Cheers!
with this empty glass I toast
to the empty past
filled with
tragedy
let downs and empty emotions
broken promises
bad decisions and mental brokenness

I toast to the truth of reality that has knocked me down and made a man out of me
yes, a man
buried beneath ******* and thighs that cover up flesh and lies that stuck to me

Let's toast to never forgetting the impossible truths
the reality of what is and shows proof

The king and queen cried
“Bless us! We cannot conceive!”
And “blessed” they were.
Their heir, a miracle, a vision of royalties.

And so a celebration was in order
(as is most pertinent in events such as princess births)
to adorn the little lamb with gifts.

“Gifts”.

Whether the blame lies here or there
our princess lamb heir stands the most to suffer
in cases such as forgotten friends.

Or unforgetful vengeance--

So spite screeched an everlasting “CURSE THEE TO DEATH ON THE ***** OF A SPINDLE!”
And with a turn of its heels shock
set       in.
...shock
sinks
in.
The well-intentioned sprite attempts to soften the wolf’s blow on our little lamb heir--

Only a nap--
only it would seem such in the conjecture of events.

Now no longer is she princess baby heir then does a spindle come alive
X winters later!
(convenient, one might say--in all the land one’s but burned, temptingly locked away in the curious tower)
Insert fainting sounds.
Insert crowded gasps.
Insert “told you so!”
And the sheep follow our little lamb’s sleep.
One hundred year sleep.

Hair follicles sprout a slimy green, and not-so-royal fungi flourishes--
brash brambles tuck in the herd as if to say
“Sleep tight!
Don’t let the mites bite!”
But not our little lamb.
Reassuringly beautiful princess lamb heir keeps
like red wine.
She is only to be drank up from the
right cup--
a proper lamb.
Prince Lamb.
Whose worries consist of much different things than our lamb heir--
but for another ‘lore.

Our Prince Lamb dips, sips,
lips on lips
and she is awake!
Beautiful princess lamb knows exactly what to make
of all this?

The sheep herd rises,
and their “joyous” bleating reverberate
and penetrate
cold castle walls and break down the thorny cover.

And they lived happily
(and most originally)
ever after--
as sheep tend to do.

Live like an unappreciated stranger
in your own house.

Become the careless talk at family dinners
about the disappointing child
and pretend like it was all a joke
and slowly lose yourself with every
echo of drunken laughter.

Look into the eyes of someone you love
and realize how you can't feel anything
other than dread.

Become the lustful thoughts of someone
you can't love
and watch them cut themselves
into pieces for you, when
in the end
all you can say is a pitiful "thank you,
but I'd rather be a lonely wreck
drifting across the sea."

Ask yourself to be found
in a map with no direction
and with nothing but your
faulty heart to guide you away
from home.

Pretend like the music
disappears into the background
of the screenplay your life has become
and the screen slowly turning black.

Find the dread
in your own heartbeat.

Take off your clothes
and see how you sewed every misgiving
into your skin like a story you
never want forgotten
and marvel at how bad your stitching is-
can't even hold yourself together.

Hear the sound of the rain
and wonder why
the grey clouds of your heart
never go away with the same.

I do not want to be a perfume-tinged person of your past,
tainted with chemicals and compounds whose names I do not know

Neither do I want to be just another girl you used to love

I wish to be the scent of a thousand freshly picked flowers,
staining your mind with my vibrant colours

To you, I wish to be your sweetest serendipity - the most exquisite delicacy your lips have ever tasted

I wish to be to you, what you are to me.

Don't analyse me,
nor criticise me.
What you to see is what you get.
It matters not a jot to me how much you try to extricate.
I love the fact the world is trying,
*******, it's great.
I analyse myself regularly.
For once in a lifetime,
I actually know me.

The dark poet has a softer side,
It's hiding.
There it will stay,
it's really not playing today.
Sometimes it hides away.
Every so often, a visible ****** of a mischievous child at play.
Once in a blue moon a poetic stroppy mare, will kick up her heels and run through the sand pit,
Kicking at dust, and twirling her hair.
it's too short to be a mane at the moment,
But it sure as hell will grow again,
And I'll go dancing in the rain.
With or without my pen!
(C) Livvi