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Jun 2018 · 196
Sonnet #1
Mirlotta Jun 2018
Let me write you a sonnet from the mind-
Like sky and sea, I've broken from the soul.
I want to be with you, unbroken bind:
I want to be with you before time's toll.
And when sun sets and night unfurls her gown
We'll count the stars that linger til the morn
And know they'll never, dying, sink full down
We'll sink into embrace as day is formed.
Whilst time is slow and life is painful short,
We must, emboldened, stop time on its way,
And let this lover's summer be as ought
My wild eyes, your lips, we graceful fae.
Thus when you slip half-gone into my bed
Let us not sleep but make soft love instead.
my first attempt at a Shakespearean sonnet lol
Feb 2018 · 487
lucifer in moscow
Mirlotta Feb 2018
I never thought that Lucifer would be so pretty.
He has your hands, darling- pink and white:
like roses in Russia, or else a scab that hasn't quite healed.
His hair is hot as hell, which is unsurprising, honestly.
He shuffles through the Moscow streets with reality
peeled away from his eyelids. I don't think he sees me at all
and yet I feel him, cold as the ice on which we tread towards each other. I wonder if he closed his eyes when he fell from heaven.

You did, I know. You hate heights, or perhaps just the falling.
Maybe that's why the love-thing never worked out.
the story behind this one is the fact I can recognise my ex just from her hands. how can HANDS inspire so much emotion???? wow
Feb 2018 · 564
on Kafka and love
Mirlotta Feb 2018
What was Kafka thinking? Felice Bauer-
blonde, in a homely sort of way- couldn't
think of him the same way after. He'd asked
her that question (hidden behind his obsession
with his own self-hatred, his surety that she hated him too).
Could you- might you- do you think you'd be able to bear it-
M a r r y i n g  m e?
History tells us they didn't tie the knot.
Kafka, probably, didn't mind a lot.
Franz Kafka: that hopeless man,
couldn't look in the mirror without shying from his own reflection.
Kafka, who'd balk at the slightest hint of romantic attention.
More story than man, really. Had more eloquence in his
smallest finger than ever came out of his mouth.

No wonder Felice had her doubts.
Feb 2018 · 480
france
Mirlotta Feb 2018
We're standing in the middle of the forest
and there's no one around.
Your hand is in mine but your

skin is as cold as your eyes.
A bird flies aimless above us-
who is more trapped? you ask.

I don't reply, but my heart shakes.
I feel dead as the snow, curling down
like kinks in an old man's hair.

Everything is white, as though God
took his paintbrush and white-washed
all the emotion away.

I'm scared, though I don't show it.
I stumble. We move through it.
Your hand is in mine.
May 2016 · 680
oblivion
Mirlotta May 2016
Once upon a time
there was, of course,
the universe
and all the thousands of stars that scraped against its sky like knives
and there were the planets that brooded under the canopy of oblivion
as if they'd each realised the pointlessness
to dancing with only their own animosity

and one of these planets was green and blue,
like acne against the hate-blackened expanse of forever.
And this planet, it called itself the world.

And in that world, once upon a time, there was a girl.

And this girl?
She thought in explosions.

Her eyes would close
and the grey coloured streets of her life
and her future would merge into one-
into her own personal nirvana,
the same colour futility as her flesh
and the girl would kneel down at dignity's bare feet
and she would name herself the champion of determination
as she fought for all of those who could not fight
and listened to the taste of foreign words on British tongues
and didn't quite collect the delicacy.

Her lashes would beat back the barbed-wire smiles of reality
and the inevitable exile of her past,
and against the white-washed, mandatory straight-line walls she'd willingly built her brain up to mimic,
the girl would sit and stop
and stop
and stop
and stop forcing herself into place
like a jigsaw puzzle piece that didn't quite fit-
and instead, she thought.

And her thoughts were explosions.

