth,
how the judgement that concedes with it;
given by the one person I once considered a figure of strength
but grew into the person I question of what they are.
Our relationship is the stairs that goes up the very complex that I consider the hauntings of my life.
The trauma that was included remain the ghosts of what the immediate elaborated to the people who remain paralyzed with motion
the motion where they identify as the bystander that gives no effect.
The stairs includes a series of steps that need to be climbed in a certain way with all shoes tied and a mannerly fashion
As described in the earliest memories of the less than tween.
The stairs can be climbed by one person
which is achievable in a strategy that comes in any speed.
If the stairs continue
being climbed by another person of the equality
non-divided
it develops a relationship of a goal that is shared by the multiple.

As we walk up the stairs
it is assumed that there will be obstacles to move toward the top
non-tied shoes
a blockade
or maybe the wind blows downward to slow us down.
This is not the case for the stairs I am forever referring to rather one person;
the propinquity that still remains the hypocritical and acquitted foundation of the same stairs.
One step after the other,
I feel we both begin to augment
the sudden push speculates and knocks me to the stance that makes me unbalanced,
the push that is filled with what can be described as the Three A's
assumption
the confliction of ideas that overlap one another
becoming the bullets of accusation and finally impaling my chest
rather my heart with the sense of abuse that gives a rush of dizziness to my head
then bringing me down.

With my eyes in shock and tear
the ironic action takes place
the origin of the shot
and every shot before that
stumbles before me
for only the ending result is the blame being set onto my shoulders
symbolizing the responsibility that is placed on me from birth
for if I refuse
I become the untrusted,
the disrespectful;
the infant of sorts,
rather than being accepted for the level of life I am.
I guess I am the ronin of destruction because I do not accept the actions I do not commit but looked at as I do.