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Chenai Lucille Mar 2010
The rejuvinate scrap hangs there,
Perched within a throne of white seashell.
It wanders, unsatisfied into the depths
Where it is plucked, pondered, and placed back again.
Easily could it be tossed,
And thrown into the rime,
Yet night after night it slumbers,
falls,
and it saved from the Eau.
Through light and dark, it remains proudly peeled and empty.
Chenai Lucille Mar 2010
Point and grunt
Point and laugh
Point and stumble
You fought my battle
For me, gather needs
And wants
Tell them,
Be my rock, be my stone,
My shoulder
You are so strong.

Break.
They laugh, grunt, stumble
Over their words
Their world,
Shot down over candy floss skies.
Tell them
Be my rock, be my stone,
My shoulder
You were so strong.

Rotation stopped,
Life swung around,
Spiraling, Spiraling down
Down, Down down...
D-R-O-P to the solemn slumber.

Heros fail
Capes caught in a trap
And so have you
You died, so long ago
You died
When 5 feet was enough,
And giants filled a sea of eternity
Hades trapped your soul
12, with hands of checkered flesh.

You slipped, fell,
Pick it up
Make it right
Mind says sleep
Dream back your innocence
Child, Dream back
Your life.
Scream to him to
Stop digging your grave.

Sanity, sanity, sanity
It holds your soul.

Observation
Medication
Police association
You, my inspiration.
Tell them
Be my rock, be my stone
My shoulder.
****, you used to be so strong.
It may not make sense when you read it, as it's written for a specific person. All symbolism in it has a meaning directed toward this person.
Chenai Lucille Mar 2010
I saw him on the corner
Every day or so.
The three days I did not see him
Mom said he chose to go.

He wrapped his head in plastic
As he lay upon the ground
He choked on his last breathes
Until he made no sound.

The moment that I heard this
Tears welled up in my eyes
And while I wrote this poem
I whispered soft goodbyes.

I wish I knew him better
I wish I knew his name
I wish I could have seen his soul
But all I saw was pain.
Chenai Lucille Mar 2010
Your long, smooth
Soft surface,
Subs against my
Song smooth
Nails and flesh bound
Hands.
You're so still,
Still sticky and
fresh,
Your blood runs
Warm
Between my toes like
sand, Beautiful
mud.
Angel, sleep i've
Freed you.
No longer
twitching.
You're so still you're so
Porcelain.
Clothing, gone,
why are you so flawless?
Ivory, red,
Why are you so...
dead...?
Lay at peace and
Accept my
Embrace.
You'll be saved but
You remain at present
To be
Mine.
Preserved and
Sticky.
Chenai Lucille Mar 2010
Eyes of golden fields,
And hair of flaming sun,
Beauty of Aphrodite,
Voice of a siren.
Her sad gaze
Grasps you soul
And rasps your breath.
She's an unknowing temptress
Claiming lonesomeness
And strength of solidarity.

Dramatics fill her life
While tears penetrate her ducts
Only to be wiped dry
By her smooth white digits.

The opinions she illuminates
Are half always harsh
Half always right.
Yet in the gloom
She watches the man
She bows her song
And swallows the shine
Of that which she gazes upon.

She drinks softly
Falls to the cotton
Falls into self realization.
Her karma awaits
Sticking to her endo
Like fresh golden cream,
****** from the hive of greed.

She puts the unwanted to obscurity
And places her dreams in a bottle
To be carried from safety.

Her pain goes unnoticed
As she presses the glass
And downs its purity
To reach her haven.

I truly wish to save her,
For her beauty astounds me
And her love is secretive
Hidden to all those who seek it.

If only a door existed
For the key I posess.
Chenai Lucille Mar 2010
Hail to the King
All mighty and strong
Hail to the Queen
Who sings a great song.

King asks for a song
The Queen doesn't bare
Every night to bed
To create a new heir.

Weeks speed by
And still nothing yet
The King is now nervous
The Queen's tears are wept.

The Queen's clothes are shed
As she lay with her King
They tumble all night
As fertility sings.

Nine months later
A baby is born
But not the right gender
So the baby is mourned.

The Queen has failed
Her dazzeling King
And now it's the blade
On her neck that must sing.
I read somewhere that a King would often execute a Queen who couldn't bare a son or child in the middle ages.
I wrote this when I was in grade 11.

— The End —