Her heart would empty itself
into her head
in the backseat of infinity's own 4 wheel drive,
and the boot would be filled with books that she'd read long ago,
(and then forgotten)
and the steering wheel would be turned only by metaphor,
or by the sort of similes that lose themselves
in a darkened room
to the words that grin
with shark-toothed ferocity into kisses.

When the girl's eyes were closed,
and her breathing was heavy
and locked away inside her ribs of glass
and her cage of self-inflicted agony,

the tears scrawled their way across her face
like blood that’s past it’s sell-by date-

and it was only when her eyes were closed that she understood that even when her eyes were open, they were not.

Even when she was awake, she was not awake.

The honeyed sunrise yawned its way across the horizon
like dreams, or maybe marker pen,
as if the sun was tired of telling the same bedtime stories to the moonlight that it always has-
and the girl was tired of
painting her personality the florid colours
that faded to a monochrome ice that burned,
and tired of hiding behind
some great façade of deprivation
that she did not feel
but yet the world still sent her the score to sing along to.

The girl was tired of this,
but still
she did not speak the explosions in her head

because out loud,
for real,
everyone knows that it doesn’t do to speak in explosions.

And the girl wished

that she could bombard the world
with all her hatred
and all her hope,
and she wished that she did not have to strip
the strafes of passion for the smallest things
away from her soul
like badly chosen wallpaper.

In this girl’s head, at least, her thoughts were explosions.

And yet,

she wanted to speak to raze the world
and shatter the stars

back into the oblivion that they came from.
Dec 2015 · 707
This is the End
Mirlotta Dec 2015
This is the end.
Can you see it?
Count to ten.
12345678910
Did the numbers blur together?
Good; that's good.
They're meant to be like that-
like each number is the same as the last one.
It's the same way that angels look down on the earth
and all us humans look just about as unique, and special, and completely individual
as dust or ants do to us.
We're 7 billion tiny insignificances.

This is the end.
Have I said that before?
Look at me.
Look at me.
You can't, right?
These are just words.
You can't see me through the words,
but it's just the same when you look at your sister
or your best friend from primary school or
the bin man with the funny moustache that reminds you of your grandfather's ashes.
You think you're seeing them, but you're not.
All you do is look.

This is the end.
Is this getting too repetitive?
Take deep breaths.
Inoutinout.
Feel that tickling against the back of your throat?
That's called regret.
You're puffing yours out and huffing everyone else's in-
Like the Big Bad Wolf except this is just the
Big Bad Pain that humanity is nursing
because babies have just been born
and old ladies always wanted to travel to the moon and never did.
Now there's not going to even be a moon to want to go to.

This is the end.
Can you hear me?
It's loud out here,
too many explosions.
Remember when no one on earth worried about explosions?
We'd bomb half the world and that would be that.
War about as commonplace as
milk or bread in supermarkets,
you mourn that you're never going to
get the chance to see world peace or send
that money you were going to give the refugees.
You can't have world peace without a world, after all.

This is the end.
Can you feel how it burns?
It's like you're a Viking warlord or a witch on a pyre.
What's your opinion on Viking warlords?
It's funny because you always used to have something to say about everything that didn't concern you, but you're opening and closing your mouth without a word about Viking warlords popping out.
Close your eyes before you claw them shut.
Take deep breaths.
Inoutinout.
Count to ten.
123456789

Oops. Too late.
This is the end of the end.
Dec 2015 · 2.4k
Love, now.
Mirlotta Dec 2015
Love, now, is considered 'cute'.
That's all there is to it.

It's not looking up at the stars and
wishing for that same blazing fire
inside yourself.

It isn't those long, after-dark
conversations we had when
the constellations sang us melodies
in Ursa Major and Ursa Minor until
we remembered that I could play the piano
and you were alright on the recorder
and we joined in.

Sometimes, you'd stroke your fingers
through my hair, and my tears would
stroke the piano keys at the beautiful
audacity of your perfection.

Our shadows would intertwine,
flecked with tiny shards of the moonlight
and its spittle,
and it would seem to us that all
the great expanses and extravagances
of our universe had aligned to give us
this moment.

