Violets arent blue
but roses are red
dont listen to the voices in your head
the roses are wilted
the violets are dead
and you just want to curl up in your bed
go get new violets
and try to water those roses
while the hole in your heart
slowly closes
Feb 1, 2022
Feb 1, 2022 at 3:55 PM UTC
A violins Song can be heard in the crisp morning air.
Its owner has pink, strawberry milk, hair.
his tusks, long and pointed like the ax on his back.
his resolve may waver but it will never crack.
the kindness that's given he returns tenfold
and the injustice he returns can not be controlled.
Though he wants peace, others call for blood.
and with their chants, his head will flood.
He knows peaceful Government is just a facade
So now it is time for Blood for the blood god.
Feb 1, 2022
Feb 1, 2022 at 3:54 PM UTC
A charming young man on a boring old day
Sat with his guitar, and began to play.
His angelic wings cushioned his back.
So soft and pure, in color, they did not lack.
His calloused hands plucked at the strings.
The notes that he played were such beautiful things.
The notes and the scales would soon evolve into a song.
written on the air... It would not last long.
A song that would never be matched again.
Each day, his songs were different but the same
Each song held a purpose, whatever it was.
It was up to the listener to interpret its cause.
Feb 1, 2022
Feb 1, 2022 at 3:53 PM UTC
She screamed to the heavens, and not a soul called back.
She was utterly alone, and she was grateful for that.
A horrible turn to have when trapped.
A feathered arrow, tied with precision and care lodged in her back.
Although pain was not something she lacked.
she thought she would die, and to her, that's a fact.
The sound of snow crunching from someone unknown.
Told her that she was no longer alone.
Her newfound companion wanted her blood.
When she saw their figures all she thought was "Crud".
Feb 1, 2022
Feb 1, 2022 at 3:51 PM UTC
I cannot give any more.
I cannot give any more.
But my whole personalities built around "kindness"
and if I cant give then I'm what?
Stuck?
So let's work this out,
whats wrong with your heart?
It won't come out,
no, it won't even start
and then moving on, what's wrong with your brain?
It yearns for the past, but it won't be the same.
it's clear to see you've got a disease.
What's the disease?
Well, its called Empathy.
It means you'll give blood till there's none left to bleed.
But I do not want to be kind!
What?
I only want to survive,
No, this efforts exhausting it's getting me nowhere
and where does that leave me? Alone.
You do not have a choice.
The honey slips into your voice
kindness flows through your veins
and its something that cannot be changed
caring is what fulfills you
lear to harness it before it kills you.
May 1, 2020
May 1, 2020 at 3:25 PM UTC
When I first saw you
in my heart I knew you were the one.
But I fought the feeling.
Now you are the feeling.
when I looked into the sky,
I saw your face in the stars.
And, now you are the stars.
Apr 24, 2020
Apr 24, 2020 at 5:02 PM UTC
Oh, the thrill of the chase as we soar
through the air
With our home up ahead and the wind
in our hair
As we draw ever closer, my friend
gives a shout
but then comes a net and I am
knocked out.
Apr 24, 2020
Apr 24, 2020 at 5:01 PM UTC
The children assembled, 6 fine, hearty kids,
We strapped on our backpacks, stood ready to fly,
At the sound oh the shriek we were swiftly airborne
But 4 of our numbers were fated to die.
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 6:29 PM UTC
I am from the Bookcase,
from the Bookcase and the Stuffed Puppy.
I am from the white rocks on the ground,
and the dried dirt beneath those rocks.
I am from The Pomegranate Tree
whose Red fruit is both sweet and sour.
I am from the Aole Vera plant and Trampoline.
From Cordon and Beltran.
I am from tall men and little women,
from the know it alls, and the overwhelmers.
I am from my mothers Homemade food,
from her Choco flan, and Carne Asada Fries.
From the religious conversion of my great grandfather,
and from the crash where my grandfather was lost.
The beautiful sky my parents painted on my bedroom’s ceiling.
I am from the black sheep of the family,
Judged and shamed by others for being different.
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 8:29 PM UTC
"Do you remember the way home?" she always asks, like
a woman in a fairy tale protecting her
daughter from the
dangers of the world.
"Yes," I remind her
dutifully, as
I step into the woods, haunted by
desire for certainty and her dread. I promise to leave a trail of clues
in the dark, for her or me or someone who follows.
The bread crumbs glow. none of us are alone.
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 3:50 PM UTC