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 Jul 2015 Liis Belle
Erica
Daddy, tell me why you smoke.
Do you like your future served in black?
Dead lungs and your body in a sack?
Your family crying and me in the back?

Daddy, tell me why you smoke.
Why are you letting toxic flow through your veins?
Do you like to grow old and be in pain?
You know you're walking down the devil's lane.

Daddy, tell me why you smoke.
I'm your little girl, do you even care?
Your poisonous smoke is all over the air.
Don't give me more burden than I can bear.

Daddy, tell me why you smoke.
Don't you know, don't you see what you're doing?
The time we're supposed to have is only fading.
Do you think a bright future isn't worth pursuing?

Daddy, tell me why you smoke.
Why are you killing yourself and dragging me along?
They say you're addicted, please prove them wrong.
I know you can do it, I know you are strong.

Daddy, tell me why you smoke?
I wish for one thing, and one thing only.
Tell me you'll quit and erase my worry.
And promise me forever I won't lose my daddy.
 Jun 2015 Liis Belle
Ryan James
From the softness of her wrist
Bleeds vibrant shades of red
But all she sees is black and white
A beating heart but dead
As tears cascade across her cheek
From kaleidoscopic eyes
Feels not but the paralysis
Sees only greyer skies
So blind to her own beauty
She breathes her final breath
Gone are the watercolours
Now shadowed by her death
 Jun 2015 Liis Belle
Old Soul
As one doorway in life opens
It seems that another door has to be closed,
I tried for a while to balance it out
But I know all too well how this part goes.

I will spend more time at work
Less and less time at home,
Days without talking to you
I am now all on my own.

The hardest part is leaving you
But I have to do this alone,
I need to do something good for myself
No more talks on the phone.

But they say home is where your heart is
And I can not picture you anywhere else,
But here next to me
Helping me out.

I love you to pieces
You were where my mind went,
Until my promotion
Now my time is spent.

I am so lost on what to do
To stay or to leave,
All I know is one thing
I need to focus on me.
All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken,

The crownless again shall be king.
 Jun 2015 Liis Belle
epictails
Whatever did Sylvia Plath
and Anne Sexton
have in common?

—two great minds
of the literary canon
who drove themselves
to the proverbial crimson

One gassed herself
like a condemned Jew
the other stayed in her car
letting the breathlessness brew
A melody of the swans that
not even Beethoven
could undo

What could have been
in their poetry
that consumed them in
the deepest misery
—like one of a dark soliloquy
or a dying plea?
I've recently become interested in the life of Sylvia Plath. One person told me a poem of mine reminded him of Sylvia Plath's. When I looked her up I learned of her and several other poets ending their lives in the most miserable manner. In fact, I found a list of 100 plus great poets and writers who did it. Even Ernest Hemingway shot himself with his beloved shotgun, to my surprise. A considerable number of them were manic-depressives, sad to say.

Plath's main style of poetry is confessional poetry, some sort of subtype of lyric poetry, I guess. In fact, her and Anne Sexton (who also killed herself together with John Berryman) popularized the style. This is a far-fetched idea but I think their poetry is part of what made them commit suicide. Confessional poetry focuses on the poet's psyche, individuality and even their very own demons. They sure had some dark issues but couple that with writing that leaves anyone bare, open and vulnerable to personal pain and depression could very well drive some people to death. I just realized while reading their stories and even their accomplishments how writing could get very dark. It's such a risky career if not wedged in the right direction. I always thought it would all be rainbows and fields of daisies. But then it goes deeper than that.

And that concludes my little blog entry and research haha. To be honest, confessional poetry is my favorite and most of my poems are of that style. I believe it's so pure and raw but is also the most tasking to write.
I remember the flowers you wore in your hair
when you were my bride at nineteen.
Their bright colors kept all the dark clouds at bay
Or at least so it seemed then to me.

And their fragrance so rare drove some boys to despair
on the day that you married with me.
Your sweet song of youth left no need for a proof
Of how happy together we’d be.

I remember the flowers you held in your hands
On our tenth anniversary day;
Their bright colors kept all the dark clouds at bay
Or at least so it seemed then to me.

And their fragrance so rare drove some men to despair
to think that your hand wasn’t free.
The red blush of your lips as you turned for a kiss
Said no man was more happy than me.

I remember the rosary they placed in your hands
On the day that Death took you, I keened.
It seemed but a moment since you were my bride
And I was a groom of nineteen

All the flowers so rare that they piled on you bier
Both my sisters said they were lovely
I scarcely saw colors with eyes filled with tears
And the blooms held no fragrance for me.

I tend now the flowers that grow by your stone
Their fragrance reminds me of you.
I long for the day the Lord calls me away
And I’ll be reunited with you
Writen as a song set to an old Irish tune
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