The government stared at our faces. For we were not allowed to show emotion. They intimidated us, but our faces were content and emotionless. They moved away, welcoming us into their cavern—a small home built for the president. Fear was a weakness, they claimed. For fear did not show that you were courageous. As soon as he had taken over he took his power to the next level. We were not allowed to show sadness. As a child we were forced to watch a sad movie—to determine if we were weak or not. If we did not cry nor whine, then we were set free and deemed worthy of being in society. The ones who did cry though were sent to a different country where emotion was accepted. Everyone knew that this was the correct way of life. How can it be correct? Emotion is natural, we shouldn’t have to hide it. The president was old, his fingers wrinkly. His hair was almost fully white and his skin was dry. His eyes drooped down, with long black marks extending down from them. He had been president for 18 years now. He did not show fear, he was ripped of any emotion at all. We had come to him to leave the country. In the most monotone voice, he simply said “never.” Then, walking down toward his door, he held it open for us. He didn’t say another word. We exited out the door, where we were faced with more government members who escorted us to our cars with no emotion.

she was hidden in her wounds, happiness drained out of her body from the day she turned 5. She oh so desperately wanted to be happy but her mother denied it. How was she just supposed to act sad and miserable or angry or anything other than happiness? She needed a way out, a way to feel some joy. Trapped and hurt, wounded and bruised, she always found a way to keep it to herself.

"Momma." "Yes, baby?" "What is happiness." Her mother went silent. "Why do you ask?" Her tone becomes low and harsh. "I uhm, well I saw a mother and her child and they were allowed to laugh and smile... Why can't we feel that way?"

Today marks the 7th anniversary since they took my parents away, yet I cannot mourn.

The government will not allow it, but every emotion—every feeling I have stuffed down since childhood is slowly rising, and I am running out of room to store it.

My mind is a stained canvas full of rips and tears, though it is not art. I am a mess that no artist can fix.

There is one photo I own of my parents, and I keep it carefully framed on my nightstand. Each evening, I stare at it—at them—and just think.

I hope God is real because I need him, and them, to hear me.

Verbally adressing my concerns is not an option. Aunt Laurie has made that clarified that several times since I moved in with her.

Every time I glance at the photo, my brain can’t help but search for the memory I keep associated with them.

And the person who took them.

He was tall, lean, and had dark-brown hair. It was a wavy mess on his head, but the back was kept neat.

There was a mask on his face, so I was unable to make out his features, but he had ice-blue eyes with dark lashes that made them stand out.

For a moment, as he was doing his job, I could have sworn there was a glint of something in his eyes. What is was, I have no clue.

Me and my aunt live in a small town. Most times, you will pass the same person on the street multiple times a day; walking to school, coming home, clocking in to work, leaving work, etc.

But I have not seen him since that day.

I wonder, where he is now? Were his parents stolen from him, too? Did he have to go?

Why do they not want us to feel?

Humans are designed to soak in emotions. People are born to grow and love. The Earth is a gift we are supposed to cherish.

Why don’t we do any of that?

We are plants decaying in the sun.

It has not rained since forever, but a storm is bound to stir.

I fell to the ground, shaking from my father’s blow. “You idiot! Why do I even bother keeping you around?! Ever since you were born, you’ve been nothing but trouble!” “I’m sorry, Father,” I mumbled. “Sorry?! Sorry won’t bring Priscilla back!” I cringed, waiting for him to strike me again. Instead he pointed and shouted, “Go to your room! The sight of you makes me sick!” I obediently rose to my feet and fled to my room. Grabbing my raggedy stuffed penguin Pedro, I crawled under the covers, fighting back tears. I knew that tears were what my father wanted. If I cried, he would be rid of me. According to the law, every man, woman, and child above the age of six was forbidden to cry. If anyone cried, he was taken away and thrown into prison. My father hated me because I had been the cause of my mother’s death. She had cried during my delivery, for it had been very hard on her. Right after I was born, the Tear Guards stormed in and stole her away. Father had never forgiven me. He blamed me for it all, and he was right, of course. If I hadn’t been born, Mother would still be here. A single tear ran down my cheek, and I swiped it away. No one would ever see me cry.

I want to scream That I want you All of the time But I’ll get murdered

My head hurts When I can’t Get down on a knee Begging for you to love me

I don’t see why She can’t express her love For me And why it makes me want to fly

I don’t love her She’s just the reason I’m at this party And my only hope

In this world frowning is not allowed. The president noticed everyone looked sad one day and decided to make it a law. He tried to make everyone happy, but it led to a different outcome.

I was getting ready to go to my mom’s funeral. I knew I couldn’t cry even though I really wanted to. My mom had been there for me on the worst of days and I’m not even allowed to properly mourn her.

Once I get to the funeral, my uncle comes up to me.

“Hide your sadness, you wouldn’t want to get caught.” He told me.

