Her eyes, wide open,
as they've been drawn to be.
Focused and staring,
but she can't really see.
Sketched with a steady pencil,
held by an unsteady heart,
emotionless and still,
windows too far apart.
Windows to the soul, they say,
windows clouded and opaque.
Windows blurred with drops of rain,
from raging storms on sunny days.
But what good are windows,
when there's nothing there to see?
Windows are just windows
to someone such as she.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 12:09 AM UTC
"Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
who is fairest of them all?"
"Human, human, standing there,
please define for me your word 'fair'?"
"Mirror, mirror, in front of me,
to be fair is to have beauty."
"Human, human, in front of me,
please describe the word 'beauty'?"
"Mirror, mirror, listen here,
beauty is looks that catch your eye,
that please the mind,
catch you by surprise."
"Human, human, you are wrong.
That is just your opinion,
your argument isn't strong."
"Mirror, mirror, be silent please,
I asked you to answer but one thing."
"Human, human, I'm sorry,
but your beauty is relative to only you,
it is not something that I can choose."
"Mirror, mirror, you lie to me now.
Surely there's someone to tell me about."
"Human, human, yes,
indeed you are human.
Find someone yourself,
I'm afraid I can't help.
To me you are beauty,
for I am otherwise alone,
but surely I am ugly,
with all that you know."
"Mirror, oh, mirror, on the wall,
it just might be there is no fairest at all."
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 12:07 AM UTC
Wearied and wrinkled,
Death sighed and slumped.
"One is not so lively, now," said she.
"Perhaps 'tis time, 'tis my time, too,
to lay my cheek down and sleep."
A brutal life lived she,
giving nought but the final relief,
taking even the greenest leaf.
But how to go now, she couldn't say.
She supposed the best was the traditional way.
With heavy hands she wrapped and twisted,
'til a necklace she'd made and carefully lifted.
With her choker of rope, laid high in a tree,
she quietly left, and set herself free.
Now those that remain know not what's to be;
there is no Death, just immortality.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 12:03 AM UTC
We are cowards.
I am a coward for not saying this to your face,
and you are a coward for trying to drown your problems.
But the problem with your problems,
like most people's problems,
is that your problems are sponges.
They expand and grow
as you pour more on them,
until they adapt and learn to breathe underwater—
growing more and more saturated
until they begin to drip,
leaving a stinking, sticky, ***** mess behind you.
Your problems have left a smudge across our floor,
smeared from where I slipped on them,
from where she walked into them,
from where we tried to step over them,
but missed.
The problem with your problems
is that they are not yours anymore.
Now they are mine.
They are hers.
They are ours.
But only you can clean up
the mess on our kitchen floor.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 12:00 AM UTC
Come on, girl,
keep your smile up.
Keep your smile up,
keep your smile bright,
do you best not to falter.
All the world is your stage,
but dear God, do the lights blind you.
Still, you can't miss a step,
don't miss a single step,
because just one slip will send you flying,
and no matter how much you love to fly,
what goes up must come down.
They can never know,
they will never see,
and you will never tell them
why your smile prefers to be a frown.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 11:58 PM UTC
Once there was a little girl
who had a white paper crown.
She would wear her crown
and she would wear her dress
and she would dance in her room for hours. She would spin in circles,
losing track of time
and imagination.
But sometimes
she would spin too fast,
and the white paper crown
would slip over her brow,
and fly off her head
to land somewhere in her room.
One day when this happened,
she didn't stop dancing,
didn't stop dreaming,
didn't notice the crown
had landed on the hearth,
and was now
burning
in the spaces between
the ashes of the fire,
it's white now a muddy, smudged gray.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 11:56 PM UTC
Don't touch me,
I'll break.
I'm made of glass,
You see.
But, that's right;
you already knew that about me.
It's why you tiptoe
whenever we meet,
and turn down music
with a piercing beat.
You remember that I'm fragile—
to be handled with care.
Don't dance near me.
Don't you dare.
You know what would happen—
you know that it's true—
I'd shatter, I'd break,
and I might cut you.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 11:52 PM UTC