I'm told that wasn't love either.
No. Love is cute.

Love, according to the here and now,
is not what Shakespeare promised me
it would be.

It is not speaking the sort of words
that have stretched from the dawn of
the dawn of time and have tangled and
coiled and wrapped us together
like words are ribbons and we're
a human maypole.

It isn't seeing the sun and thinking
of the way your eyes lit up when
you first read my poetry.

After, you'd rise from where you sat
to the right of me, the east
and whisper to me how
lucky you were, how lucky we were
to be here, in this world, together.

Our hands would clasp, my small fingers
warmed by the inexplicably intrinsic
sense of togetherness.
Of you. Of me.

The two words blended like
we were only colours and this
world our painted grey palette.

None of it mattered.
None of it mattered, because none of it was love.
'Love', according to the modern mind, is simply
Cute.

We were boiled down,
like we'd been pushed into a pan and
they couldn't understand why we wouldn't fit
even once they'd chopped us up.

Everything - because wasn't love everything? -
was just plagiarised love letters scribbled on the
dog-eared corners of textbooks.

And though to us we were Nut and Geb,
Gaia and Ouranos,
Romeo and Juliet, if Romeo had
had your freckles and Juliet had
had my temper and they'd had
love built on the transcendence
of time instead of party crashing.

Except, to everyone else in the here and now,
we weren't. We weren't *******
Nut and Geb.
We were cute.

Somehow, love seems to equate to
you carrying my books around for me
like you don't  have enough of your own to drag.

Love is suits and cravats and
prom dresses with stick on sparkles
because the night sky is no longer enough.

Love is kisses on the end of text messages
to replace the kisses in real life,
and pink and red heart emoticons to
pretend that we all still have hearts that are capable of
anything more than 'cute'.

And when I close my eyes and try to remember that it was real,
what we had, remember that it was the kind of untarnished love that
I could look in and see our reflection,
it's not your voice that I hear, but the words of 'love' in the here and now.

'You two are so cute together!'
'I wish I could have a relationship like yours. It's adorable.'
Quaint. Charming. Darling.
Cute.

Love, now, is considered 'cute'.
Even when it's not.

More than a myth than Nut and Geb ever were.

Even when it's real.
Especially when it's real.

That's all there is to it.
Mirlotta Oct 2015
a 'modern' school building
with 'modern' ideas
(and 95% of the pregnant
and the drop-outs and the
suicidal and the desperate
pushed under the
carpet instead of
given help)

a balanced curriculum
everything your child
needs
(except love and affection
and life skills and how
to treat other people
without behaving like
a *******)

there's dozens of school clubs
the gospel choir's won
awards
(though you'll hear more of a
holy chorus of '*****' from the lips of the
******* goddamners)

and our school reputation is
propped up on results
(but exams mean nothing
because when you're dead
who's going to care how
much ink you scrawled in
just the right patterns on
your blank sheet of paper?)

all students are valued
equally, of course
(but definitely not by
the other students because
who wants to see that art
freak's drawings on Instagram
when he didn't even get invited
to that last big
party?)

all boys and girls are given
equal opportunity
(except when a bench needs
lifting, or they're transgender)

and our school uniform dress
code applies to everyone
(but if you're a guy and your
forearms are distracting someone
don't worry, you won't be asked
to cover them up)

all bullying is dealt with
swiftly and without prejudice
(unless the kid being bullied is
black or muslim because then
for some reason it's a whole
different story)

and all subjects here are treated
with equal merit and available
to everyone
(but if you're taking woodwork
then you're thick, or drama then you're
queer)

speaking of equality, the school's an
lgbt+ safe zone
(but don't even think about
being openly into the same ***
or someone's going to smash
your face in)

