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samantha-18Poems
Eye, I and I                    The first telling me                        Never to think                             But to be                                                                                                       And the latter                                                                                                       Screaming, taunting                                                                                                      Appropriation!                                                                                                       Opprobrious little thing!                                      The middle cowering                                                            Shaking as she                                       Soars through                                                            Calmest winds                                       And brushing                                                         Turbulent ocean      She hurts and       Radiates the suns spit        Permeable gooseflesh                                                     Absorbing any confusion                                                                                  Processing and mulling it over                                                                                  With plastic hands                                                                       Caressing her feathers                                                                               Pulling her into                                                                         The stormy cold of Id               While she meditates on               The notion that she is          To be absent of thought                                                        Translucent and hollow                                     A reflection of skies and seas Beating her wings      Desperately to catch the             Sinking sun or             Hook the rising moon                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Alas she is lost                                      Manufactured materials                                                               Clogging her pores                                                                                      Infecting her eyes                                                                                                             *Trying to trick her                                                                                                                                                Into being but one*                                                                              But three she will be,                                                                                    Three I's with                                                                                      Three Eyes To see the maidens yesterday                            The mothers today                            The crones tomorrow                                                                                                                                                 Wholly                                                                                         Never to                                                                                Cease or halt or falter                                                                               Or question the reality                                                                                      Of the intrinsic                                          And never                                                      To trust, to touch                                                      The grand illusion                                                      Of material worth
0
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 9:30 AM UTC
Three of me
Eye, I and I                    The first telling me                        Never to think                             But to be                                                                                                       And the latter                                                                                                       Screaming, taunting                                                                                                      Appropriation!                                                                                                       Opprobrious little thing!                                      The middle cowering                                                            Shaking as she                                       Soars through                                                            Calmest winds                                       And brushing                                                         Turbulent ocean      She hurts and       Radiates the suns spit        Permeable gooseflesh                                                     Absorbing any confusion                                                                                  Processing and mulling it over                                                                                  With plastic hands                                                                       Caressing her feathers                                                                               Pulling her into                                                                         The stormy cold of Id               While she meditates on               The notion that she is          To be absent of thought                                                        Translucent and hollow                                     A reflection of skies and seas Beating her wings      Desperately to catch the             Sinking sun or             Hook the rising moon                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Alas she is lost                                      Manufactured materials                                                               Clogging her pores                                                                                      Infecting her eyes                                                                                                             *Trying to trick her                                                                                                                                                Into being but one*                                                                              But three she will be,                                                                                    Three I's with                                                                                      Three Eyes To see the maidens yesterday                            The mothers today                            The crones tomorrow                                                                                                                                                 Wholly                                                                                         Never to                                                                                Cease or halt or falter                                                                               Or question the reality                                                                                      Of the intrinsic                                          And never                                                      To trust, to touch                                                      The grand illusion                                                      Of material worth
samantha-18
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samantha-18
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 9:30 AM UTC
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