madness-viarti
I'm primarily an author, writing for quite a few fanfictions currently, as well as roleplaying on about five sites. Now, before you go and scowl at your screen, my fanfictions I spend WEEKS, MONTHS even on the story line, and studying the characters, it's not just useless smut, it's actual writing. Additionally, the same goes for my roleplaying sites, but, as it turns out, writing poetry is actually sort of relaxing, and I need the practice for an upcoming original novella. / / So, here I am. / / I enjoy Modernism Imagery, which means nothing has to rhyme, I don't have to state what all the symbolism means, the whole shebang. I also enjoy free verse, and I promise that each of my poems has at least ANOTHER meaning within them the first that you read, so give them another peek!
The Flower of the Desert
Blooms
To Spite the Sand
.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 12:36 AM UTC
She stands the one that runs from reality,
From its open brutality,
She fell back to the delusions of legendary,
To the tales of gods, demons, and speaking weaponry.
To the others, this is all there is to find,
A mad woman, with half a mind.
To the man at her side, there was more to see,
Her eyes as clear as the raging sea.
You owe me the world, she would accuse,
Her words never once found a thoughtful muse,
Before they flew into the air,
Twisting and winding as a snare.
No one could recall, to this day,
What she had once forgotten to say.
You owe me the world, she would assure,
The question of her past, a tempting lure,
Never would it be told, she promised,
For it is beyond my fading knowledge.
No one could guess, to this day,
Her story untold, and she rather liked it this way.
You owe me the world, she would add,
Her hair oddly clad,
Twisted and wound with the braids of a child,
With every movement, the jewels woven within smiled.
No one imagined, to this day,
Why white decorated her young head, and this way, it would stay.
You owe me the world, she reminds,
Her thoughts the most figetting of minds,
Eyes ever watching,
Her guard ever plotting,
Hunting or fleeing, who was to know?
Even to him, such was never to be made a show.
The man, aware of his ignorance,
Stood his ground, and demanded the many answer’s appearance,
For I, he had claimed,
Have stood by you always, asked no questions, he proclaimed.
Answer me now, everything that you have hid,
Without pause or lid.
I am owed such things, he continued direly,
For I have loved you always and entirely.
If you have ever felt this love’s return,
Answer me now, or to you, my back will forever turn.
Turn from me, then, she had thrown,
I have never known you to wail and moan!
If by my side you have stood,
For answers, no one else could,
Then return to me never again,
You traitorous, wretched man!
After the man was good and gone,
The woman numbly whispered some old song,
Its lyrics worn and old,
Quiet upon a voice once so bold.
You owe me the world, she sang with a voice of fine,
Because, you stole mine.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 7:37 PM UTC
“Everything is going to be okay,”
she told herself, as she simply stared
at the trail of shimmering lights beneath her.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 1:15 AM UTC
.
Opinions are like directions;
.
Sometimes, you don't have to be right.
.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 1:12 AM UTC
The woman of power, of the final hour,
Stood upon the gaping edge of death,
Savoring her final due breath,
Recollecting her spent time, as the demons beneath, did climb.
The woman, once unknown, many must atone,
With a simple display, she tore the lights that held the night at bay,
For nothing as powerful as she, should anyone but agree,
Resting upon her belt, the stars forever dwelt.
The woman, demur of the end, a challenge to death, she had penned,
A game, we shall partake, with eternal lives at stake,
For if I do not wish to die, your purpose, you must defy,
With a stolen piece, her years did increase.
The woman of blackened markings, her mind of ever-workings,
Stood tall upon her mare, chased with twisting white hair,
Upon her belt, rested pouched treasures, glittering fondly with pleasure,
For her company never to shake, as her pale eyes did forever take.
She was the woman of Cree, far beyond The Black Ink Sea,
The taker of stars, leaving naught but empty scars,
She was the winning player of Death's Game, her rewards, to gain,
With the twisting marks of power, deep to the pit, she did glower.
For nothing of its sort,
Shall ever hold her short,
From any a task within her aim,
A woman such as I, victory shall I claim.
And with that thought dancing across her mind,
She leapt, and left the mortal world behind.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 2:02 AM UTC
~
Poetry is the desire,
To stop the world from turning
~
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 1:09 AM UTC
I am saying goodbye.
Asking myself would you care if I died?
Would you even notice?
I guess you won't.
I don't care.
I am not going to die.
I am just going to look for someone who will care when I do.
Someone who will notice, unlike you.
Bye.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 1:07 AM UTC
Oh online little notebook,
For everyone to judge.
You click and clack, dutifully serving
Their owners unwilling to budge.
With flickering screens,
And dancing fonts,
The normal life, your presence haunts.
For your company, that you keep,
Are false, and shallow, and cheap.
Their lives continue, if yours does not.
All that entertains,
Eventually, will rot.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 1:06 AM UTC
My name is my reason and reason is my aim
To make friends with my demons
and keep them all at bay
I write and I write for it is all I can do
I write what I want I don't aim to please you
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 5:15 PM UTC