because we're a 'modern' school
with 'modern' ideas
(but if someone tries to tell you otherwise
then they're telling the
truth
and it's worth being friends with
them)
Oct 2015 · 242
i
Mirlotta Oct 2015
i
i is just one letter
but it's also fifteen years of
self-doubt
and forcing confidence into
the veins at
the very core of the word
and introducing myself
into a world of
******* goddamners
who think that 'societal anxiety'
is like a fear of socialists or something
and don't really care anyway
and take my
'hello, i am not afraid'
for granted
because
what kind of idiot
would ever be afraid of
a letter like
i
May 2015 · 675
Winter
Mirlotta May 2015
***** snow on the sidewalk
like someone's old dandruff
and cups of hot chocolate
like murky brown eyes.
Bright knitted jumpers
like over-bright smiles
and fairy-light nooses
like striped knotted ties.
Sleigh bells and reindeer
like slaves' chains a-clanking
and gaily wrapped presents
our cling film wrapped hearts.
Street lamps; a search light -
cars are our convicts
and saccharine kisses
like sour apple tarts.
May 2015 · 1.1k
The Clock Maker
Mirlotta May 2015
Standing in the shadows is a lonely clock that's painted red
Made from blood and carved from bone - a clockwork core that's cold like lead.
A convoluted clockmaker sits wizened by its feet
He sits and thinks, nods and knows, the clock will not its maker meet.
He tells himself he's but an ember, tells his clock it will tick on
Wrapped in black like black's in fashion, with no heart save pendulum.
He knows the clock is icy fire, if he, the maker, is its spark
He looks upon his ticking beast and knows his hand has made its mark.
He lets his clock keep ticking, never stopping, won't tell why,
And its maker curls up on the floor; his final breaths are whimsic sighs.
His lonely clock keeps ticking, ticking, ticking - ticking, ticking still,
Standing regal in the shadowed room, but bending to its maker's will.
May 2015 · 372
15w
Mirlotta May 2015
15w
It's funny 'cause in every kind of situation
I'm always somehow second best, that's all.
Apr 2015 · 207
Hey
Mirlotta Apr 2015
Hey
I don't have time to shape/define this poetry
so take it as it is and know that one day
you'll be pushed into the empty hole
that's not quite hell and more than loneliness
and I won't be sending you postcards because
for some reason yours never found me -
or maybe you just didn't send them.
Mirlotta Apr 2015
my thoughts are a poison
arsenic or cyanide
it's all the same to me
but they elaborate
their trade of ****
and suffocate or
twist my will or
twist their knife
into my skull
and laugh and wait and watch and see
that poison trickles out of me -
instead of blood
as well it should
thick toxin lies upon the ground
and mutters at the shameful sound
of voices in my mind becoming words
that shriek and spurn and spout
the horrors of my head in
croaking voice that's straining at the knees
i'm crying -
help me
help me
please
Mar 2015 · 592
Set Sail
Mirlotta Mar 2015
If there's a land that's called tomorrow
and it lies across the sea,
I'd like to find a boat to borrow-
I can bring you there with me.
For everyone who's struggling to find their tomorrow. :)
Feb 2015 · 755
Hey there, woah there
Mirlotta Feb 2015
Hey there, woah there
well I'd just like to
take this fine opportunity
to tell you that I assure you,
my good sir, that I don't
give one-eighth of a
one-hundredth of a
flying ****.
Feb 2015 · 3.3k
Ode to the Fangirls
Mirlotta Feb 2015
I'd love
love love
to wish
you a
happy valentine's
day
but I
hate
hate hate
the fact
you're
fictional
What the hell even is this title?! X)
Feb 2015 · 1.2k
The Paper Masquerade
Mirlotta Feb 2015
Paper faces on display behind their
crumbling, flaking paper masks.
Bodies carved from fragile glass
about to shatter as they dip and dance.
Longing for a false romance
to warm and burn their paper hearts.
Kisses underneath the stars;
the fraying smoke from their cigars.
Feb 2015 · 357
[]
Mirlotta Feb 2015
[]
Every day you take a stroll at 6pm inside my brain
stomping on all my emotions and not looking where you're going.
Feb 2015 · 569
Emotion in the Modern Era
Mirlotta Feb 2015
Love doesn't mean anything anymore.
Love is a word that pre-pubescent adolescents
throw away on their very first kiss.
They take a crush, and they call it love, and no one
reprimands them or scolds them because no one
can see that there is any difference any more between
love and the half-hearted pretence at love -
the newfound infatuation with the very idea of
being enraptured by the very first person seeming
worthy enough to be enraptured by.

