I was always so engaged,
curious to see what my fingertips could create,
what litterature my mind thought of.
I sat, brooding over the words to come.
He addressed me with a grin
and told me I needed to hide from the world
to explore my imagination.
Handing me his sweater,
I held it over my head,
writing my heart out
as my imagination soared.

We are like
the alpha centauri;
orbiting each other,
chasing,
in a universe we can call our own
amongst the stars.

The flame dances,
orange, with a hint of blue.
It's a simple,
green taper candle.
As nightfall approaches,
I blow the flame
and a simple breath
wisps it away
leaving black smoke
in it's wake.

I solemnly worship in all my piousness;
you have my loyalty.

My adherence is yours, Lady and Lord, what is my duty to you?

Need I give gold, need I give blood?
Need I give life, need I die?

My oath, to you, I shall not adjourn Fate; you have my piety.

A sickly sweet smell
of a steaming liquid, tainted rouge from the cinnamon-
the potion of peace, what a brew;
will it help me sleep?
Surely, it was made with simplicity;
tea leaves in hot water,
no divination necessary.

Don't wait for someone else
to create the light
at the end of the tunnel.
Do it yourself,
whether you use the end of a cigarette
or a torch,
let a little flame
that you made
lead you out of your misery.

human beings,
peculiar, are they not?
They worship fighting and violence
over nurturing and care.
The critisize unnecessarily,
and it all stems from insecurities
that come from others.
It's an endless, revolting cycle.

I was busy chasing someone else
when I knew the love dissipated, disappeared.

And then a little blue bird came flying from a big blue sky, bringing a message not on its leg, but in its chirp.

There was another who knew me,
and then he watched me,
and then, well,
I suppose he liked me.

Il m'a écrit une lettre
pour me dire,
«tu me manques»
La lettre, remplie de chagrin,
une paradoxe de la prospérité
et l'amertume,
cela à causé de la douleur à mon âme.
Par contre, la seule chose
que j'ai vraiment remarqué,
c'était qu'il m'a appelée
«jeune libellule».

She roams hills and the verdurous woodlands
and on each eve of the new moon,
she follows the river,
making merry and becoming drunk with mead-

She had wanted to be with bairn,
to have man, woman or child accompany her through the forest,
but she only knew the fawn-

Alas, as she fled her role as royalty
when the King and Queen were born a daughter,
she wished upon a jolly gay key of brass
that they would birth a son.

And so they did,
with good luck and omens,
she would celebrate not with a record of vinyl,
but with the strum of a harp and the song of quail.

Peter Pan,
he never could die.
He could never grow old,
yet his wisdom was bright.
He took children on a journey,
to Neverland, they say.
But where would it be, if not on a map?
Where would they go, away?
Well, you see,
it's not like the tale.
They didn't sing on a grand boat,
raising a sail.
Peter Pan would reap the souls
of late children
who died to soon.
He couldn't let them stay,
he wouldn't let them brood.
The Robin Hood
of the reapers, he was.
To bring children through the gates of the Heavens,
where they wouldn't age,
it was his only cause.

In the midst of peril, I convince the men
to gather, gather around me as I burn;
till y'er almost scorched, I tell them,
till you feel flames lick at your soul!

I am woman, a reproach to men
and despised;
a humbling demonstration of vulnerability, me?
Not at all, no; I shall show you my strength,
use my knowledge and my language
to educate you on the matter-
I am afraid I am the bringer of bad tidings,
for you will be disappointed to hear
that you are not superior.

Well, it was fun while it lasted
but deep down, in my soul,
I knew it wouldn't last.

Your moral compass
was never the same
as my own,
your excuses rusty and
ever so transparent.

Thanks for the experience, though,
for the knowledge I now have,
and may you continue your life
peacefully.

I have many a pencil,
but none of them
would be sufficient
to sketch the lines of your face
as you smile.

Cloak of black velvet,
coat of white satin;
Your skin is itchy with burlap, tied with twine.
Silk robes,
Cashmere clothes,
your boots trek through the snow, made of leather.

My blood is red,
the sky is blue
what must I do
to escape you?

The tulips are red,
the cornflowers blue,
I need to admit
I no longer admire you.

cigarette smoke & a bright sun,
you smell like cherry soda and leather,
you taste like tobacco and plum.

I may be adorned with eye-catching jewels,
and yet,
I am sitting, lonesome.
A large table that takes up so much space,
and I'm here alone,
listening to derogatory terms
thrown about like
compliments.

Heavy smoke hangs in the air,
lazily,
it's the smell of patchouli, right?

Ink into feather,
feather onto parchment,
ink seeps from the feather,
ink onto parchment.

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

She cries for her children.
she sheds the tears
they bury deep inside;
she charges into battle
with a tear streaked face
to protect her bairn;
a mother's tears
may never be seen
but it does not mean
they do not exist.

The air is smokey
my eyes water,
my mouth is dry.

The air is smokey,
I find it hard to breathe,
it's too familiar,
like the symptoms of anxiety.

The fiddle is played,
each pitch followed by a beat of clapping hands
and laughs of relief;
the tavern sings into the night
as near the fountain,
you and I
dance till midnight.

Your hand comes to caress my cheek,
to cradle my face,
but when I show doubt laced within my smile,
your hand returns to the blade in your sheath;

Oh, well, life is such.

I know these people,
right?
It doesn't feel quite like it,
not anymore.
I feel like a fawn,
walking through a forest,
vulnerable and alone.

I am amenable, but acquiesce;
you speak bombast words of poetic genius,
contumacious when I suggest candor;
must I be this elicit?

Tenderly,
you said "I love you",
we were to go to Europe
to begin again.

Do you remember
that disastrous plan?
Would you reconsider,
even if it drove us insane?

