When I was born
I was told
that the Devil
would be the
most
hideous
contraption
one could ever encounter.
That I would
smell
anger and pain
from miles away
before
he
entered the room.
That he would sneak up
behind me
and whisper
poison
into my ears.
That he was
the
migraines
that would
beat
down
on my head
and the
nightmares
that I couldn't run away from.
But what they said was wrong.
I met the devil,
and she was
the
most
beautiful
being
my eyes have and will ever see.
I didn't know
That the fallen
Archangel
would smile
and I would feel
meaning
and that
Satan herself
would lure
me
into a trap
made of
what seemed to be
soft warmth and
kindness,
but inside were
knives of
hate
jealousy
greed
slashing away at her
willing victim
and that she would make
me
the devil
I was so
afraid of.
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 9:20 PM UTC
There are different people
living in
one soul.
They know they
need to share
if they want to live their
separate
lives
but
they all still have one of their own.
One.
can't stop breaking her heart.
Two.
can't feel empathy or pain.
Three.
can't deal with reality.
Four.
thinks we're all insane.
Sometimes
they battle
for dominance.
There are some
I know will always lose.
There are ones
that would perish without the
other.
There are some
that never cease their fire.
and others
that drift about unknown.
Five.
Thinks nobody else can judge her.
Six.
Thinks she's suffering alone.
Seven.
Is afraid of society,
and she needs Five
because she's brittle as bone.
Eight.
knows she's ******* crazy
and that she'll
never
be
left
alone.
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 8:47 PM UTC
The wood pillars
rise up from the floor.
I can imagine them growing,
shattering the roof and
disappearing
into the clouds.
A shiny, cherry wood finish
intoxicates me
like the poisonous gleam of a red apple.
My fingerprints helplessly rest there,
no match against its pull.
Its shelves, like the golden steps
leading to Olympus,
beg me to climb them
and consume
every word in my path.
The aroma of adventure
breathes me in.
The fragrance of
gingerbread,
candy and
enchantment
lures my hunger to its house.
It is a sweet treat that
mockingly belly laughs at me
for thinking I can stop at just one.
Overpopulated planks threaten
to stampede at any moment.
Stout books bully the thin,
attempting to squeeze
them of their oxygen.
Red-stained and leather-bound books
bat their eyelashes at me
from the shelf.
But I see them all.
I want them all.
The bookshelf pulls me in
like a rabbit to a hole,
leading me into
my own wonderland. I
am its powerless victim.
It is my pleading yellow sun
and I am its willing Icarus.
It has created me from borrowed parts,
stitching me up,
breathing life into me and
sending me lumbering into the streets
to frighten children.
It is a sapphire-scaled dragon,
as tall as a castle keep,
its massive wing-shaped cloaks
swimming through the sky,
its fiery breath engulfing my self-control
in the feverous flames of imagination.
It is the crimson stain that
refuses to release itself from my hand,
regardless of effort or parental pleas to
“go out and play”.
Sometimes I fly from the shelf on my broom,
passing over the rooftops of England,
the wind racing
against my face and
through my hair.
I am above the world
and can see and feel
everything
clearly from here.
A fortress protected from all else,
the bookcase is built by and for dreamers.
Until the next time,
my conspirators on the shelf
patiently wait for me to
free them
of their dreams and
unleash
my new reality
for the time being.
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 7:47 PM UTC