And hate. Hate means nothing either.
Hate is the feeling little children scream at their parents
when they couldn't wear a leotard to school in December.
Hate is when people take a notion,
a preconception, a misconception of what an
emotion should feel like and they take the worst
feeling they are feeling and they label it hate
and they proclaim hate on their 'haters' and
they forget that they are 'haters' themselves when
they laugh at the real hate they dole people out on dinner plates.

Jealousy? Jealousy has been eclipsed.
Jealousy has been eclipsed by the lack-lustre attempt
at jealousy that ten-year old girls have for their friends.
Jealousy now is what people feel when they
realise that they don't have enough money, or fame,
or friends to truly feel good about themselves even though
these things are entirely human constructions
and seeing as no one on this planet has yet to do a
**** to affect the universe anyway, the universe should be
jealous of us for having such care-free lives.

Some people claim they feel rage, but anger's dead.
Rage is the thing to pretend to feel when the
world realises it doesn't revolve around anyone and
actually revolves around the sun.
Rage is like a rushing tidal wave of the opposite
of melting sunsets eating the horizon and generally
it's a lot less pretty unless you see a macabre
sort of beauty in war and politics and education because
education is the big thing we should really be angry about
because wouldn't true ignorance be bliss?
Feb 2015 · 284
regrets ii
Mirlotta Feb 2015
I love the way you make me hate you.
I hate the foolish way it makes me love you.
Feb 2015 · 305
prospect
Mirlotta Feb 2015
read the words beneath my moving lips like reading is the art it is
talk until your voice falls silent like it's music, like the song it is
spread my soul out on the table and devour it like the book it is
let your coffee scented kisses stain the pages red with romance
Feb 2015 · 627
Love Letters
Mirlotta Feb 2015
I'm writing love letters to the dead
not because you're dead but
because I'm never going to see you again
and that's as good as dead
I guess
I suppose
I sort of
kind of
hope.
Feb 2015 · 685
regrets
Mirlotta Feb 2015
I knew you just once
and in that once I knew that I knew you
like leaves know the ground
I knew you
like the humming bird knows the sky
I knew you
and that once was enough
to let me know that
I knew you and
*******
I could have known you so much more
Feb 2015 · 1.4k
DEFINE
Mirlotta Feb 2015
When the boy was born

He was born with not much hair

But swaddled up quick

In much too much

Soft pink cotton

Because colours mattered

Even back then

Even if you were colour blind and couldn’t care less

If the cotton was pink or blue or

Green



And then the boy turned one

Wispy hair like outdoor breeze

And a little pink

Pinafore dress and pink tights

And far too many

Cooing aunties with blood splatter cheeks -

The uncles weren’t expected to coo

(Even back then) because

Cooing was a girl’s

Thing



So after time the boy was two

Fine blonde hair with more ribbon than pigtail

And his very first

Barbie doll (he called it Barney)

And not enough

Time allowed to play with

His older brother’s toy cars because

“Doesn’t Barbie want some attention, darling?

Cars are only for your

Brother.”



In a bit the boy was three

Tufty yellow hair like grass

And his first

Ever day at the nursery at the top of the hill

They read a book about

Pinocchio and the boy

Went home and asked his

Mother whether he would get  

to be a real boy

Too?



