“The Maiden”

Over her long legs,
Hips sway in a salacious manner,
As she strolls,
Past the gaggle of gentlemen,
Mustering the valor to face,
Their glances varying from curiosity,
To disgust,
Perhaps intrigue as these men,
Behold this exotic form of femininity.

An aura of mystery emanates,
From a tenderly warm demeanor,
Welcoming the viewers,
Who encounter this daughter of Aphrodite,
Capturing attention regardless of,
One’s alleged reasoning.

Intrepid knights receive the blessing,
To witness the hazel windows,
Into a maiden’s soul,
Deeply adorned with unbidden intensity,
Bestowing a small glimpse,
Into a beguiling beauty,
Mistaken as a cozening siren,
To an untrained eye.

Many chaps desire her,
Until revelations bereave these fellows,
Of security interwoven into the fabric,
Of society sewn with fine threads,
Uniting into an existence of conformity.

Some licentious men lunge,
At the maiden,
Gaping at what these fellows,
Observe as a tantalizing goddess,
Desiring to place lascivious hands,
Upon her soft skin.

Misguided stories allow life to be given,
To glaring spectators,
Spewing jeers of rancor,
Bemused as the unknown,
Deftly saunters near,
The valley of Oblivion.

Like the majestic Mona Lisa,
The maiden consists of subtle nuances,
Painting her tributes behind cryptic techniques,
Allowing one to inspect her façade,
Learning her similarities to the wind,
Feeling her spirit,
Rather than glancing upon visual proof.

The souls encountering the maiden,
Gain respite from strangling thoughts,
Placated by her light,
Revealing the contrasts,
The highlights to expose,
An extraordinary beauty,
Manifesting from genuine kindness,
Breaths of generosity,
And irrevocable love of all shades and tints,
Within a painter’s palate.

The heart yearns to live,
to breathe and drink of love,
to drown in the sea of passion,
to frolic in the fields of lust,
savoring the intoxicating aromas,
of a verdent pasture,
alluring and charming.

As I behold the wondrous plethora,
of vibrantly enchanting flowers,
my body dances in awe,
lost in a tantalizing trance,
viewing  the mundane rudiments of nature,
coalescing with the intricate details,
only the soul of an artist may witness.

Out of the corner of my eye,
a lush bush of roses,
red as my cheeks,
blushing among thoughts,
rushing over my form,
as my fingers caress the elder rose,
speaking to my spirit,
with sweet tenderness,
in comparison to the languid sounds,
of typical boisterous shrieks,
emitting from the urban machines,
lacking the genuine melody,
from my serenading rose.

Temptation promotes the courage,
to cup the flower with the palms,
of my hands,
as delightful smells,
tickle my nostrils,
allowing desire to control,
the reigns of the wild stallion,
raging inside this delicate tulip.

After vast contemplation,
from the internal ticking of my chambers,
I retrieve my dagger,
remaining above my thigh,
bound by the fabric of my garments,
slicing the stem of the elder rose,
away from its origin,
catching this marvelous gift of nature,
before the ground can taint,
the petals,
gorgeous yet precariously fragile.

Fear egenders my grasp,
upon this flower to grow fiercely,
giving the roots opportunity,
to manifest into the soil,
of my compassionate touch.
I close my eyes,
envisioning a young maiden,
pplucking the petals off of a rose,
an oscillation of phrases,
swaying from her lips,
"he loves me;
he loves me not".

My eyes trace the nuances,
of the beautiful maiden,
strangely familiar yet intriguingly exotic,
as her eyes flicker,
opening as realization sweeps,
over my being as an epiphany,
restores the memories,
remembering the maiden,
is actually myself,
awakening from the daydream.

My hands rise to share,
their first encounter with my face,
since reaching this new clarity,
as my mind seems to be in a daze,
noticing the scars oozing with crimson tears,
as ache spreads upon me,
while my reality embraces the pain,
bore as thorns,
***** my soft skin,
as I possess the rose,
in my clutched palms.

The elder rose represents all my desires,
unfortunately a mere illusion,
lovely at first glance,
yet neglect of the inevitable thorns,
shall leave my chambers hollow,
ceasing all the flames,
once burnining with intensity,
a threat to the flower,
unscathed  and full of terror.

Reluctantly, I let go of the rose,
tumbling to the ground,
as it bursts into ashes,
leaving my lens to focus,
on simplicities blinded,
by the yearnings of my hearth,
fueled by hopes of the elder rose,
leaving the glass of my heart,
full of wine; no longer half empty.

I march alone,
a flaming candle,
clasped within shaky hands,
as I travel the rocky path,
of the darkest hour,
searching for my lost companion.

The intensity of the winds,
blow with invisible ferocity,
attempting to extingiush,
my only source of light,
in the obscurity of this journey,
to find what is no longer mine.

The cluttered valley of stones,
sporadic and jagged,
engenders my feet to lose,
their sight to guide me,
as a shadow blinds them,
stumbling with the challenge,
of yet another obstacle.

