I see a lovely little bird

(repost)

The color of your skin, does not tell me
  what kind of person you are-
Your language, or accent, does not tell me
  what kind of person you are-
Your creed does not tell me,
  what kind of person you are-
It is you, that shows me, what kind of person you are!

copyright: richard riddle 04-08-2014

I set up a place
to mourn,
like a Mother & her dead,
a deep & sacred peaceful bed,
she sleeps & she weeps,
beneath,
a vigilia soaking moon,
a flickering flame
of love snuffed out way too soon,
& boy that thing can really croon,

Death of a friendship,
& maybe romance,
gone in the wind,
we hadn't a chance,
or a last dance,
a last shooting star
came in cutting in deep
left a painful, poignant scar,
dug it down just a little bit too far,
put it on the shelf and put it in a jar,

You're shining,
& I'm the one who's endlessly whining,
because your light,
your light is ever shining so very bright,
shining, shining, shining,
a heart is ever-pining

Cuz' I sit 'neath the florescent light
that took my sweet & needed sight,
exposed to your external radiation,
composed in your internal frustration,
imposed by your nocturnal causation
& endless is the aggravation,

Wanting to glow & wanting to go,
wish that I didn't ever know,
that florescent ink, I stare & blink
Never stop to wonder & think,

Hey I'm burned, I'm blinded
you think I would be reminded,
you know I never really learned,
such star crossed lovers
never under starlit skies
& star kissed covers,
over me they hover,
hover

I got a million reasons to let you go
& ya you know,
ya know,
I should run for the hills
take some kinda pills,
lose every bit of  my will,
I should just.....

walk away,

No I should never let you leave early
or stay, but anyway,

you come,
in lucent technology,
appear on the screen,
I think hold on, this must be a dream,
your not exactly what you might seem,

I know it's my voice, so yeah it's my choice,
& in its sound I do rejoice,

but I missed,
I missed,
as I kissed that passing tear,
but I've lived to fight another year,
as it travels here no more,
no, no more,
instead she's the one,
knocking,
waiting  at your door
your door, your door,

hey knock, knock, knock,
tick tock tick tock I hear the clock,
ohhhhhh...oh, oh,
hey boy is anyone with you
tonight?

Cherie Nolan© 2016

tell me
why private thoughts
become so loud and violent
upon our faces that
they peel the layers of skin,
and our own form of sun,
burns us alive inside.
i waited patiently for your breath
like hot summer nights,
a whisper of a wind, a secret
tantalizing, lost in lulls of sleep
and i'm restless in bed,
sheets suffocate me with the
lies of your body, and
ghosts are more familiar
than your scent.
tell me, i screamed it with my
eyes as you slept.
i once held your palm and
felt your fingers slip,
did they reach for hers
instead?

it's the emotional
strip-tease,
the tingling,
depressions hand
on your thighs,
his skin is soothing
enough but his
nails curve red moons
into those pretty
little girl tights.
they ******* so well,
anxieties got a
mean eye,
for the girls with
insecurities,
they're the most fun,
swallowing back
their screams, saving
them for the
bedroom at night.
you find them in
the morning teasing
the pill bottle,
they got a will to live
stuck in their throat.
doctors say there's a
heartbeat but
no heart.
all their red dresses
over the floor,
the first of many
warning signs,
red dresses to funerals,
red dresses to slide
down the underbelly
of dissatisfaction.
they sleep without love,
exhaling demons on
the balcony, until
they burn like stubs
in their eyes.

a hybrid soul,
one to blend like watercolour
paintworks into the social canvas,
boys would stare,
at the star, gone dying, who knew
spotlights illuminate
the pretty parts,
the hips and the mannequin calves.
until the sun dimmers, like gods
dipped lantern burnt out,
and bodies are stripped like birds
of their feathers, plucked to glaring
scars and worn out faces peer
into the mirror - who is the ugliest
of them all.

they called her by names,
prettier than her own,
until she trembled into the
valley of the dolls, a dark and dismal
place with discarded arms and legs,
to build the perfect 'woman' -
a vulnerable creature, made to
be loved, to be wanted.

my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.