It wasn’t long and the boy was four

Curly hair like thin blonde string

Youngest in reception class

Even back then he

Didn’t want to

Wear a skirt

(the girls wore skirts)

When all the boys were

Wearing ironed straight grey

trousers



All too soon the boy was five

His hair was long: his father wanted him

To grow it out like Rapunzel because

That’s how he had to look if he expected to marry a prince

But the boy didn’t

Want to marry a prince because

He wanted to be a prince

Even back then and

Princes never married other

Princes



In a while the boy was six

His mother had told him not to be so silly

When he’d asked to cut his hair

Because it was absurd to think of a

Girl with short hair

Or a boy with long hair

Even back then

Especially back then

When the world was even younger and even more

Judgemental



By his next birthday the boy was seven

He’d cut off his hair

With the classroom safety scissors

His mother cried and in class

They played a game with Venn diagrams

Where all the boys went in one circle and

The girls sat in another but

The boy went in the boys’ circle

And his teacher told him to stay behind after class and she’d explain Venn diagrams

Again



Soon enough the boy was eight

And he was outcast and called weird not because of his funny haircut

But because the other children

Couldn’t see him for him

And let their sight be clouded

By the body the boy was caged in

And when the boy rattled at the bars

They laughed and jeered

Like he was the prime exhibit in the zoo they went to on

School trips.



It took time, but the boy was nine

His father was trying to convince him to grow his hair again

But he didn’t want to

He didn’t want anything but

To be allowed to be himself

But even though uniqueness and

Individuality was promoted

In his School Assemblies he knew

No one like him and that meant he was

Strange



The boy blew out ten candles

Wearing a party hat on his head

But no one came to his party because

No one wanted to be his friend

Except for Sarah and she was

Even more outcast than him because

She played kissy-tag with other girls

And even the outcast look down on the more outcast

Than them so Sarah hadn’t been invited to his

Party


The clock ticked and the boy was eleven

He’d dyed his hair a lighter shade of blonde

To disguise the black poison gas that

Shrouded his happiness like a soul-******* coffee machine

His parents were worried

Because hhadn’t grown out of it

And it wasn’t just

One of those things and the other

Children noticed and they

Jeered



The boy turned twelve but he didn’t want to

He ran his hands through his cauliflower hair

And he wanted to die rather than

Have to lie about who he really was inside when no one would accept him

And when he ran the blade across his wrists

He felt more bitter relief than anything

As the pain washed away with the

Rushing red river of blood and shame and he didn’t listen to bullies anymore

Because he wasn’t just dead inside he was

Dead
(I'm not trans myself, so I'm deeply sorry if this offends anyone. If it  does offend you, please don't hesitate to tell me and I will take it down.)
Jan 2015 · 426
Speed Dial
Mirlotta Jan 2015
Work your fingers to the bone
for the face in the mirror
now watch it laugh -
your photograph
is of the face in the mirror
now smash the glass -
poison gas
from the face in the mirror
take up the phone -
all alone
but for the face in the mirror now
*dial the wolf.
Based on A Wolf at the Door by Radiohead
Jan 2015 · 692
Kill them with kindness
Mirlotta Jan 2015
Kindness is the very best currency, my father once said;
So I gave them the directions to my local church
and the highwayman shot me in the head because
your money or your life.
Jan 2015 · 286
Hold On
Mirlotta Jan 2015
My heart is fading
like the stars
my hold on life
is crumbling like the waves
that crash
and splash
and lash
and leash
the sand-grains to the sea.
Jan 2015 · 1.3k
Rats
Mirlotta Jan 2015
They battered at their cages
But their cages stayed tight shut
And they wanted higher wages
But their salaries got cut
So they lied and fought like rodents
Rodents trapped within a cage
They'd be free if they'd been prudent
And concealed their inner rage.
Based on the Smashing Pumpkins song, Bullet With Butterfly Wings.
Jan 2015 · 289
The Artist
Mirlotta Jan 2015
paint on your
plastic smile
with a brush with
hair like knives

shake off your
crumpled skin
like you're shedding
your disguise

sketch in the
broken lines
with a barbed-wire
blue-ink pen

then frame the
shattered soul
you're hoping to
paint again.
An extended version of my poem, Paint.
Dec 2014 · 290
Watch out
Mirlotta Dec 2014
Watch out, ******
Your humanity
is showing.
Mirlotta Dec 2014
The woman holds a letter
crumpled and crumbling at the tip like insanity taking its first few licks at calm
and liking it
brushing black-inked words beneath her fingers
like she's contemplating some black haired deed
like anger
or hate
or ******
and maybe she is.

