Lamb

7 Comments

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  • Death

    Lamb

    I am your lamb... Lost in a pasture.
    Bleeding the love for you that I can never show.
    They strip me of my wool, leaving me naked.
    Words like "hate" and "deceive" are carved into
    my pink skin.
    I walk past the horses
    that shake their heads in shame
    at the site of a bloodied lamb
    with no name,
    no purpose.
    Until one day
    the farmer grows hungry.
    He takes me to a big wooden shed,
    and I see the silhouettes and carcasses hanging
    from rusted hooks
    screwed into the ceiling.
    With my last breath,
    I confessed
    that the lamb I was
    couldn't be more than
    a lamb lost in a pasture...
    Searching for someone
    that will accept me for who I am.

    By: Brandi Deacon
    2010

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    BlackButterfly1 commented on Lamb

    12-15-2012

    I come back to this poem often, because I love it so much and mostly because I think at some point in our journey we all can relate. You're very talented. Would like to read more from you. Take care.

    TREVON commented on Lamb

    01-05-2011

    I can feel the pain of the lamb, I at one time was a lamb. I really like this poem.

    BringMeBullets

    03/25/2011

    Thank you. :)

    iLuvPoetryJACOB commented on Lamb

    06-14-2010

    I can relate so well to this poem. Yet another great write from you. --Natalie.

    BringMeBullets

    06/18/2010

    Thank you much, Natalie.

    BlackButterfly1 commented on Lamb

    05-21-2010

    This is beautiful!! It's symbolic for life and the way people judge us without understanding our stories... "I walk past the horses that shake their heads in shame/at the site of a bloodied lamb with no name." Fantastic writing B. Each time I find a favorite I keep reading and then find another, and another lol.

    BringMeBullets

    06/18/2010

    Thank you...

    Dano commented on Lamb

    04-19-2010

    these words scream at top volume to me... once again an amazing write

    BringMeBullets

    04/19/2010

    Thank you so much. :)

    Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.

    Unknown Source

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