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Miss Grim Nov 2018
She could never decipher the intentions behind the feeling. Fragile little fleeting emotions, not to be trusted. For she loved with a hesitation that it would one day be gone. But was love even love at all? Did she only gaze up in wonder at the moon because of the distance between? Loving something that would be forever out of reach in fear it just might love her back.
Miss Grim Oct 2018
I battle these urges as long as I can
But self control has always been an adversary
There’s something there that pulls me in
Just when the light is approaching the end of the tunnel, a sirens song lures me back to the depths of darkness
It consumes me.
I muster up every shred of my will but it’s no use, it’s only a matter of time before the monster within grows a resistance to my futile fight.
Like a marionette tangled in its own strings...I just want to know how it feels to dance with someone once more.
Miss Grim Oct 2018
I cannot recall when it happened,
Was it a week, a month, a day?
All that remains is silence now
since the words, they went away.
They used to flow like waves
Sailing ships across my mind
But it appears the breeze was lost
Somewhere and now I’m in a bind.
Was it a who? A what? A where? A why?
Is it truly lost for good?
I’ve searched near and far for it
And I’ve done the best I could
Now, I sit here in the graveyard
Of all the prose I’ve wrote before
Reading every old tomb stone
Just to feel alive once more.
I plead for them to return to me
But my voice just echoes on
I would’ve said I loved you so,
If I knew that you’d be gone.
Miss Grim Jul 2018
I’ve been resisting the current for some time now as if I’m determined to sink instead of learning how to float. I know how I feel but I’m terrified of actually feeling at all. I’m tired of being dragged around the same whirlpool yet what the **** lies out yonder? What a ******* irony because I’ve been drowning in the sea of schnapps for years. It’s all clear yet the weight pulls me under. Do I inhale the liquid or fight to the surface? Maybe drowning isn’t the most peaceful way to die after all as I choke for life once more.
Miss Grim Jun 2018
A verdict was reached today. A jury of my peers depicted my character flaws and the judgement ruled I am an awful human being. The defense tried to argue the validity of my consistency towards psychosis but the commonwealth didn’t buy it. Now I’m left here, awaiting my sentence.... as if I wasn’t already serving it. When time is a mere construct that passes awfully slow. What is to make of concrete walls when I’ve been trapped within the square my entire existence? A little more time. A few more dreadful stares. As if any of it really matters at all? Just give me my ball to bounce against the walls of this construct until my time is over. Satisfaction is a mere state of mind and perhaps if I get the angle just right it will catapult back in my face and end it all for good.
Miss Grim Jun 2018
Your memory hangs on the wall of my mind like a prized work of art. In those moments, when lost in a day dreaming daze, I drift through the halls of my gallery and find you there. Each emotion painting a different perspective of your canvas in constant flux, an abstract view that changes with the phases of the moon. But I can’t look away. The boldness of the hue leaving me in awe, yet the blood streaks down from my bleeding heart, reminiscent of the agony of the wound that’s still open. I lock it in the room in the corner of my thoughts, like a *******, a glutton for the pain that the sight of you brings. I can’t bring myself to take it down, despite the pleas from my tired soul. I cling to that moment captured in time, in foolish hope that one day you will return. Return to acknowledge all the love, pain, and destruction that created these masterpieces in my collection. If only you could see the passion in every brush stroke. The subtle way the pigment whispers the truth of my intentions. Maybe then, you too will be in awe. Maybe then, you’d want to stay.
Miss Grim May 2018
A tortured artist’s muse, an abstract concept that could never truly be defined. Though, they tried. Aspiring Picasso’s came like passerby’s, setting up their easels, trying to capture the essence of a moment. An ever changing scenery in constant flux. A single clip of time, forever evading the masterpiece. There was only ever a beginning, as frustrations with the unrelenting storm tore the portrait to the ground with each passing breeze. They failed to see the beauty in starting each day with a blank canvas, always determined to brush every stroke perfectly into place before the sun set. The love for the view was lost, so desperate to embody it completely they forget to appreciate it entirely, as layers of color paint a picture of indifference. But tell me Pablo, would you label the bird as callous for wanting to leave the branch...or would you gaze with the all the wonder of life watching it flap its wings?
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