I knew he was just trying to help, but I wasn’t in the mood to talk about it. I walked up to the coffin and bowed my head. I was trying to hide my face, so if I did show a little sadness, they could tell easily. I closed my eyes and thought of the happy memories about me and my mom and all of the fun stuff we have done together over the years.

I feel a tear falling down my face and tried to hide it and wipe it away. The officer near by who was talking to my dad about my mom saw me.

“Hey!” He yelled to me.

Everyone started to stare at me. They noticed the tear running down my face and gasped. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me as the cop walked up to me. The punishment for showing sadness was life in prison or death, it depended on how subtle it was. A tear was not subtle in their eyes and I knew that.

The cop handcuffed me in the middle of the funeral and in front of all my family. He shoved me into the cop car and started to drive. I looked back and saw all of my family’s pained faces. They looked like a mixture of happy and sad as we drove off.

We stopped at the jail and he opened the car door and dragged me out of the car. He then dragged me all the way inside of the jail. Instead of putting me on death row and having me wait until I was executed, he immediately took me to the execution room. I was to be executed by electrocution and I knew I didn’t have a choice. He shoved me into the chair and put the blind fold on me (so my eyes don’t pop out of my head when I’m electrocuted). Then he put the helmet on my head and cuffed my hands and legs in place. I heard him walk over to the latch and then start to count down.

“5, 4, 3, 2, 1.” He said.

He then pulled the latch and I could feel the electricity going through my body. My heart was beginning to stop and my eyes were starting to pop out of my head. He then turned the power up and everything hurt ten times worse. I started to feel everything fade away, including the sound of the machine and the cop. Then it was all black, at least I could see my mom now.

i'm not perfect i'm just a girl i fail, i cry

i'm not perfect i'm just a girl i fall short, i lie

i'm not perfect i'm just a girl i have feelings, i get mad

i'm not perfect i'm just a girl i trip, i am not glad

i'm not perfect i'm just a girl BUILD A BRIDGE AND GET OVER IT

i'm not perfect i'm just a girl i hate glitter, i dislike pink

i'm not perfect i'm just a girl i like to write, i then remove the pages of ink

i'm not perfect i'm just a girl i laugh with no sound, i chatter all the time

i'm not perfect i'm just a girl i don't play, i only have a dime

i'm not perfect i'm just a girl SO KEEP IT ALL INSIDE

People here are too happy. They should be, they're only doing what they're supposed to, but it makes me feel like life is missing something.

It's easy as an adult, but kids are so whiny and sad. I don't know why they can't just suck it up and accept happiness over sadnes. Just the word "sadness" makes me shiver. A world with sadness would be worse than one with too much happiness, but you can never risk any neutral to negative emotion. They may come after you. They came after him.

My husband's best friend died recently, and it was hard for him to keep his emotions in check on a normal daily basis. After our celebration of life, he came home and just made that strange sound babies make. I forget what it's called. Water ran out of his eyes, and down his face.

What a strange thing,I remember thinking.

Ah yes, those I remember. Tears. I was trying to get him to stop whatever strange phenomenon was unfolding in front of me. He was my husband, and he was not happy, but he was good at pretending he was. He couldn't be sad, because we knew what would happen if you were. I had told him, with a smile on my face, "John, you know what will happen." He nodded, hugged me, and watched me gather my belongings, as it was law to leave when someone was sad.

They came quickly after I left, as I was waiting at the bus stop. I saw them lead him out of the apartment. He didnt even put up a fight.

I watched him taken into the van with one window, and I saw him through that window as a single tear fell down his face. I could feel one mirroring his on my face, but his smile was gone, and mine had not yet left.

“I always thought I would feel different” But I didn’t Because I couldn’t “I always thought it would change things”

But it’s absence, Because it shouldn’t , “I wondered what if we had this?”

But that was quashed, Buried deep, “I searched for it but only found a maw” A bloodied mass of silence, Tempered by hot uncertainty,

“Was this what I was supposed to find” But they said it didn’t exist, They said it had been taken “I feel it at the edges of my sanity”

This is it, I am sure of it, “They had taken it from me, you and all of us” Of course it has to be…

“Clarity”

…

Love you R

There is no sound now, When I lower the bucket. I have no wells to dig into, No pockets of emotion to pull, To write something. A silly poem.

I am surprisingly awake, For being hollow. But I guess it takes nothing To feel nothing. It’s hard to swallow.

Just yesterday afternoon, Was it? Did I feel a bud poking from the ground. Only for snow to come, And cover it around.

My world does not share the seasons, But it does not enjoy the cold. I have been sent up from a rocket into outer space. It is always cold here, But I am closer to the stars.

The farther I am from the real world, Will the closer I be to my head? If books and stories exist simply inside, Could I jump in and join them? Would I be nameless, Or would I have a face again?