My hand's freezing  
and out of dried blue veins
and long violet veins in my slender wrists,

My iris' whitening as snow as shaping  a diamond on its own,
Yet my heart's still beating its dried pains that wouldst heal anymore,

Becease someday I'll die,
my divine Lord,
beyond the summer vivid's smokes turned into winter.

Beyond an angel crying beautifully on my grave.
When I pass away,
put an angel on my grave,
Lest the vines overflow,
coverin' my headstone.

Place me somewhere in the night-nyx with silent air  
and glowy cold smokes,
Surrounded by hazel trees,
to my corpse can slowly wither away

As if I once was a faded memory,  Someday, thou can visit me on my grave with a smile peacefully without saying goodbye.

— candychristian, 1968

my little pretty woman,
call'd a loser by old'r men & women—
But in a precious heart,
she wonderfully stands.

꩜ ݁₊ ⊹ .𓃠 ݁˖ .❨

Behind the gold wings, her emotional voice sings;
'What a woman I could be, If they'd just let my soul be free.

In fire and water, is for my eternally patience,
Thought I'm deemed ugly, my quill begs to create beauty.

D-don't.. w-wanted
t-to be... p-perpect!
Wanted to be.. have
simple princess traits,
Nor a ******* witch...
Wanted to..be..a princess..
of people's hearts..'

&,
she saw an ancient chair with her veiny hands,
spreading her face, as she breathes so deep,

&,
By an acrid pain,
doth throwback;

O’ my little pretty woman, as I see thine eyes so hard,
With thy tears doth marks as sounds a celestial star,

&,
In the arm of
the vintage wall, sparks;

No colors, no grey arc, your beauty never scared—
Never ever scared me, thou art a sacred heart,

&,
Watching you
cry is an art.

— candychristian, 1968