Your face
My lace
The sheets at my place
Begonias
Powdered Rouge
The bottoms of my shoes
The heat in my veins
The soul of our flames
Your letters, unsigned
Our secret defined
poetry, creative writing, musings and art
Your face
My lace
The sheets at my place
Begonias
Powdered Rouge
The bottoms of my shoes
The heat in my veins
The soul of our flames
Your letters, unsigned
Our secret defined
Confusion is bewildering
Who am I? A wanton girl
Playing alone on the rusted swings
Dirt all in her tangled curls
Growth is necessary
Who am I? A woman? No.
A crying child still trapped within
Soaked in tears and paper thin
Identity is transient
Who am I? No one yet
Older than dust with ears still wet
Too old to remember, too empty to forget
Faith is ever waning
Where are you? strange voice in the wind
Tell me where the labyrinth ends
I froze in fear where it begins
I like to think that I
Captivate with my brown eyes
Wordlessly hypnotize
On a throne of butterflies
I often believe that I
Capture prey in silky lies
Pouncing while they fantasize
Of dreamy days and steamy nights
I push my pins in
You don’t let me win
Toxic slowly sinking in
But you counter with a grin
Me and my love are black magic
Your hallowed out heart is satanic
I cannot believe that I
Can’t Magick my way into it
Welcome back to the show! All the world is a stage
With manic depression and clinical rage
Unbridled joy and inexplicable glee
A circus of colors and faces we’ll be!
Shuffling masks between smiles and tears
Holding back aching through copious years
Cynical smiles and ecstatic frowns
Paired with baby doll eyes and an Ice Queen’s crown
It’s been quite awhile since I swung on my ropes
The noose left my neck and I danced on my toes
It was a grim show, but I digress
I distracted myself with my own happiness
But what is a show if no one is amused?
So the rope now strikes the back of my muse!
Though the lions and tigers have long since been tamed
The stringless marionette lives to entertain!
Tell me to stay
Push me away
Tell me you care
Never be there
Hold me close
Shun me the most
Time after time
Like a song out of rhymes
Repeat the same verse
A dozen times
Time after time
Like a song out of rhymes
Repeat the chorus
Wear out the lines
Want me in the dark
Leave me in the light
Unshackle my heart
Unburden my nights
Come closer
And feel from miles away
We’ve gone on too long
Put an end to this song
A field of flowers, a plague wrought upon by my insecure thoughts:
Does he love me, or does he not?
I scatter the petals into the wind; they falter, unable to answer my question
A daisy chain is broken with ruthless pain as my fingers commit a massacre
He loves me not, or does he? Why don’t the full blooms answer?
They say a lady should never sleep with a stranger
But his arms felt like freedom to my entangled heart
The blood-thirsty lips of the devil have a taste for foolish girls
And their foolish desires which wholly satiate liars and their sick lusts
Are they any less savage than those of us who lay waste to a field of roses?
Licking the blood the thorns draw from our fingers
The pain of bleeding is far more satisfying than that of a broken heart, constantly wounded and dense in scar tissue
He loves me, he loves me not.
Strawberries taste like summer, with a sweetness that gives me visions of green strawberry fields
With bright red gems glittering with the morning’s slowly dissipating fog
And fragile white, round-winged butterflies fluttering through the miles and miles of sweet strawberries.
Tasting a strawberry in the midst of a winter, I wonder how far we roam to find strawberries in a place so cold
Across the country, through the snow, to the other side of the world where it isn’t below zero
Or maybe just a little down south, where the porch is warm enough to languidly rock and watch the trucks drive by
Through day and night, to bring these strawberries out of the light and hope they survive.
A journey up the coast, to where the sun doesn’t shine and the earth is too cold for strawberries to grow
They taste like another place, or another time, as I’ve witnessed summer before with my own eyes:
It smells like the green leaves of the strawberry, tastes just as sweet and sounds like cicadas
Feels like sweat on my forehead, my bare feet on sand and a cool salty wind with an ocean wave cadence.
I wonder if strawberries in the winter taste just as nostalgic as pomegranates in the summer
To fully validate the irony in that I only miss one when I’m with the other.
There is no wind for whispers; just the silence of the sea.
As the waves lap at my feet, I soundlessly weep at the solace the sun has given my soul.
At last, I am whole, together with the sand from which my form was span
And the salt that seasons my tears.
After so much time alone, I’m finally home to a place I’ve never been.
I long to see that blue sea once again.
He screamed at a shadow to get out of his way.
Perplexed, she said “Why shout when you could walk right through me?”
He shrugged. “I want to be heard as much as you want to be seen. Now we’re both satisfied.”
So she remained by his side forever to dance before his eyes, and he whispered his dreams to her in the dark.
For years, I hid in fear of letting anybody near
But once I came out of hiding, there was nobody there.
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