Mad with me this morning.
Time to build a bridge
and get over myself.

We speak a broken language

we mirror

we fall and forget

and stumble into broken shards

of the mirror

that cut us and make us bleed

the only way we can think to remember

our nature…..

were all masochists

because were stumbling on purpose

blood spilt on the other side of the world

makes us all anemic

People see the world they want to see
and nothing more
their individual perceptions color endlessly
But they never take the time to find out who is coloring
they color unconsciously
becoming a prisoner of their hallucinations

She strolled into the house of the holy.
Face filled with misery.
Drops down on her humble knees.
Begging forgiveness.
From one who is not there.

So,
How can one be convinced
That meeting and greeting at the end of her world.
Her maker will be met.
A hand-shaker maybe to welcome her in.
As if business meeting almost begins.
Discuss over coffee,
Mortal sins.

Mulls over who loses.
And who in hell wins.
Who drinks from the famous half full up cup.
Perceiving, believing that nobody knows.
Is heaven a rumour?
For heaven she weeps!

This is just a poem...just a bundle of words.
Words come when I'm tired and I don't want to waste them!

By ladylivvi1

© 2014 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

A virtual prisoner
I am at times
to those demons trapped inside
my creative mind.

They claw,
they scratch,
they beg,
they whisper to me at night,
driving me to madness,
to the very brink
of my sanity.

I do not seek pity,
I need an escape,
a deliverance,
to find the right words,
to get these feelings out of me
before they get locked within
forever.

He told me he stopped smoking.
Threw away the packs of Mayfair
into the river next to his house.
The river where we once spent the evening
talking about why stars align the way they do,
As if they know what they are doing.
Neither of us knows what we are doing.

We are tea stained maps,
And fragile lungs,
And he is bruised fingertips from writing ‘I don’t love you. I’m sorry.’
I am shallow breaths in early winter.
Waking up at five to five to wait for the sun to rise.

He is made of sugar cubes
And campfires;
Glowing in the dead of the night
As if they have a right
To be the main attraction.
We are 3am scribbles in notebooks

And origami warriors.
You folded me so easily
With your piano playing fingers.
And when I wasn’t looking,
You made me into a boat and pushed me onto that same river.
Lit matches for a sail and finally, let me burn.