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Broken girl at the sideBroken girl at the side
Hiding off to the corner
'Please God help me,' I sighed
As approached the coroner
I can no longer stand
Thanks to all this pain
Gripping to the lamp-stand
Struggled to the windowpane
Crying out to you
As this life I roam
From elm to yew
From Bath to Rome
I drop the dice and roll
I hold my breath and wait
It's time to play my role
And bear the world's weight
The KingThe way they learned to fight
It could be wrong; not quite right
He placed a sword in their hands
And sent them off to distant lands
He put them out up in front
Mail broken, weapons blunt
He held them up as shields
The children who worked the fields
He gave them up as dead
If it would save his head
The king has done most ill
Sent them out to hack and kill
Caring not that they have lives
Even not that they hate knives
He forgets that they are people too
Their eyes are green, and brown, and blue
He gives the word and walks away
He hopes to live another day
The children who have never fought
Nor wars ha' they ever sought
Out they scream for help and mercy
Until they're weak and greatly pursy
Still the king looks away
Hearing not what they say
He has cares not for their pains
Only that he lives long to reign
He is troubled little if at all
By the weapons that slash and maul
And so is they way of royalty
Giving not, expecting loyalty
Never learning to care for others
Never learning to love
Come Home to Me' . . .Time will not tear apart
Love that started at the start'
Their voices will not bring down
Our hearts we will not drown
In the ocean of negative space
Is a deep dark place to be lost
Is the word for what I am
never going back to that place
Is where I lost my mind then
I guess I'm not perfect
Is what we've found in each other
People don't understand us and (h)ours
Go by, but still you're not here
Is the place I could die alone
Is the thing I fear, but with you
Make me feel happy and I love
Is something hard to find, so treasure it
Isn't easy to say how much you mean to me
Is the name I call myself
Won't give up not even when
Will the sun come up
And at 'em, come home to
See how much I love you
Love me too and we can spend
Our lives and money together
Is what we'll always be.
A Heavenly Thing It was the sort of morning that felt like the Heavens were smiling down upon you; where no matter how wrong things had been going, you felt as if everything would be right.
The warm breeze from the south blew in gently but steadily, tousling your hair and kissing your cheeks. The sun shone as if trying to make an impression as it cut through the cool air, and pooled about your feet and shoulders.
There were hot air balloon wind-spinners in pale blues, golden yellows, and rich reds swirling about to their hearts' content, suspended from the limbs of trees, and somewhere in the far distance, you could make out the sound of wooden wind-chimes, as they serenaded the life about them.
The flowers danced gently and methodically in and out of view, dipping momentarily behind their leaves, and even occasionally below the tall, lush grass growing lavishly across the field. Bird
I Do Not EvenAs I write my fingers dance
And you may think just at a glance
I am playing the pianoforte
But sweetness that's not my forte
I strum the strings of life and love
Building from the bottom to above
The vibrations of soul and pain
The pictures of the sun and rain
I sing and I play the guitar
Now at first from a-very-far
I may look a classic band girl
But under my hair's sweep and furl
I am truly an original song
I have done both right and wrong
For I live now without regret
And upon joy my heart is set
© Completely random randomness
Something I RealisedI used to think that being 'taken' was a somewhat shallow way of expressing that you were not available. Now I understand that it means your heart is completely taken with the person you love.
I Felt All Your PainI felt all your pain
That moment in the rain
When you choked out
What it was about
When you cried and wept
And suddenly a feeling crept
Of anger and sorrow
But once tomorrow
I shall avenge you, love
Swift and soft as a dove
I will come sweetly from the skies
But soon you'll hear their cries
Repetitive LoveI sense a lightness
Dancing at my door
I feel a tightness
In the bottom drawer
I hear a fairy singing
And the world playing
The fields and forests are ringing
And this is all I'm saying
If you're full of whats and whys
Stop and simply smile
For even when in disguise
It's all worth your while
Love and live and laugh
And embrace what's given
Take a whole not a half
Cause that's why we're livin
We have a mission to love
And living is a game
Showered with hope of above
The world's our photo frame
Strike a pose darling
Your audience watches
For just like a starling
Frowning really botches
You don't need a camera
To care to look pretty
For in manner of samara
Your twirling's oh so witty
Michelle's ThanksI raise a glass
Formed of brass
To a dear friend tonight
Who keeps my world alight
Who keeps my world well
She bears the name Michelle
Writing words of purity
In the utmost sincerity
Never can you fear
Whenever she is near
The sun will come out
The rays shine about
Your joy will come to play
Dance and sing and bray
Happiness will ignite
In this epic fight
Of beauty and treasure
It is my dearest pleasure
To converse with her
In the moment's spur
It is a great thing
The awesomeness she brings
So thank you Ms Jackson
With your hair so flaxen
Thank you for your time
To read my every rhyme
Thank you for your words of kindness
And thank you for curing my blindness
Thank you for being a dork with me
And giggling and laughing with glee
For we are sir friends together
Even when we're under the weather
Change this lifeHiding in the shadows
Resisting in secrecy
Trying to find a way
To change this life of misery
The future is unknown
The past is to forget
The present is dull and boring
Is this what life has to offer?