Raindrops stain my skin,
tingling through my core,
like an icy kiss of death,
burning my torso.

An intangible blazing arrow,
splicing through the hearth,
of my being,
trembling with fatigue,
as I fall to my knees.

Despite the weakness,
of my quivering limbs,
I now stand upon two feet,
unwavering in the harsh atmosphere,
engulfing my petite frame,
as I glance in all directions,
to behold what I have lost.

Unfortunately I shall never reach,
the one I once yearned,
to travel the vast lands with,
as our destinies collide,
but betrayal leaps from a canister,
opened by the hands,
of a ***** friend choosing to become,
my nememsis,
as a vile murky sludge bursts out,
of the jar.

Putrid animosity creeps out,
spreading upon my trusting soul,
like the black plague,
relentless with thorns of corruption,
leaving me to make no other choice.

The toxic Substance,
leaves me with a distaste,
burdened at the loss,
of what I seek;
Nausea sweeps across my bridge,
of loyalty,
wishing abandonment,
is not the lyrics,
I must sing to remain,
in the palms of safety.

Loooking behind me is not an option,
fleeing to an unexpected direction,
a turn resulting in a shift,
of purpose in my investigation,
of life beyond the rudiments,
I thought to be the focus,
guiding me.

Feelings of Isolation,
begin to blossom,
until I realize my possession,
of the lit candle,
my fingers cling to,
restoring balance.

As I lift my gaze,
away from the  dancling flames,
of fire,
I feel the desire,
to trust my intuition,
always drifting through,
the entirety of my chimerical mind.

Instincts take over me,
driving meto paint,
the world carrying the fruits,
of a visually compelling existence,
as I encounter the joys,
of a voice entertaining my ears,
the fiery memories,
emblazoning a scuplture,
moving me to create new stories,
sniffing the tantalizing aroma,
of Wild roses,
conjuring a persona,
bravely foolish enough to chance,
the tide Swirling,
with a sea of opportunities.

In the breath,
of Winter’s first kiss,
my mind freezes,
racing with thoughts,
as the wind caresses,
my cheeks,
coloring them,
in a shade of pink.

A night of preparation,
for this worker bee,
attempting to preserve,
my miniscule piece,
of a gargantuan world.

In the beauty,
of the night,
I transform,
from a worker bee,
into a queen,
unconventional,
yet lovely adorned,
in originality.
I catch your gaze,
dark and mysterious,
as I enter into the room,
trying to hide my longing,
for the splendor,
of your handsome figure,
intriguing my interest.

I am fond,
of your dark attire,
your lean,
yet rough exterior,
that moves in the form,
of a gentleman.


A stranger with a fedora,
draped upon his head,
leaving my eyes to glance,
down to his eyes,
lingering upon me,
as though only I exist,
in the vividly embellished ballroom.

Fear paralyzes us,
leaving neither you nor I,
to move forward,
to dance,
into the ambiguity,
of emotions,
confessing the attraction,
compelling us to submit,
to the arrow of Aphrodite,
thrusting us to surrender,
to the yearning of our hearts,
to express adoration,
for each other.

I place a bead,
from the necklace,
dangling upon my neck,
into your hand,
allowing you to remember me,
hoping you would return,
after this enchanting encounter.

I observe your hesitance,
in response as you contemplate,
praying your aspiration,
corresponds to my wishes,
fighting my temptations.

I stand in silence,
reflecting upon your,
captivating charisma,
as you body moves,
elegant in manner,
to be closer to mine,
embracing me,
in a modest act of simplicity,
I shall never relinquish,
from my memory.

Ignorance is bliss,
really,
more like Stupidity.
an aspect,
benefiting a person,
like cold sore,
irritating,
an annoyance,
peevish to your life.

Face it, honey,
you’re as fake,
as your personality.
You’re plastic,
I could melt you,
if I truly desired,
setting a lighted match,
to your artificial body.

Please, take some advice,
lay off the make-up,
you look like a clown,
maybe a *******.
Tanning is acceptable,
but looking dark orange,
is outrageous.
There is no need to look,
like you just rolled in bag of Doritos,
that’s Snooki’s Job.

There is more to life,
besides appearances,
waking up like P. Diddy,
sweet heart, don’t like be Kesha,
it’s ******.
Partying is enjoyable,
but not necessary every night,
consisting of drinking,
frat boys, jocks, pretty boys,
saying “oh my god”,
or “I broke a nail”,
and precarious ***.

I know you were raised with Barbies,
but you don’t have to be one.
Barbie is a piece of plastic,
containing no originality,
with an unfeasible body,
and isn’t real,
much like yourself.
Stop with the act,
no one wants to be,
around a person,
who is often intoxicated,
narcissistic,
and a ditzy *****.

You can be a girly girl,
but be genuine,
stop being a follower,
if everyone jumps off a bridge,
then you’ll be splattered,
upon the ground with them,
no use to anyone.

My words are probably useless,
going right through the holes,
of yours ears,
attached to the plastic head of yours.

