TEARS
I've drowned my last
Tears
Submerged all my
Fears
Double wrapped them up
As cheers cause all of my
Can't, could've , would've
An should've got ran ova
By that run away train to nowhere
So I could achieve to be the
Better person standing here
Before you today
To reach my greatness of
My Queendum on this day
no
Longer letting the smallest
Of small
Mindsets of my hater
Defined me on who I'm suppose
To be other then me
No longer will they get in
My way
Writing Is Like...
A song that flows
through watery groves.
The lyrics unclear,
Yet so good to hear.
A rebel that breaks
through ruler's mistakes.
The actions scary,
A burden he carries.
A chaos that spreads
through bodies of dead.
The confusion settles,
In blood-stained rose petals.
I don't know what it wants for me,
To do, to write, to make, or to see.
But one thing's for sure, and it's that,
I don't care if you like it or not.
Though it'd be nice if you like it too,
But a writer should be judged by his stories,
Like a singer should be judged by her songs,
And I should be judged by my humanity.
Dance in the Rain
Happiness sings in the dark
and chases its dreams,
gallops into thoughts
and rhymes with cool breezes.
Dream umbrella of misted clouds,
a dance in the rain
time doesn’t apply
as your smile crinkles with joy,
the dew touching the grass.
Indigo skies and impassioned heart
a spinning top weaving webs of intrigue.
Painting the world with myriad colors,
simplicity without complications.
Snuggling with loved one
in front of roaring fire,
melting within his breath
tucked into his arms.
Enchanting heartbeats,
the perfect story
unlocking my heart
happiness flutters
through my soul
I don’t want to let go
I’ll just repeat his name
when I need happiness again.
Every Night, and Indefinitely
Dear Readers:
Watch now, as we listen closely to our reclusive subject reciting her poetry. She is siting two-fisted with her paper and pen, and a glass of wine. She considers her unraveling sanity night after night. As the moon rises, her intellect spins. She is either going mad or perhaps she is slightly touched. She is indeed overwhelmed by her senses fusing. Irregardless, she is different and obsessed with the human condition. She ruminates with manic creativity over the injustices of humanity, but hope lingers nonetheless. She is haunted, but feeds incessantly on such. Her empathy and pain duel, and the outcome is yet to be determined:
These walls have
Metaphorical stones
My personal Veil of Jericho
I am counting in sevens
A separation from
My innate discomforts and
Mainstream society
My synesthesia shouts in shades of grey
And these walls offer
An isolated haven
Found within and
Built for
My emotional protection
To discern my condition
Away from the noise
Confined to myself and
With all triggers removed
My intimate space is
Safe and solitary
Quietly entombing
In body and mind
And I pace within
This is my mausoleum
The flesh of my wit
Accompanied only
By a cacophony of
Voices weeping
[This is not altogether symbolic, but provides some truth to the subject's fear of pending insanity.]
For mercy
In poetic fragments
Inside my brain, and
The Goddess of Eris --
With Phobos and
Deimos, are ready
To protect me
Exposing the two-faced
To the light, but
In the sanctity of my darkness
Fighting demons
On my own behalf
Borne from a brokenness
My vulnerability shattered like glass
Coupled with
The massive weight of
My empathy pulsing
Disproportionate and consuming
My disfigured changeling
And torn between
The fibers of wool
Now swaddling me
With carnal suffocation
[With regard to matters of the heart, you see here: the subject's undoing is taking place in slow motion.]
To the lovers who scalped me,
And harvested my soul:
You left me for dead.
And I can rest
Within these walls
I am able to heal
[Contradictorily, the subject still ends with hope.]