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A PonderingIf one's progression issues forms of extermination, are they to move forward, regardless?
Salt, seeds, and endless evenings are details which brew writings of certainty, although, such are not received as perceived.
And if the curtains were to silence themselves, and the pests retreat without a publishing, would I ensure tranquility?
Ponderings present themselves adequately; wisdom.
Such is drawn with impossibility's red ink, my child.
A permanent, pleasing thought of opposites lingers pleasantly among the eyeless cattle.
Polishing exists eternally - cease not your composition, my dear.
EtherealI rest nearest the platforms of arctic air.
Motionless, and without remorse.
Upon doves of grey feathers, my spoken phrases glide.
A plentiful silence graces the frozen soil - tranquility.
My ashen palms emit auras of depth and demise.
Furthermore, my placement progresses.
Rains to cleanse.
Glasses to gleam.
Patience swallows its pride.
ObservationEyes of my own engulf frozen soils.
The lingering poisons disrupt a common thought.
Salvation encrusts itself namelessly and without praise.
Similarities peak formally, and also without doubt.
A Constructive KingdomArise from the dusts, my child.
(Compositions reign highly in your favour of trust.)
String along your tattered visions.
(Ponderings of certainty shall play fairly in your court.)
Wishful bliss shall construct your jester.
(Tattered, prideful, and negating a conscience.)
Gluttonous proportion shall construct your king.
(Ignorant, lustful, and without hesitation.)
Desire and irritability shall construct your queen.
(Sociable, liable, and turning from dreams.)
And you, my dearest, shall initiate a cause.
(Tallest, purest, and with termination of flaws.)
Ponder your being, and grasp tightly your claws.
For I rest as the damned, and thrive as what was.
Plato's TurtlePlato strokes the spiny turtle with a fibrous rake near a city street.
Such a pleasant tool smooths its textured shell, and the turtle accompanies Plato along his way.
Plato walks about the forests and frozen lakes, endlessly inhaling the winds and smoke.
The spiny turtle steps upon the shoes of certain who pass by, including a corporate executive's toe.
In fact, a child stumbles beside Plato, scuffing slightly against his Brooks Brothers suit.
And noticing the sudden action, the turtle snatches away a finger or two, and stained becomes the cobblestone.
ProcessA spoon departs the tips of my fingers.
Ponderings of greenery.
Spillage of assets.
.Pastes of pity.
A vanishing, perhaps?
A PityA pity:
A Nonsensical PieceThe cage left in the west looks toward malnutrition in the north; it sees not the carriage fair holding flowers made from the rested. Ah, but the truth is spoken throughout its potential, is it not? The Missus of Maps spoke it so, and I must say her words remain adequate with the flying of kites and wheels; the eves which hold the curling of nails irritate her personality greatly. Although, she is fond of reddened nails, those formed by children of glass, infants held within structured pieces of coins with green edges; her tastes remain elegant, with hints of pressed livers and bloody, melted faces. Alas, in her home across the Dropping Sea lives a hermit without a glass eye, she is spoken through by his words, and it is he who must be I.
Talk to me.
Tell me what shattered your heart inside.
Your heart is beating, yet, you're not alive.
You're hearing, yet, you're not listening.
You've become a black shadow.
I can see the demons in your eyes.
Your eyes have glazed over.
Your life is coming to an end.
But yet, you're still healthy, still alive.
You smile to hide your pain.
But you're slowly dying inside.
You keep saying 'I'm fine', when I know you're not.
You tell me 'it's just a phase. Don't worry'
But I've never worried so much before.
You're like a leaf
Your beauty slowly withering away, unbeknownst to everyone around you.
Soon, you're going to fall from the tree, and hit the ground.
People will walk over you, ignoring how much pain they've caused your heart.
But hold on.
It gets better, I promise.
Your heart will beat once again.
I'm hoping for a sign of life.
I'm watching for those eyes to fill with joy, like they used to be.
I beg you with all my heart.
NoNo you can’t do that!
No you can’t have that!
No we can’t afford that!
No that’s not healthy for you!
No you can’t stay up that late!
No you need to loose at least five more pounds!
No that college won’t accept your lazy self!
No that’s not perfect!
No a ‘98’ can’t be your best!
No you can’t make a living from writing!
No you can’t do what you dream!
No, no, no, no, NO!
I’m so tired of ‘No’!
Yes you can just sit there like a good girl.
Yes you can eat all these protein shakes and vitamins.
Yes you can be the perfect person I want.
Yes I’ll go take a bunch of advanced classes I’ll never pass.
Yes I’ll go become an engineer like everyone else.
Yes I’ll give up on my dreams cause they’re stupid.
Is that what it w
PurpleBeats now soft, a thudding in my chest, a heartbeat intensifying.
Beating faster, embracing the environmental cataclysm sliding down the back of my skull.
The world collapses into pixels, crashing down in an electronic funk.
An orchestra of mechanized beats feeling ferrous fluid warping through my veins.