Anyways, I tried,
as excruciating as it was,
to reach out to you,
who are living this life,
of alleged greatness,
more like a travesty,
in my eyes.

Hopefully, you’ll change,
wake up from this social stupor,
become yourself,
regain your individuality,
and cease to be,
a Barbie doll.

“The Demon’s Daughter”

Words of malice reverberate inside me,
Paralyzed by fear manifesting within,
My soul for twenty years,
Of anguish,
Inevitable tears depleting,
All remnants of bliss,
From my life.

My Fingers grip onto the edge,
Of the steep mountain,
That has become my existence,
Leaving me with the decision,
To climb up the cliff to face,
The demon of my past,
Or to let go,
Falling into the unknown.

Memories reveal the demon,
I was born to as his child,
Exposing an unfeasible escape,
When the skeleton hiding,
Within the closet is the man,
I am forced to call my father.

Fear returns to my mind,
Begging for me to stay,
With my fingers clinging,
To the mountain-side,
Where I am allegedly safe.
I refuse to fall back into,
The claws of the demon,
Yet afraid of falling,
Into the black hole of uncertainty,
Letting go of all I have ever known.

Fear is the rope,
Dangling around my neck;
I can release my grip upon the rope,
Or allow it to stifle my breath.
Instead I use the rope to find,
A way inside my soul,
To retrieve the courage,
That could not be unleashed,
Without the nemesis of fear.

Courage told me to fall;
Remaining upon the cliff,
Or returning to the demon,
Shall only result in my destruction.
If I could not fall,
Death was my alternative,
Whether or not this path,
Is the one I wish to choose.
Without the ability to let go,
Of the demon’s grasp on my body,
I shall never be reprieved,
Of his controlling restraints.

I glance up at Daddy standing,
On the mountain top smiling,
As my body lets gravity,
Take its course as I allow,
My eyes to close.
Any fate is better than,
Remaining on the edge,
Or returning to living Hell,
Where the demon,
My father,
Kept my battered spirit,
Deep inside his locked vault.


My eyelids flutter open,
Viewing a mirror directly in front of me,
As I behold the image,
Discovering the hues of yellow,
And purple coloring the upper part,
Of my right cheek bone,
Created by the impact,
Of my father’s wicked hand,
Striking my face.

The memories flash over me,
As I experience blows to the chest,
And back as I’m pinned,
Against the wall,
Confining me to his rage,
Claws thrashing upon,
My fragile body.

I cringe in horror,
Bracing myself for the next blow,
Until the Angel provides me,
With respite as her wings shield me,
From her infuriated husband.  

To my left is a path less traveled,
Leading me to a silver fountain,
Elegantly embellished with the skills,
Of a brilliant Sculptor,
Enticing the artist in me,
A trait in me that Daddy,
Often deems as useless.

The reality is my birth,
Engenders me to be,
Of his blood,
Yet in his eyes,
He witnesses the Pitiful excuse,
For a son,
Nothing but a disgrace to his legacy,
Not a daughter of the demon.

Finally I behold the cloak of clarity,
Adorning myself in the garment,
Realizing I have the right,
To neglect this bloodline,
Drinking of the water,
Sparkling in the fountain behind me.

I make my own choice,
The only one I have to bestow me,
With content I desperately need,
The relief of a shattered mirror,
No longer viewing the illusion,
The demon desired me to be!

A cupped palm delivers holy water,
From the silver fountain,
To my open lips,
Drifting down my throat,
Cleansing my blood of impurities,
From the demon.
My Journey was now my own,
Free of the reigns,
The demon desires to keep upon me,
In attempt to fill his own void.

I may be the daughter of a demon,
Yet this new freedom gives me,
The strength to not allow,
That fact to define me,
Producing my own definition,
My identity and hopes,
For the tiara of thorns,
Heavily draped upon my head.

Behind every book is a story,
parts may be a mystery,some pieces of the plot,
being evident at first glance,
yet many aspects are unwritten,
waiting for the pen to caress,
the paper as creativity,
escapes from the mind,
forming words flowing through,
the hand of the creator.

Each Book is original,
an expressive reflection of the author,
at first sight may appear,
as simply mundane;
perhaps the decision to explore,
the pages within a cover,
rustic in appearance,
concealing an extraordinary tale,
is an idea to ponder.

A turn of a Page,
reveals intricate  details,
depicting the facade,
blocking the view of true character,
the quirks of each line,
pullng your conscious thoughts,
into an enthralling journey.

Each Sentence units,
to become a paragraph,
of another world or being,
to discover as one obtains,
the vision of another.

Each paragraph morphing into imagery,
as one is enveloped by imagination;
others consumed by reality,
captured in elegance,
or explained through alluring charm,
one yearns to trek through,
crossing into beauty of a life,
unfamilairly touching the soul,
with an experience of an inevitable territory,
contained within the touch of humanity,
shared with one through,
the reading the passions of one's mind.

A sensation,
fullfilling one's heart,
with immense pleasure,
and extreme satisfaction.
as one dances with the spirit,
of a written legend.