My mother told me
to make my own legacy.
"You need not be a lonesome feather
drifting in the wind."
My mother told me
to make my own prophecy.
"You need not be a sheep
for you have the soul something
much more fierce."

On the battlefield
fighting the adversary
who was once part of his own pride.

In his heavy chainmail armour,
he was struck by a musket
which ended his misery.

However, his beloved
would mourn over his body
as tears fell freely onto his armour.

Over time, it rusted
with gold.

People far and wide came in search
of this, now famous armour
thinking of invincibiliy.

Legend says the man's beloved
buried it
in the exact place he died.

You are the light in a room
when the sun is absent
and the moon is hidden
behind drifting clouds.

You colour your lips
with the essence of blood.
You cover your eyelids
with the ashes of those who have fallen
at your feet.
You cover your skin with powder
that makes you as pale
as the people you've slaughtered.
You, you are so beautiful,
you could steal someone's soul.

The hourglass is filled with the tears of the sun
golden beads that fall quickly, gracefully
but what will happen when the last grain
falls?

Love,
a lack thereof,
it's like being struck by
a bullet from above.

You tried to break me
like shattered glass
but to your misfourtune,
it didn't last.

I was rebuilt like tile
the gaps filled with grout,
I was stronger now,
without a doubt.

- for Brenda

It's so early,
yet so late.
I wonder,
why am I awake?
What an ungodly hour,
I think,
as I listen to myself breathe
and listen to the leaking sink.

A tale as old as time,
they say,
that the dreamcatcher woven from the cobwebs of a spider
would capture unpleasant dreams
and ban them to oblivion.

During the night,
amongst the children,
the dreamcatchers dangled upon the window panes.

However, it was not
the beaded sinew
that protected them from their own minds.

It was a mysterious spirit,
known as
the Dream Catcher.

With an enchanted fishing net,
he would steal the dreams that
tormented the children
and replace them
with dreams full of bliss.

I was burned,
my ashes were scattered to the wind,
and I felt helpless.

My wings were taken
like those of Lucifer
and I couldn't help but feel
weakened.

Alas,
a spark ignited
and I knew I was stronger.

The sensation,
it was like a euphoria of fire
blazing through my veins.

I felt as though
I was being reborn
like a Phoenix.

Your touch was dangerous,
entrancing but not exaspirating,
fingers that felt like
a velvet guillotine.

I soon, unexpectedly
got cut.

The guillotine disguised
as velvet
had pierced my heart.

She poured the wine
Into my glass
We played the record
And danced full throttle
She picked up the violin
And played so beautifully
I knew I loved her
My dear Eileen.

Your scent,
it smells like blood.
Your skin,
it tastes of blood.
Your chapped lips,
they seethe blood.
I love it,
but does that mean
that I am bloodlust?

red hair
white dress
she ran, ran as fast as she could
to the willow on the hill
that stood atop of an ocean of daisies.

Father,
Father,
what does "brave" mean?

Oh, how I asked that question
without reluctance, without guilt,
but I never got the answer.

Father,
Father,
what does it mean to be "brave"?

Oh, how I yearned to know
what it was like, how it felt
but I never got the answer.

Father,
Father,
are you "brave"?

He did not respond.
He was not brave, for he was a coward.
Afraid of life,
love,
himself.

Father,
Father,
I know what it is to be brave now.

And I learned all by myself.

Rust
on an old, silver bell.
It grew old, surely,
and the people dreaded its echo,
for it signified the presence of death.

"Who shall be taken by the Reaper?" they asked.
"Who shall suffer his wrath?"

Until the Reaper appeared, a dreary night it was,
to take Timothy McLaggen down death's path.

The people thought,
"The boy is too pure! You shan't take him whilst we breathe!"
"The boy is too good! You shan't show him what is under your malicious hood!"

But the Reaper took the boy with ease.

He was unhappy, you see
and needed to leave,
and he felt as though the Reaper
had set him free.

Oh,
so taboo,
wouldn't you say?

An act of love,
but then again,
not cherished
like it was in my day.

Two layers of skin,
cries of pleasure,
an elixir of sweat.

Beautiful, truly.

Rain, rain, go away,
don't bother coming again on another day!
For I have no umbrella to protect me
from the crystalline drops that fall from the sky
and chill me to the bone.

Rain, rain, please do go away,
don't return until I say!
I shall alert you, I suppose
but as I said,
I have not an umbrella to keep me safe!

She would go to the railroad,
every day,
waiting for him.

She waited for the whistle of the train,
the rattling of the tracks,
anything that would alert her.

But, alas, it never came.

The iron railroad was a thief, she thought bitterly.
She grew old, alone,
still waiting for her husband.

She received a letter,
and stained it with tears,
just as the iron railroad
had stained her soul.

"I will meet you in the afterlife, my love."

The café smelled of scones and coffee,
to wake up and smell the coffee,
ah, yes.

The record player always played classics,
the occasional static of an especially old vinyl
bringing a smile to my face.

The orange café, just quaint and small,
but you could still see the sunrise,
the sunset,
and everything in between.

It was, most definitely, the place to be.
I guarantee.

His eyes,
I remember them fondly.
Iris' like amber, and perhaps specks of citrine,
but you'd have to be close enough to gaze into them.

His pupils were dark, like black pearls
sitting in the throne of an oyster.