Upon my skin drips water, a holy water from the angels,
remaining now as a metallic taste that tingles the jaw.
Toxic portals captivating, intoxicating,
deep majestic caverns of ink spraying like the ocean’s waves.
Carefully now, catalogue my movements and translate them into sound.
Translate them into thought, translate them into action, translate them into words made to dazzle and destroy your perception, words to overwhelm the unreliable senses, to leave upon the mind a fractal scar of remembrance, capturing language into a pill bottle and releasing it to float freely to the ears, because those are my words.
And once we’re finished, all which will remain are beads
This Is For YouThis is for you.
This is for you, who would always say that you weren't 'good enough'
This is for you, who would always wish that you were as good as them.
Sometimes, you throw your pencil across the room in frustration when you realize that you'll never be an artist.
Remember when you told yourself that art was a passion that you would never let go?
But yet, it's slipping between your fingers, right now.
You want, so desperately, to be an accomplished artist.
But you never believe in yourself.
It's painful, I know.
But isn't art worth it?
Maybe you just don't know the meaning of being an artist.
It doesn't matter what you do, or how skilled you are.
The fact that you love art, is all that matters; and that's what makes you a true artist.
Don't you remember your art bringing you so much joy?
Now, it seems to do the complete opposite.
It seems like demons are haunting you, telling you that you're 'not good enough'.
You want to know what I say to tha
The Waiting-RoomTime heals all wounds...
What a load of crap.
Because from what I've seen
When someone dies
We sit there with fumbling fingers
Trying to stitch the gaping hole in our heart.
And when we finish we look down and lie "I'm okay."
Because not even the most skilled doctor
Could erase your pain.
Even in sleep you can't escape their faces,
Maybe a good knock out
In the fighting rink
I've heard you don't dream
when knocked out.
And maybe the only reason we die
Is because we miss the ones that left before us.
Even the loneliest man has someone he misses,
Maybe that's the only reason he's lonely.
Also, I've been thinking lately
about what comes after this?
Is this life just a waiting-room for the next?
Or are we deemed to an infinite line of waiting-rooms.
Maybe there's just oblivion.
An oblivion where we're all thrown into,
Regardless of our deeds.
A place were you endlessly search for those that left before you.
But as soon as your fingers touch,
Or your voices
Monsters Under My BedMonsters.
Monsters are under my bed.
I would try and get help.
But people would laugh at me.
'There's no such thing as monsters!' They would tell me.
They didn't know how wrong they were.
The monsters were horrible.
They taunted me, raking their ethereal claws across my face, leaving invisible scars.
People wondered why I was so 'different'.
It was the mental scars that changed me, making me into a whole new person.
Go ahead, tell me that monsters don't exist.
I dare you.
But one day, you'll be their next victim.
And you're going to regret every single word that slipped past your lips.
One night, the monsters crawled out of their hiding.
They took my life in my sleep.
But still, no one believed in their existence.
They'll be coming for you next.
Her voiceI hear her voice
She screams my name
She is angry against me
I pray to relieve my pain
She punishes my mistakes
She wants my suffering
I pray for my forgiveness
She wanted a true love
The only thing that I have given is a lie
Is a blank canvas.
The dawn and dusk,
Express their emotions daily.
With pointy shadows,
To guide their paths.
The time's true colours.
Dark Star RisingMy youth was all about evolution.
Transition a novelty
in a world that never stopped turning.
The sun always rose from the east.
Eternally disappearing into the western horizon
in an unending cycle.
The night was spilled ink.
A nebulous backdrop for luminous stars
and a moon in constant metamorphosis.
Dawn would tip-toe over the horizon
chasing away misty clouds of sleep
and a new day would begin.
Growing up in a world of diversity was never boring.
Life shifted and swayed with the seasons,
revolving and mutating at a sometimes frightening speed.
Knowledge and confidence came with age.
Always reaching beyond boundaries into the shadowy unknown,
with a compass as my guide.
I wanted to sprout horns
and become the devil-
To keep the dark stars rising
and stay inside the night.
I wanted to sprout wings
and hold the sun in place-
To keep the daylight forever
and still the hands of time.
You Were Not An Aquarium BoySea-glass became your bones,
brine your blood, and seashells
melded into your skin.
You were not quite an ocean
when you said "This is your sign to love me."
My body was like a building;
tall, cold, almost unbreakable.
I was metallic and sharp,
towering over your waters.
I remember taking your hand in mine,
conch and coral shells scrubbing
my skyscraper wrists, and laughing
about how one day you would
submerge every last bit of me.
Your lips, riddled with argonauts,
found my cheek and I cringed
at the coarseness.
You asked if they bothered me
and I finally told you "I
think I love you."
Red Riding HoodI want to believe people so badly when they say they won’t bite
that I contemplate climbing into their smiling jaws
thinking that it might be better to be split in two than left hanging.
But always, I draw my red hood and flit back into the forest
running in the shadows of pathways, never stepping into clearings
because I’ve spent my whole life in the wilderness
and I still can’t tell the wolves from the woodsmen.
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