I want to change
And I keep trying
Only to fail miserabily
Every single time
eight ways you've made me small1. I wish
this was for you.
2. my journal pages - the
brown one with all our monologues -
were jarred with hollow vows of
last poems of
letting you slip into a coma
of bad memories, watching you
fall to your death off
a cascading cliff of disease
and dis ease.
it was never
easy for me
3. there's a reason I ask
whether you're grey
(dark white, elusively black, in between)
or blue (behind the clouds, under wave-foam,
whateverthefuck runs through the back of my
palms); I'd rather have
than the arms
that once held you half-
heartedly. you had always been
my harmony and I
would have killed
to have been yours.
4. it could never have been just me, the way
it could never have been just
5. disasters are not beautiful,
but how is it that you
managed to make my inner linings
converge into bows
and explode into wings the very
night you decided to rebuild your walls
to a lower height?
6. I wish
Whenever I hurt myselfI have a feeling
Someone is watching
So I look around
But there's no one to be found
ExpirationWith you I always feel like I’m
to break in the wrong size of shoes.
Sometimes I sit and stew
over how you’re seventeen and
you think I’m a princess
the trapped-in-a-tower kind
and how you wear suits and talk about politics
and think you know the world.
My throat interrupts with an affronted gurgling sound
sometimes when I think about you,
you deal out advice where it just isn’t called for
you quote science-fiction to justify war
and you’re seventeen years old and you think I’m a princess
and you just have no blooming idea.
Darling, one of these days I will tell you my mind
But until then we’ll never fit
I’m afraid –
that even after that day
you’ll still be trimmed hedges and
on bradbury and table dancingYou are not a wordsmith
whatever you might like to think. ('Smith'
indicates precision and coldness and fire:
words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.)
It's a difficult road to follow, and not many
make it past the fork. Choose a path,
Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders:
I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming
rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery.
Notebooks scattered across the landscape
of a child's room, to be stumbled across,
read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night.
When the bough breaks
a hanged man laughs. He carries typewriters
in his pockets, and cigarettes in the soles of his shoes.
I will never be a word mistress,
whoring myself to the speech of people I do not know and will never know me.
The oven is set to Fahrenheit 452, but the words were already aflame
before they ever took shape under your tongue.
You love everything they've ever written, and carry
unabashed loathing for every syllabl
Death to the LoversHe screamed,
He tore his hair from his scalp;
But it didn't bring her back.
The beautiful girl
With the gorgeous smile
And witty remarks
Would always lay six feet under.
She would lie in her death bed,
Her arms folded on her chest
And her face full of peace
Known only to the dead.
He would be the first to rot.
First his health,
Then his sanity.
She would forever feed on his emotions
Like a pretty little leech,
Sapping his well being
And happiness from her underground world.
And he would let her,
For a fool like him
Who allowed himself to love,
The Most Selfish Poem I've Ever WrittenPlease be
Just half as broken
Please just once
Have a problem so big
All you can do
Is cry it into my chest
Please let me
Stroke your hair
Til you’re calm
Like every single time
You’ve stroked mine
Please can you
Just be so hurt
That you need me
A Dying BreedI am--
Not an artist.
A writer, a mediocre one at that.
Not an artist.
I don't know what to do.
I'm a writer.
On an artist website.
It took years to get my niche.
And that niche is still small.
I don't belong, do I?
Another day of second guessing myself.
Another day of not measuring up to standards.
Empty the gallery.
Empty my mind.
Keep what's recent.
It'll be trashed just the same.
Nothing measures up.
A waste of space.
No one reads anymore, anyway.
A dying practice.
A dying... art.
I'm a writer.
Not an artist.
I paint with words.
Not with a brush.
No one reads anymore.
They look at pretty things.
Let others craft their imagination for them.
I am a writer.
A dying breed.
Historical FuturesRivulets flow slowly down
Upon the kingdom and its crown
Tidings brought on hasty lips
Now too fast; the gossip slips
Thoughts and words are blankly rushing
The messenger is always killed
When the hero's thoughts are thrilled
Judgement passed cruelly
When thoughts are voiced truly
Hanged and broken
The man too outspoken
War as an art and not as a game
For only the brave; not the hearts lame
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More