His eyelashes were black, like the night of a new moon,
and fluttered like the flap of a raven's wing.

Yes, I recall,
his eyes were beautiful.

The window to the soul, they say?
Well, I suppose that makes sense.
He was utter magnificence,
and his soul was beautiful too.

They come and go,
every time.

They are beautiful, with unimaginable pulchritude.
But lies upon lies upon lies!

The accumalation,
is just
too much.

So you let them go, you let them fall,
like the petals
of a sakura.

"Have you ever screamed into the night,
until your throat was raw and dusk left to hide?"

"Never have I ever."

"Have you ever walked the halls with tears streaming down your face?
Well, they might as well have been a mirror,
because of all the people who stared,
bewildered."

"Never have I ever."

"Have you ever lost someone,
and tried to fill the empty void in your soul,
only to lose that person too?

Haven't we all?

Shouldn't we all?"

"Never have I ever." they said; a blunt lie at that.

A true poet,
has seen the flame of pain,
or perhaps, they have been burned,
to be capable of writing a poem
so short, yet so wise.

The modest shop with a crackling fire
Lighting the glazed wood of the clocks
Tik tok, tik tok, midnight strikes the oldest
The grandfather clock, tall and broad
Looks upon the the young and new
That tik and tok without a squeak of rust
Yet, the grandfather clock is the wisest
The brass pendulum swaying
Tik tok, tik tok, the hourglass spills its sand
And yet, it will run out.
But the grandfather clock, the wisest, the oldest
Will never run out of wisdom.

I was running through a bright forest of verdant herbs and prickly, proud pines that seemed taller than the brilliantly blue sky.

I gradually  slowed down, admiring the flourishing and crippling plants alike, like the crunchy copper leaves that happily drifted through the wind.

Tree trunks like rusting brass, flowers with lustrous, glossy petals from the utterly impeccable rain drops that fell oh, so elegantly from the Heavens.

“But alas, Heaven is here!” I exclaimed dreamily; the beautiful birdsong that echoed so subtly, but with such a strong and majestic manner, was pure perfection.    

The amicable squirrels that hurriedly scurried across the lengthy branches that created lovely bridges, where creatures big and small would gather in harmony.

This was Autumn in Heaven.

The man who wore the dashing tailcoat and brass monacle
was always fascinated by how everything is hidden.
He was considered isolated, introverted, perhaps even rude,
but in actuality, he hid from things hidden.
The sheer silk pillowcase on one’s pillow, which hid the feathers of pheasant.
The crimson carpet, which hid the cold floor,
which hid the Earth beneath it.
The clothing on the backs of every human being,
no matter satin, cotton or twine,
it hid one’s skin, thus their vulnerability, from the world.
Alas, as the dashing man sighed,
he could no longer investigate his fascination.
For he knew, under the fabric, whether the finest silk or derived from poverty,
hid skin.
And skin, it covers up the hideous, unspeakable secrets that no one should know.

Tell your secret to the nourished grass,
And your secret will be swept away by the wind.
Tell your secret to your bed-frame of rusting brass,
And let the polish cover up the secret, hidden.
Tell your secret to the flame of candlelight,
And the flame will die down before telling.
Tell your secret to the moonlit night,
And dawn will come before night can begin singing.
Tell your secret to an autumn flower,
And let it be crippled by the winter frost.
Tell your secret to the running water in your shower,
And let it spill down the drain with your secret, lost.
Tell your secret to the purest snow,
And by spring,  your secret will melt away into the well.
Tell your secret and let the  fireflies know,
And your secret can’t be retold; there is no one else to tell.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?
You look in the mirror
A mere object, reflects
Reflects you, reflects what you see
The mirror cannot tell you, you are fairest
Unless you tell yourself, you are fairest
Fairest in your eyes
Fairest in the mirror
For the mirror, the mere mirror
It reflects
Unless you are seen as the fairest by yourself
The mirror will never see the fairest
Watch the mirror forevermore
And see the fairest
The mirror, the mere mirror
Will see you as fairest

When you are asked to draw yourself,
You look in the mirror to inspect your subject.
You decide that adding and taking a few things here and there
Couldn’t hurt, could it?
You draw to your hearts content
Until you finish, satisfied.
Satisfied that you are drawn as the one you want to be, beautiful.
You stand in front of the mirror,
And look at your art, look at the being you want to be.
You are as you want to be drawn, but
It might as well be a portrait of someone else
Because it isn’t you.
It doesn’t have your beauty that reflects in the mirror.
You cannot add what isn’t yours. You can’t take what you have
And let it fly through the wind to find someone else.
You are not a surgeon of wanted beauty,
wanted beauty you think you don’t have.
You can erase what you have drawn
Yet not what you have as the beautiful person you are
And you can fix your drawing
You can make it you
You can give it beauty no-one else has.
You can dislike your eyes,
Thinking you have the iris’ of mud, of rain water
But that is only because you have the tears of disappointment
That blur your vision, making you incapable
Of seeing your beauty
The beauty within.
You cannot compare to a sponge
That soaks up the insults, the words.
The lies.
A raindrop.
Like a raindrop, you are original, no-one can compare to you
But you can’t compare to a raindrop
You aren’t clear like water, you aren’t invisible
Because someone can see you
Someone can see your talent, your love.
Your beauty.



Make the one who see's these traits you.

-WillowtheHetalian