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They mourn them with lips unmoving;
the days of violence –and the peace
that went missing.
Silence shrouds like a warming blanket
the wailing of minds gone quiet,
for why scream when no one is listening?
They mourn them with silent laments,
with tortured eyes that pierce through
the camera lens.
But who wants to acknowledge sorrow
in the days of joy?
Who wants to acknowledge violence
when victory is proclaimed?
They mourn them as I wish that I could
mourn them, because I feel nothing,
just nothing.
The sorrow is not mine and –thankfully
it never really was.
No more than for me to remember a feeling
and push it away from me.
But though the ears refuse to listen
and my heart it will not see,
there is still something inside of me
that forces out my sorrow
in the only way left possible,
and the black tears of my writing
must scream my reverie.
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Writer Profile
Terese Mörtvik
Born and mostly raised in the Northernmost part of Sweden, magic and mystery is in my blood. I started writing poetry in third grade I think, and haven't stopped since. My personal motto is that you either swim or you drown. I love to spend time philosophizing, creating, and watching movies/reading. That's when I don't sing or dance or...well, I have a lot of interests. Though I've pretty much retired from anything having to do with politics, I still want to make a difference in the world. I hope my art will accomplish that, for one person at a time.
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