They enjoy the rebellion,
the revolution,
the adrenaline running through their veins
at the speed of light
as they embrace the burn of liquor
as it travels down their throat.

As a poet, I can confirm,
I can assure you, we know the words.
We can shape water with our minds
and speak of what we were.
We can crystallize our wonders,
we can make them seen.
It needn't still be
no more than a dream.
This is my confession,
my work here is done.
It was once my obsession;
now it is gone.

The debate of whether or not
our universe holds secrets, other dimensions,
carries on to this day.
But people can be truly oblivious, don't you think?
There's a different dimension in every word, every sonnet,
every story.
All the bookshelves collecting dust
hold thousands upon thousands
of different worlds.

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.

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.

On the brink of tears,
it's nearly here;
The end of it all,
it's in my palm;
Metal on my fingers,
I'll pull the trigger;
Will I go blissfully,
will anyone miss me?
Only time will tell,
so I bid you farewell;
Now is my time,
I will finally die.

The crow stood tall
on the brick wall,
it watched me cry
it watched me fall.
All the corpses,
all the pain,
I'd never see life,
never again.

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.

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?

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."

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

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

The sky was tainted with the colours of dawn,
the sun rising slowly, but surely,
to meet with the sky of pink, orange and blue.
A breeze swept the leaves, ever verdant and green,
as the monarch butterfly
pulled the sun into the sky.

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.

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.

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?

The struggle
of having someone
love you one moment, and the next
they cut your heartstrings
and leave you to die.

The river lies,
but it is kind.
It will carry you swiftly,
carefully,
peacefully,
before submerging you
into utter chaos.

The rippling whispers,
as the water flows downstream
jumping across stones.
The sound of the river,
it told me to swim.
It hypnotized me into
numb bliss.

You told me you were terrified
of what was to come.
Well, if it is any solace to you,
I feel the same.

A fire set amid the willows; O, they burn!
Father Sky, he cries;
Rain cannot put out the flames!
Can you fathom the forest in flames? Nor can I!
But still I cry, He still cries.

You lie upon a surgeon's table,
where masterpieces are crafted,
where changes are made.

Your vision is blurry with tears
as the surgeon, he asks
"What shall I change for you?"
and you blink the stinging out of your eyes,
as you croak solemly,
"Everything."

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

I am the Gatekeeper
to the threshold accompanied by
the unfortunate souls
that were victims of another humans wrath.

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

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.

To be a poet is to be a sage,
it is to know sorrow;
they were scathed in battle
and their skull is not hollow-

To be a poet is to be wise,
to know true agony;
to have clear, knowing eyes
after years of tragedy.

'Thou art tardy,' said I.

'I belongeth not to you, and now I must brave the sea,'

'I shan't let you, no! You speak balderdash!'

'You doth protest too much, I should have been long gone minutes since,'

'This is punitive!'

'Goodbye, may good fortune tend thy days.' said my lady.

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.

What I pity
it would be
if suddenly,
I couldn't see.

I would be saddened
to lose my eyes,
but then again,
I wouldn't cry.

What a pity
it would be
if suddenly,
I couldn't speak.

It would be awful
to lose my voice,
for I would no longer
have a choice.

What a pity
it would be
if suddenly,
I couldn't feel.

It would be bad,
to lose my hands,
but for no longer
could I work.

What a pity
it would be
if suddenly,
I hear no melody.

It would be bad,
an awful fear,
it would be sad
if I couldn't hear.

What a pity
it would be
if suddenly,
my smell would flee.

It would be awful
no to smell the breeze
as it carried the scent
of the cherry tree.

I play my bowed lyre,
my mind not quite clear,
albeit I did not imbibe.

Chagrin is strummed
as I tell myself the tales
of my trysts.

Now I sit near the hearth
watching the log lessen in size,
turning to ash.

I cannot elude this aberration,
I feel the forlorn tug of my heartstrings;
my meretricious panoply of remorse shall stay within me
until my heart has become turgid with sorrow,  
until I cease to roam this world.

'Swine, O swine!' you cry, but why?

Our doom is inevitable, let us repent?

No, we are late, onwards!

My mind, and all the knowledge and wisdom it holds.
My body, and all the scars of strength strewn across my skin.
My soul, and all the acceptance and love it holds.

I am at peace,
I am aligned
with all three crucial virtues;
you dare not show me your battle cry,
for I am a triple threat.

my mother always told me,
"trust no-one".
i never took her word as gospel,
even after i was used.
when i was betrayed,
however,
i knew to hide my secrets,
because i had no more trust
to spare.

A clear umbrella
that let people glare
past the dewy tears of the sky
and into the mirror-like
platinum hair.

A constant clicking
of shoes on wet cobblestone
click, clack
like a clock
tik, tok.

A small tea shoppe,
with pastries and coffee,
the Italian roast just as awakening
as the refreshing rain.

The chime of the clock tower,
oh, is it midnight already?

I suppose I should retire,
a fine day it was,
I cannot deny that I love
Tuesday in London.

you kind of remind me of a turtle's shell.
you're colourful,
strong,
and you've always got my back.

You speak only words of pessimism,
a clear mind of prosperity
and optimism
unfamiliar to you.

She sits upon the roots
of the wise oak tree.

"Tell me, what must I do?" she asks hopefully.

"I cannot answer your query, for I do not know what you should do,
but I know someone who could help you." the oak responds.

"Well, who?"

"The Universe."

A chaste thing it is,
to stare at your reflection
as you decorate your face,
watching the transition.

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.

A huff and a puff,
tobacco smoke from a wooden pipe,
*** on the rocks in my left hand,
rather Victorian,
wouldn't you say?

A school,
engulfed by many pure,
untouched, untainted
by lust.

And those
who have indulged
have discovered the epitome
of love.
Alas, after it all,
they knew the loss
of their virginity.

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.