I miss that love,
so very much,
but do you?

my poetic brilliance is nothing to boast about;
it is a curse
because the best poets
write with blood, sweat, and tears.

i hope to grow old,
someday,
and be ridiculed for my distasteful,
unwise poetry;
i won't need praise to fill a void in my heart that is meant to be youthful,
i shan't be fruitless and tired;
i will finally be happy.

Wait, wait!
I cannot do this,
I'm in too much pain,
stop, now,
I beg of you,
I'm talking to you, listen!
I'm falling,
but you cannot fathom
my pain, my tears.
No, I'm not overreacting,
I just can't help it,
my chest, it will explode in a matter of seconds,
please, don't make me,
I'm terrified!

Every line the pencil creates,
a sharp turn or a thick stripe of lead
seeping into parchment
will create something beautiful.

My dear, my friends, countrymen!
Lend me your ears and take my word as gospel;
the soldiers come in blood-stained tunics and armour of leather, they come to fight on the plains if we engage-
we shan't sacrifice all these men, no!
Pay the ransom in silver and gold, let it not become sultry!

O, how cynical- trust is not an admirable virtue, not to you; trust is found on the opposing side, that of the adversary- the lascivious mind of humanity, what morals are held?

I ask too many questions, but answers, none to spare! I am left bereft, wondering! But I remain alone, cloaked- I cannot be hurt!

But of course, I needn't be invincible- I need only a watch; the abstraction of time cannot be comprehended, the rippling incoherent- where shall I go now?

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."

****!

mandolins seem to screech out a tune like the cries of those who loved you;
if not for us, for you, please thrive in a meadow verdant with joy.
the rickety stairs of my old home, approximately thirteen steps, creak,
reminding me of how your back must of wept and your soul must have cried from the weight heavy on your shoulders.

Kenzie, oh Kenzie,

why?

soar like a phoenix, reborn, where you are now free;
inhale the air much like the questionable smoke you breathed in here,
and appreciate where you are, high with the sensation of relief and not chagrin.

Kenzie, oh Kenzie,

i miss you already.

you lifted me so that i could touch the sky, remember?
on the ninth month nigh the end of the first day,
you let me discover myself.
were your shoulders heavy with the weight of loathing,
or sadness, then? i wonder.

Kenzie, oh Kenzie.

at the time where the clock strikes,
the hourglass runs out of sand,
at the time where my time in this realm is over,
come to me in the afterlife with a tad of Mary Jane?
i would bring the light, of course.

let us absorb artificial calm together,
engulfed in a beautiful oblivion,
like you promised we would.

Kenzie, oh Kenzie,

cry away the tears that have drowned you.

you are free now, dear girl,
let me light you a crimson candle to help guide you to safety.
you will be missed, treasured forevermore,
but i always did think that your beauty surpassed that of the living.

Kenzie, oh Kenzie,

goodbye.

He was dashing, he was tall
he laughed a lot and smiled a ton!

I only ever saw him in the same place;
he helped all who entered,
gave them their bread and drink
and he liked to laugh with me.

Did he really like me?

I sure hoped so;
it would have been mutual,
reciprocated.

You like me?

Likewise.

It's a soft,
chapped,
sensational rhythm;
I'd rather not stop,
I am insatiable.

Perfection doesn't exist because,
when you see someone with a smile as white as snow
and skin like porcelaine or mahogany, lacking concave dimples
and hair that is long and lustrous
and eyes that are dewy and soft
you know they are not perfect because,
they had to sell their soul to attain such
unnecessary delicacy.

Keep up with my pace
for the thrill of the chase,
delight will be seen
written upon your face.

You asked me to be there
and I didn't want to,
but now I am here
after all I've put you through.

I loved you before,
never her,
but I suppose you'd want more,
you'd want to be sure.

Pendant que je joue le mandoline, les flames brûles humblement.
C’est la nuit; hélas, je ne voit pas le soleil. Mais on voit les étoiles !
On peut voir de la fumée, mais pourquoi? On gèle !
Est-ce que ça se peut que c’est toi qui fume une cigarette pure
Pendant que tu admires les étoiles; pendant que tu admires la lune gibbeuse ?
Et toi, mademoiselle ! Aimes-tu la musique de mon mandoline fière ?
Ou peut-être vous-êtes une femme qui préfère le son d’une lyre…
Ah, bon. Je’n sais pas jouer la lyre, mais peut-être t’aimes chanter ?  
Non, non, non ! Tu me dis. Mais pourquoi ?  Vous-êtes une dame pointilleuse. Mais peut-être t’aime la poésie ? Je sais raconter des histoires !
Oui, oui, oui ! Tu me dis. Parfait, je te raconte l’histoire de ma vie.
C’est une oeuvre, je le sais. Mais tu deviennes langoureuse, vous êtes endormi.
Ah, je le comprends. C’est ****, ouais ?  Très ****, je le sens, mais je’n bu pas !
Mais désolé, je joue encore mon mandoline, mon mandoline en acajou.
Et le bois du foyer n’est presque pas là, je voit seulement de la cendre.
Mais c’est ****, c’est très ****.
Donc je souffle les bougies,
Et je vous souhaite une bonne nuit.

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.

Angel kisses caress your skin,
Orion's Belt on your shoulder,
Pavo above your navel,
Columba upon your face.

Angel kisses caress your skin,
as do constellations.

If a bayonet of a musket shall pierce your skin
and you fall among the wounded, lie peacefully;
if eternal slumber is now your Fate, so be it-
they may have told me, maybe not;
it was you with infallible memory, not I-
sleep among virginal blood spilt
as a war of man versus man continues.

He wore the finest leather gloves,
held a hammer of steel,
sported dead eyes.
He had witnessed countless deaths,
far too many,
caused by the very weapons
he crafted blindly.