Love me slow and not with haste,
fill my heart with all your grace.
This fickle skin will wither away
with the changing seasons burning astray.
Wrapped up in the cloaks of darkness like a banshee
in the grey, hooded cloth;
I’m wishing on the ashes to remind me of the fire
that started the very flame in my bleeding veins.
Let the wail of the woman replace the moan of the wolf;
when love and hope fly away from my soul -
set me free with the callous winds,
live unbruised and promise me that you will sigh no more.
Then leave me on the ground to rot in this haze,
I will pass just like those yesterdays.
Worry not about the chill in my bones,
I would rather die in the frosty tomb than live
in this loaned body of scattered remains
rearranged by the crescent full moon.
Now, love me slow and not with haste
and fill my heart with all your grace.
It torments me.
Breaks my tattered heart in unrecognizable pieces
Tears my soul and sets each forgotten piece aflame.
This demon of a life;
this black shadow that won’t stop
running after me till I am nothing but dust,
till I am forced to end this ****** charade
with my defenseless hands.
I cannot live like this anymore
I cannot let it consume me and
I would readily trade my erratic self
with anyone who can give me a stable day
without these kaleidoscopic events.
I've been reading a lot of Sylvia Plath's work lately and all I can say is I find a deep connection with her.
Those “pretty” girls in floral skirts
Drink their wine and look at her with judgy eyes.
While she struts around town, smacking her lips & rolling joints,
They would never understand her;
Those “pretty” girls in floral skirts with their lackluster souls.
Their charms would never suffice.
"***** their elegance", she would say
and order a green fairy all the while swearing with the boys.
There was nothing pretty about her,
She was madness.
With her wild hair, stormy eyes, that faraway look and clever mind
She broke millions of hearts to get what she wanted
burst their bubbles with her heels alone
She gave up on love; she gave up on him to survive.
I've missed posting here and reading all your works :(
He asked me if I still write about him
what I couldn't tell him was,
I still write to him.
The letters just never get posted;
they're boxed up with my feelings
covered in frost
from his wintry soul
an empty room
I fill it
With my thoughts.
I get to thinking
I stand among many
I must win one every day
And the speeches change,
Like the wind.
Ain't that strange?
I guess that
Isn't even important:
It's the feeling,
And endless dreams.
It's an idealistic bubble.
Which I could
Live in forever,
But I'd never get anything done.
I get to looking
At my watch.
Only thirty minutes
How can that
I've already travelled
to the serene corners
of my desires.
I've dipped my
toes in lustful wants.
I've soared to
pinnacles of success,
In thirty minutes.
Then the perpetual
Smog of stagnant
Returns to me
In my Utopic chamber,
Bursting my bubble.
I hone back
to the moment,
and then I
put my pen
Down to paper.
There is a forest old as hillsides
tall, majestic, dappled shades
fall on ground beneath the silent
gnarled defenders of the glade.
There they stand in ancient splendour
many souls have passed their way
often used as welcome shelter
from the heat of summers day.
Sweet the air they breathe in chorus
our life's breath their lungs provide,
soaking up our daily poison
so that we may live and thrive.
You seas of men intent to clear them
citing progress, peddling greed
tearing roots from precious mooring
laying waste to nature's seed.
**** the beauty of a landscape
displace creatures for your need
rupture fragile ecosystems
scar the earth and watch it bleed.
To you I ask a simple question,
as I see the land bereaved.
What need has man of all this progress
when he can no longer breathe?
Your heartbeat mixed
created the perfect soundtrack
to our life.