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faithfulpadfoot Jan 2016
i wish
i felt as happy writing my own music
As i do dancing to yours
The concept of productivity is dumb (also the small 'i' s are intentional)
faithfulpadfoot Jan 2016
The sun rises, baby blush pink,
Like tongues and fingertips and lips,
First forming sounds, like cries of song,
In innocent young bliss.
Beginning to scream, deep crimson,
Red mouth, red socks, red babygrow,
First learning to crawl, to walk, to run,
In wide eyed exploration.
Cool to a blue, like the ocean,
Blue towel, blue bucket, blue ***** and net,
First time at the beach, the sea and the sand,
A little world traveller.
Clouds block the sun, white sheep's wool,
White nurse, bleak town, white hospital gown,
First meeting with Death, too young to know,
Poor, motherless child.
Many hours pass, a clear blue sky,
Blue coat, blue shirt, school uniform,
First day at school, with a bright, nervous smile,
A grin, ‘Have fun today, kid.’
School day is over, skies dark blue,
Blue eyes, cold lips, but a warm, warm kiss,
First long-term girlfriend, with hair velvet black,
University grads.
The sky’s getting darker, deep purple,
The wedding dress and the new front door,
First proper house, with a bare wooden floor,
‘Little girl’s growing up.’
The sky turns red, deep crimson,
Red sheets, red lips, red underwear,
First time on a bed, she says with a laugh,
And a racing heart.
A sudden blackness, like blackout blinds,
Black suits, black coffin, grim funeral march,
The man with the scepter brushes past,
She’s an orphan now.
Then out of the darkness, the moon and stars,
Bright eyes, bright laughs, bright kitchen lights,
First time that she’s laughed in a long, long time,
With a drink in one hand.
The white of the moon, glowing, smiling,
White sheets, white face, white hospital bed,
First time being a mother, and holding her child,
Another day dawns.
A life can go by in a single day.
You are like
Smoke between
My fingers,
Like drops of
Liquid gold,
A love that my mind
Knows so well
But my hands
Can never hold.
faithfulpadfoot Jan 2016
As you lay on the water,
Flowers braided into your hair,
Your gender branded into your skin,
What did you sing?
Did you sing of your father, his wealth, his ambition,
The knife in his chest, like the knife in your back
When you realised his tenderness was to tender you,
His living, unthinking coin?
Did you sing of your brother, his sword, his strength,
and the way that you felt as he leaped into your grave,
Your heroic knight, hid you from daylight,
Using you as a way to fight?
Did you sing of your lover, who you thought was your lover,
He took your father, your mind, your words from your mouth,
Your flowers, your violets, he wilted you, drained you,
You poor, helpless fish
Out of water.
You should sing of your Queen, who scattered your flowers,
Covered your body with scent and prettiness,
Told your story, mourned your death;
And sing of you,
The serpent under the flowers,
Hissing your hatred and spite and betrayal,
For no one heard you, no one cared, no one respected your words
But we do,
As your men drag you under the water, woven into your clothes, so tight on your skin,
We hear your song,
Dear one,
Your strength lives on.
I will never not be angry.  Ophelia deserved better.

— The End —