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kyss  Oct 2020
ballgowns
kyss Oct 2020
I broke down in a bridal boutique
knowing that it could never be me
drowning in ballgowns
I'm bursting at the seams
knowing you'll never truly love me

I had always imagined
that when that day came
you'd be beside me
holding my hand
but you're far away
far away with him
and I know now it'll never be me

I'm here
being fitted for ballgowns
so someone
can take my photo
I'll look so happy,
the belle of the ball,
but inside I'm crying
that I'm all alone....

I broke down in a bridal boutique
drowning in ballgowns
that you'll never see
I'm just broken
the way you left me
drowning in sorrow,
in a bridal boutique
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Linda Kessler Jun 2012
Ladies, in thier ballgowns wade,
thier masks they have made,
so they wade across the ballroom floor,
for the sign on the,
Big. Brass. Door,
a masquerade, it reads,
A Masquerade.
The men,
ready in blazers and tuxes,
wearing thier masks,
awaiting thier midnight mistress,
thier...**** seductress.
Then, the man in black and white,
guides his mistress inder the moonlight,
for a dance, perhaps a kiss,
at the stroke of midnight.
At midnight, the clock sounds,
and all you see is the spinning of gown after gown.
Ding. ****. Ding. ****.
the sound becomes a beat,
ready and awaiting the eager dancers feet.
Ding. ****. Ding. ****.
the couples dance, but not for long,
for this...
this is the, Last. Song.
Ding. ****. Ding. ****.
At the end of this song,
the men and women,
reveal themselves, and at long last,
they shed thier masks.
Then the man in black and white,
grasps his ladies hand, and holds it tight,
then he gets down, on his knee,
and her gasp...
brings an end to this story.
This poem has been published in a book! :D
Meredith Riggs Feb 2015
Walking down the avenues
And my stomach is turning
Im stuck in my head
My heart is pounding harder
9 little cracks, a dusted off corner
Left alone
They call me a brain vagabond
I dont know where to go
Wonderland, is what i call home

Im not insane
Im not insane
Im not insane
I jumped over a wall
Im not insane
Glasses crack, piano starts
Bass drops
Im okay
Im okay
Im okay

Lips are cracked
Eyes are glistening
Dry throat
I see home
ballgowns, insanity
Heart-shaped hats, non-existent cats

Im run into a strange mans arms
Im alright
Im not insane
Im okay.
                  
                        - m.r. | wonderland
Lucky Queue Jan 2013
Lies are lullabies
Sweet songs that we sing
To ourselves and to others
Trying to convince ourselves
That something isn't our fault
That our world is more utopian than
Reality allows for
We tell ourselves that
It's better to live a lie
Than face the harsh world
Without our emerald glasses
Or maybe everything we believe
In is a lie*
The faerie tales have even been
Changed to suit our own needs
Pretty ballgowns and sparkling glass shoes
Forget the truths of rags, dirt, blood and filth
The romance still remains
But the glamorous side is tougher
More truthful, less plastic
The grime and dirt gives the story life
These Disney-fied, prettied up stories
Are just machine made, molded
Plastic. Commercialised. Dead.
And they spell faerie wrong too
Wrote this a couple weeks ago, thanks to star and nick for the inspiration :)
A B Perales Jan 2014
We drove fast,
the way only
the young
can do.
Recklessly and
carefree while
wildly tripping
across that
broken
highway.

I heard the
echo of our
hollow laughter,
felt the
vibration all
through my open
mind.

My mouth remained
dry no matter
how much
Orange juice I
drank.

Along the edge
of the world
the untamed
field of
sage bush and
honey suckle
swayed
like dancing
girls in unison
to the warm
California wind.

We sat and
watched in silence
as the Palm fronds
danced in ballgowns
through the
grand wood
pane windows of
a mansion
across the canyon.

I seen
hand trails that
never ended,
12 packs boxes
that hopped
away like
jack rabbits.

A Coyote on
Paseo whose only
want was to
live.

White owls
crashing through
ancient Oaks
just to let us
know we weren't
all there was.

I've captured  
the image in
memory of
a dozen
smiling faces
of my still free
minded friends
of my youth.

All seeing
things the
way they were
meant to be
seen.

All seeing
things the
way we'd
never
see them
again.
For  
       Ian P. Smith
         1973-1994
Rest Easy Old Friend
Ian Moonsy Jul 2015
Monsieur, Madame, buy a memory?
Of someone blue and cold,
whose heart beats on flame,
and dances on papers old?

Or someone who once smiled,
as they danced on golden leaf,
covered in silver linings,
not knowing it will be brief?

Or you'd want something worthwhile?
A silver pendant or a silver blade,
both too beautiful -
enough not to behave?

See here, if none suits,
maybe you'd want the one with a somber black suit?
Standing near a slab of stone,
as he bit into the unholy truth?

Or a dance, one summer's eve,
Yellow lace, blue lace, green and red,
Chatter and sweet nothings said, or
Satins soft enough for your bed?

Pure, ****** white,
or glass slippers and ballgowns,
galas and masquerades,
entranced by your delight?

Or so I've learned what you'd all like,
easy, soft, vulnerable,
one with the sweetest core,
One that never asked for more?

How about this other one,
so full of tempests, untamed and wild,
bred in the worst of nightmares
and broken dreams of a child?

Lovely Madame, gallant Monsieur,
oh, but let me remind you this,
all is not blissful and happy,
or innocent and sweet.