The woman lifts her hands unto the skies
crying for help from a darkness that won't help her at all
but she wants it
banishing her innocence and taking up home
in the old, abandoned shack of spite and malice
wanting blood
wanting love
wanting power
but not just for her.

The woman meets her husband
taunting and teasing and twisting his words into a sadistic mockery of what they were
and he believes her
with a slap across morality he agrees with her
takes her outstretched hand to show that
jealousy is married
determination binds
it was his idea first
and weakness is sin.

The woman turns and faints
blanching so white it's like the evil wasn't ever there
it's hiding
waiting, longing to consume her whole
she'd thought she'd washed away the deed
with just
a little
spot of
water.

The woman enters the banquet hall
hanging off her husband's arm like the weight of the crime that holds her down
she's shaking
trying to hurl off all the lonely isolation
as her husband lo and talks to ghosts
and kills
not just
men but
her as well.

The woman walks and talks asleep
scratches skin and tries to scrub away the sticking-plaster guilt
but still it stays
forces of darkness she invited
staying long past their welcome and
not just
eating all
the food
but her as well.

The woman recognises blood
splattering the deceased's names across her arms in swirling crimson lines like marker pen
that won't wash off
maybe she'd be better off dead than praying
wishing she could drown her err
in just
a little
spot of
water.
Nov 2014 · 822
The Christmas Carnival
Mirlotta Nov 2014
There's a man that's not so jolly
dressed in blood with strings attached
white fur trim and silver shackles
boots of dreary, dismal black.

Rides a sleigh of bone-white reindeer
whips them just as he is whipped
by the arm of blank-faced sales -
doesn't get one lousy tip.

There's a singing, chanting snow-man
mourning for the melted dead
when the sun shines in the morning:
nothing but the ice they bled.

Candied children seeping chocolate
drowning in the liquid stench
bodies limp with festive wreckage
waiting for the last event.

Woolly ropes of Christmas jumpers
looped and knotted at the throat
round the necks of carol singers
singing till they keel and choke.

Then the sprigs of velvet holly
kick their legs and stamp their feet
dance with but a show-girl's honour
reading cheap lines from a sheet.

And the man who's not so jolly
laughs so kindly for the crowd
underneath his hat he's hurting
the red sky his scarlet shroud.
Nov 2014 · 380
-
Mirlotta Nov 2014
-
She was revered
she was tethered
to a chain that wouldn't snap.

She was lying
she was dying
on the inside of her heart.

Then she revolted
so devoted
to the freeing thought of change.

She was fated
she had waited
for so long to grasp the end.

Then they ****** her
and they crammed her
in a space she wouldn't fit.

They despised her
and advised her
to keep crying till the end.
Nov 2014 · 893
Troll
Mirlotta Nov 2014
who's afraid to

