I shall not call myself
I shall allow you
to walk by
and judge me
like the bottle of wine
you did not buy
because my label
on the outside
I may be
you can't even begin
And I won't whisper
You won't know all
by looking at me
even once you're in
tasting to try
the lingering spice
drinking me dry.
and even then..
Moths—they are nearly all comprised of the same tender characteristics: empty colors that've somehow been sucked away like the nectar they digest, fuzzy abdomens that crumble within the softest pinch, and powder encrusted wingspans that fray with countless beatings from the wind. I have come to recognize that there are people like Her who dwindle within themselves among all of us, unheard; enthralled by color that doesn't exist to the naked eye, but rather to an imaginative mind and a battered soul. She is The Moth Girl and she, too is the epitome of simpler things. With Her fair skin and enchanting, grey eyes that suck you in with a single glance; lips so chapped and brittle that they're nearly as drained of pigment as the rest of her. I've decided that She is the reason oblivion hasn't doomed us all and obliterated our world to dust. I've imagined Her as oblivion itself, annihilating other galaxies and collecting the discolored soot from each explosion to sift it over the wings of every moth that has ever been criticized. With this, I have concluded that every moth must be a victim.
But, if given the chance, would they transfigure?
I've undergone the thrill of witnessing these moths revolutionize into harlequin humming birds that thrive at Her will. Wings that were once littered with dust are now far too rapid and swift for manifestation. The Moth Girl — She remains a flower of a woman, though now She is sprouting with petals that burst with color; filled with nectar sweeter than She. They are all rich with vibrancy.
With it, they have concluded that it's not much different being evocative.
After everything, I have decided that they were blooming with color all along, and it was the rest of us that simply couldn't see it.
The gleaming pair of crimson red eyes reflect nothing but suffering.
While it's true that those sulfur feathers take flight,
tear holes in the wind, and pierce the night sky,
it's only to get your attention.
Does he have your attention?
He knows he has your attention.
From branch to branch he stares, learns, stalks,
and casts doubt into your impressionable acumen.
You know nothing, and nothing is his forte.
You haven't caught up, but those infinite pools of blood are headed your way.
Don't be afraid, don't scurry, don't cry;
By the end of the night, you'll have seen all,
and you'll be just another in the crimson tide.
One day a bee
Was flying happily
By a meadow curiously
He saw a sunflower
Bewitched he flew closer
To the beautiful splendor
Of which was simply was
An elegant little flower
They chatted all day
With no obstacles in their way
Until night came
Then everything changed
The peculiar flower had to go
But with no goodbye to go
She just closed up where she was
And not a single stop or pause
Sadly, the bee left
Leaving the flower he just met
Thinking to himself that time
I'll try harder next time
So strong that it could absorb you
So quiet, it could calm you
So infinite, it could make you feel lost
So grave, it could surround you
Could be loved
Could be hated
Could be cursed
But what it could not be is abandoned
We carry it within ourselves
Within our hearts
Within our soul
Without knowing it's potentials
And there are no possibility to know about it either
Because it's not a human
It's not our friend
But it is a secret that he is my friend
He is so mysterious, yet adorable
His hugs surround me like a fable
His presence makes a lost impression
But his absence makes me feel unstable
I could keep him for a long time
But fear arises because of deadly time
I fell for the darkness in a short span of time
But I want it last for a life time
as much as i tried
to dream of the bad things,
i only dreamed of you,
which was good.
but then again,
maybe you were
were you trying to save me from those bad things,
or were you one of those?
That creepy, old house on the end of the block,
the one with a gate and that rusty, old lock,
some say that it's haunted,
and others say its cursed.
That family who lived there took a turn for the worst.
He still lives there all alone
but they all left him long ago.
He never comes out.
His loneliness is cancer.
And if you knock on the door he will not answer.
What happened to him?
I wish I knew, but I'm sure he has a story,
and I'm sure that it's blue.
Life wasn't good to that sad little family,
and after what happened, I doubt he'll ever be happy.
Now garbage and glass lie in the yard,
and rooftop shingles are twisted and gnarled
The grass is tall.
The windows are shattered.
But to that bitter old man it doesn't matter.