I've had the memories who swam in too deep,
who drowned in their sleep,
who slipped on the ***** too steep -
and all they ever done was weep.

I've got the memories who were shattered like glass,
bright beating hearts who were never meant to last,
residing in Chaos for the pain to pass,
un-mendable, no matter how many spells were cast.

I've acquired
memories too roughly hewn,
too badly bent,
too badly burnt.

I've picked up memories long lost and forgotten,
thrown out and fallen,
put aside as soon as begotten,
cast down and trodden.

But there are... I think,
though I hope not all are taken,
the ones treasured and loved,
the ones held gently like a dove.

A smile of loyalty,
a breath as soft as a feather,
a sigh to signify they've gone so far,
but with much more good moments and a lot of blunder.

A memory of a light,
bright in the darkness, pure and clean;
a helping hand,
who proved not all was Sin.

Mine? Oh, no, dear madame, good monsieur,
I have neither owned a memory in my life,
nor held one so dear
as I said: they are bought;

By good deeds,
shared with neither malice nor greed nor wrath nor fury,
although we all have had to bleed,
just for equality and love; hand-in-hand, freed.

You'll see, you'll see!
It's not really bad or will be,
if you bought a memory from me,
the girl who sold Memories.
Ashley Sep 2013
tonight, as you danced
on a platform of heroes,
surrounded by a blur
of faces you have never seen,
i was ****** back
in time.

as dresses swirled,
visions of a distant time
assaulted me. i could
envision
you and i
swirling the way the actors did -
the way you did -
in a ballroom
with souls fitted into
ballgowns and formal suits.

i could almost hear
you laughter
burst above the
orchestra, and
the buzz of excitement
zipping through the air.
i felt your hand
against mine;
one gripped my waist,
scorching my skin
and marking it with uncharted masses
of land.

as you lead; i follow
you twirl us around,
until we float
far above the crowd,
the clouds, straight
into the stars
when suddenly -
a flash! a spark! -
and i am back.

alone in my seat, and
stuck in a different world.
no longer twirling,
towards the land of the Gods,
but spiraling back
to unwelcome
reality.
George Andres May 2016
It was a huge closet
Fancy clothes
Ballgowns and heels
Dresses and flats

Ornamented with flowery designs
With thin fine lines
Diamonds and gems and pearls
Matches the girl with curls

A pair of blue jeans
Denim jacket
Converse and white shirt
Hidden inside the huge closet

Black unsophisticated clothes
Beanies, caps and shades
Coats and ties and bows
She cannot wear on times she want

This is for she: pink ladylike
For him is blue and manly
Straight long hair
Or a fine undercut

You cannot lover you don't
You cannot love him, he won't
If this is so wrong
Why can't this stop all along?

If you watch ****, you sweat
You hide what is wrong
But when did love become unacceptable?
When the standards are so strong
That loving someone
Is now just a set of rules

It's funny how we can call this world a home
When only the chosen one inside the closet
Who can endure much
Can easily blend in

And the homeless out
Freezes with cold stares and shrugs
Disgust and homophobic thoughts
Unless we give them a chance

No, this is all wrong
How could we tolerate someone who ran away from home?
But how can you call them runaways
When from the start
The truth is naked

That in this place
For them there is no space

It is a huge closet
Where you're safe inside
Where you have clothes you SHOULD wear
Remember you are a her
But why the heck is your heart also for her?
41316
DrunkenAstronaut Oct 2017
Tears of Rosaline

The night of ballgowns and flashy lights
Marbles staircase and sumptuous jewelries
You left me here without a clue,
When your eyes had seen her beauty
You forgot the sweet words you said to me,
When you are already making promises with her
I was your first but then you choose your second and happens to be your last
You seem to be happy with her
But don't you know that I was already dying in grief?
You enjoyed your storhy, neither her
All of the who people happy with your so called great love
But, do they notice me also?
I, who was the unknown part of your story
I, who was the unknown character of your love story
And I, who was your invincible chapter?
I felt bad for Rosaline she was the unseen character in the story Romeo&Juliet
Hello Daisies  Dec 2018
Somebody
Hello Daisies Dec 2018
I long to write
Beautiful things
Like Shakespeare
And elegant ballgowns
Something with more meaning
Then simply feeling down

I long to write
Of romeo and Juliet
Symbolic and deeper then most see
Oh thou arent very good with writing

I long to write
Like egar allen poe
Or any inspiration i claim to love
But instead i write of the dead things
That roam through my mind stirring

Pound pound pounding
My mind is  constantly aching
She's but a young child
Cry cry crying
For attention she seeks but it keeps dying

Plays and music will not be wrote
Of the things i write
For they are not artistic
They are but a jumbled mess
Never knowing where to place
Each
Line or
Stanza

Now I'm rambling
On and on and on
She goes sad and chaotic
Whispering obscenities
And screaming repetitive words and pleas

I adore the poems and songs
That at face value seem
Like they are about love for another
When truly they ring about darkness

Oh sweet child
Your love keeps thy so warm
But it's breaking into a storm
I watch you try to sleep
Why do you weep?
Dost thou not realize thy beauty?
Stab thy heart into shreds
For i cannot breath without the
But i cannot smile when thy fills my blood with led

Sweet little girl
You have made no sense
Get on your knees and repent
For you will never be

Somebody
My head was filled with so very mamy words this morning i had to get them all out

— The End —