trip trap
kick scratch
stomp crash
whip lash
spit screech
run siege
tear crack

trip trap

over my bridge?
Nov 2014 · 413
Flame
Mirlotta Nov 2014
The match worth nothing
would not light a candle but
fuelled a revolution none the less
- turned out it wasn't nothing
after all.
Nov 2014 · 934
Making me
Mirlotta Nov 2014
Stick me together with plasticine
Fill in the cracks of my broken dreams
Stitch my skin tighter and sow my heart shut
Let my hair loose and my nails uncut
Glue my eyes open and stretch out my frown
Dress up my fear in an ebony gown
Sketch in my strings and take hold of the thread
Wrap me in cling film, then leave me for dead.
Nov 2014 · 873
Paper
Mirlotta Nov 2014
A crumpled paper heart
beats in the corner of
her paper soul.
Oct 2014 · 435
Undying Love
Mirlotta Oct 2014
Love never dies -
but people do,
and that's so much worse.
Oct 2014 · 215
Utld.
Mirlotta Oct 2014
Watch her eyes -
she's dead inside.
Oct 2014 · 442
Reflection
Mirlotta Oct 2014
golden hair
burning up
clear brown eyes
made from muck
salted smile
lipstick tears
just a girl
dead for years
dressed in sunshine
dressed in blood
would they help her?
*no one could
Oct 2014 · 320
Mirror
Mirlotta Oct 2014
There's a girl in my mirror.
She's there whenever I look
but
she never looks the same
and
I don't ever recognise her.

I wish she'd crawl back to
whichever ****** ward she
came from.
Oct 2014 · 1.6k
Financial Problems
Mirlotta Oct 2014
If laughter be the currency of the soul
I do not have enough to buy
a lamp to chase the
shadow from my
heart.
Oct 2014 · 361
The Silver Lining.
Mirlotta Oct 2014
When I was a child I was depressed, and
my father would tell me that
"There's a silver lining to every storm cloud.
You just need to find it."

The world needs to realise that
there is no silver lining to
the storm cloud of depression
or the thunder of disease.

It's not hidden.
It's not waiting around the corner, ready to jump out.
It's not going to suddenly change fate, a miracle cure.
It's not been found because it is not there.

It never was.
Oct 2014 · 274
A Fairytale.
Mirlotta Oct 2014
Once upon a time
there was a beautiful time
in a beautiful place
when people were happy
and little boys sang in the streets
and little girls were not afraid to fall in love.

And everyone thought that beautiful time
and that beautiful place
were entirely the work of fiction
until someone said to them

Make that your time.
Make it here.
Make it now.


And them they took the happiness in both hands and rode it
felt the breeze of contentment blow them kisses in the moonlight
wrapped the cloak of serenity around their gowns of blissful ease
embraced the long forgotten warmth of rapture and never let it go
and they
sang in the streets.
and they
fell in love with the next person they laid eyes on
and they

*Made it happen.
Happen here.
Happen now.
Oct 2014 · 426
Me and not me.
Mirlotta Oct 2014
I'm becoming a stereotype
for numerous things
a newborn sparrow with society-modified wings.

And I should probably cry
or get angry at this realisation
but I get the feeling it would be far too stereotypical a sensation.

So instead I'll just sit here like
a gaping wound, an empty box:
because the crux of this is that I am all that makes a paradox.
Mirlotta Oct 2014
Her name was Mary Sue, and she was perfect.

A face like wonder
that bathed in beauty and
half dressed seduction
soaked in crystalline
bath bombs
scenting her skin

Perfect.

A voice like innocence
that cried for lust
begged endlessly for kisses
wrapped in glaciers
devoured
from the inside out

More perfect than me.

A heart like liquid gold
that melted men
and ate them whole
sent them platinum pressed
flowers
and called it love

More perfect than I'll ever be.

A tongue like flame
that licked and loosened
the severity of my heart
until it crumbled like
sawdust
between her fingers

I wanted her to - she was perfect.

A laugh like foreign goods
unworldly and unwieldy
a stab in the back from
a voice that chimed like
bells
or blades, I couldn't tell.

So perfect.
Too perfect.
Hopelessly, unbelievably perfect.

It's hard to believe she was even real.
An ode to the numerous Mary Sues I'm seeing in fiction.
Oct 2014 · 11.2k
Paint
Mirlotta Oct 2014
paint on your
plastic smile
with a brush with
hair like knives

shake off your
crumpled skin
like you're shedding
your disguise
Oct 2014 · 282
An Honest Question
Mirlotta Oct 2014
If you ignore a
- person
- topic
- conversation
for long enough
can you
- fool
- force
- coax
yourself into believing that
- it
- he
- she
didn't ever really matter
anyway?
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