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Isabella Terry Apr 2019
My bed is a box, filling with water when I least expect it
I am asphyxiating
I was fine until I remembered that there's no one here
Being alone is like

There is smoke in my lungs,
But ice on my skin
The fissure in my heart, the great divide
Why does it even bother to pump my blood anymore?

This is not the kind of poem I like to write
Isabella Terry Apr 2019
My bare feet pace the same dust again
In this prison of old, weathered wood
And shattered china that was priceless once

Value is fleeting
Freedom is temporary
Why do you all take it for granted?

Sightseers are waiting for me downstairs
Another audience fascinated by the macabre
Expecting a grand performance
From me, the circus animal
Oh, how I mourn my dignity

I know how this story ends
It happens every time
And yet, my cold feet pad down the staircase again
As if new characters will change the denouement

My fingers brush against the blood-stained paintings
Portraits of those long dead
Swallowed by eternal rest
How I envy them

I step into the ocean of shattered glass without so much as a second thought
Here I am
I hope you're entertained

They stare at me with their terror spangled eyes
Some sort of sick intrigue
Their mouths ajar, spilling deafening breaths
Their scent and sound and image so sharp
I am hazy and dull, unfocused
But they are cuttingly crystal clear

Can you help me?
I'm alone, and injured, and trapped
My hair is sticky with blood
You have to get me out of here

Please don't leave me alone again
Why are none of you LISTENING to me!?
I've been through this before
My voice is muddled, nothing more
Than an underwater scream

And it chased them away
Leaving me to wander the abandoned hallways again
There is nothing else to do

The dust does not part for me
The oaken floors of the upstairs welcome me back
To the reality that I am trapped
In a prison of wood
And of my own ancient mind
Isabella Terry Oct 2018
Adulthood daunting, calling, taunting.
Empty applications haunting.
Heartbeat thudding in my chest,
Through one more standardized test.

Fear ascending, never-ending.
Transcripts somehow aren't sending.
Catch me dangling off the edge,
Scrambling, I can't feel my legs.

Time interfering, disappearing,
Ground beneath my feet, commandeering.
Lungs burning, filling with water.
Panic prepping me for slaughter.

Indecision, like a prison.
One path splintered by division.
College here, or college there,
Growing up is a nightmare.
Isabella Terry Oct 2018
All falls silent and still as she perches on her throne;
the world falls asleep under the diligent gaze of her pale, white eyes.
Her crimson lips part in the gentlest of sighs.

She entertains a fleeting wish for companionship--
for someone with which to banter away the cold, quiet nights.
Her pale, snow-hued skin is freezing without the contact of another.

So many eternities have passed since she last knew conversation,
she has long since forgotten how to speak.
Collected, quiet breaths are all that fall from her lips now.

Her hands fold in her lap, her slender fingers intertwining in ennui.
Her jeweled feet take to tapping the floor listlessly;
it's hardly regal, but she struggles to care.

The endless river of her midnight hair cascades over her shoulder.
It is reminiscent of the apparent length of the night,
which begins to feel eternal: an isolated afterlife of solitary confinement.
Her name is Elara.
Isabella Terry Oct 2018
She brings forth hell's fury from my mouth;
A black, burning rage swimming through my veins,
And she smiles, and tells me that it makes me pretty.
I want to strangle her.

So effortlessly, so cluelessly, she begs my attention,
My obsession, my affection, my addiction.
She wraps her little angel legs around my waist,
The waist of a lonely god.

She's aware, as am I, that to continue this charade,
Is to dig her grave in the cemetery of a commoner.
Her stone will be unmarked, her death on my hands,
and yet, still I cannot bring myself to leave.

She intoxicates me, drives my mind
To the very brink of insanity, with
Love, and lust, and hatred, and desire, and guilt,
And absolute, catastrophic fury that threatens Armageddon.

I crave her lips, and her hips, and her hands,
And her stubborn, loud mouth,
And her words that tear me down,
And the violence she incites from my mind.

I am the worst substance for her, like drinking chlorine.
She is even worse for me, like mercury,
Bringing out the demon in me,
That awful creature of chaos that she loves to see.

And as I've mentioned previously,
Despite my desperation for release,
She has me in the palm of her hand. I could never escape.
I more than long for, I need, I crave her infuriating arrogance.

I am just another sad case of addiction,
Without hope of rehabilitation.
As long as she lingers on my breath,
I will continue to destroy.
prompt: "strange addictions"
Isabella Terry Sep 2018
Poetry grows as a function of pain.
Organized anguishes conquer your brain,
And drown your joy in a river of doubt,
With a poetic structure you must write about.
Brilliance is a burden so rare,
You can not ignore it, so it, you must bear.
The sorrow is swelling, not baggage, but freight,
It demands that it, you articulate.
Agony restless, it calls to the pen;
The cyclone in your mind is starting to spin.
You will not sleep; no, you’re not allowed.
You’re a slave to the page til it’s all written down.
Your hands may tremble, your brain may burn,
But you will not rest until the last word.
Insanity replaces your sense of time.
Seconds and minutes dissolve into rhyme.
One o'clock, two o'clock, five o'clock, eight,
It has grown quite early--or is it quite late?
The night is long gone, but there’s no time to mourn:
As the sun starts to rise, a young poem is born.
The inspiration is gone, and leaves in its wake,
The pain that it somehow has still failed to take,
And still even worse, a hollow chasm,
Where the inspiration and pain had just been.
You lament for lost sleep as you stumble around.
Your pulse in your ears is a deafening sound--
Like thunder that fills you enough that you pour,
Like drugs that aren't enough anymore.
The pain has subsided, but you’re well aware
That though it’s appeased, it is always still there.
Now, it lies dormant, in a slumber apart,
A luxury you forfeited for art.
Inspiration lurks, ever waiting to strike.
It exclusively chooses a time you don’t like.
Try as you might, you are bound to the pen,
And after each respite, it comes back again.
Isabella Terry Jul 2018
Why am I your effigy?
You burn, you mock, you curse at me;
You tell me who I’m supposed to be,
But instead, I’m just your effigy.

Rip my skin, and scream and shout,
And tear all of my stuffing out.
Then whine, and cry, and moan, and pout,
Then beat me blue, and scream and shout.

Pin me up, and pierce my heart,
Then rip all of my limbs apart.
Blame me again, and then you’ll start,
To bruise my lungs and pierce my heart.

Punish me each time you drink;
After all, I’m only me.
Your daughter? No, it’s clear to see,
That I am just your effigy.
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