Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
100 followers, and this is my 300th poem!
Thank you guys so much <3
I love y'all :)
A "poem" every day.
Carsyn Smith Aug 2014
These are my bars.
Limbs that stretch too much
to soaring stars
I could never touch --
these limbs are defective.

Bitter restart,
frail, powerless cudgels
grasping at Heart.
Claws cutting pastels,
shredding ****** dawn sky.

My mirror sepals
are names and faces
of all people
who met my graces
or sailed my winding path.

Leaves of glazed gold
reflect sun's bright rays
as they enfold
the sharpened green maze
in torn and ripped portraits.

Leaves of Abyss
litter my bony scars
swallow my bliss
coat me like hot tar --
kissing at dying bark.

Red lipstick stains
on switch blade carvings
of names on veins
with no callings
see me as a trophy.

Nothing of worth --
just merely conquered.
A space for berth
and his young *******
I am nothing to him.

He can't see me
as mighty Belle Arbre
or hear my plea
as I feel his barb
plunge my old wooden core.

He cut me down,
carve me to shape him --
I'll be His crown
as he is condemned
by my only Father.

That's so far long --
sitting on his lap,
dreaming I'm strong
enough to entrap
all my stolen virtue.

His silver tongue
wove such a strange tale --
willingly hung
and welcoming jail,
all he promised was love.

Something bruised skin,
cut lip or black eye,
limbs bony thin,
or tears asking why --
they've never known this thing.

I reach'd for him,
branches out-stretched,
he was my hymn,
so close, yet farfetched --
he sat among the stars.

Me, bound by dirt,
jealous of the birds
nest'd in my skirt.
They are just songbirds
but take flight for granted.

I would give all,
every last petal
if I could fall;
shrink to a pebble --
give anything to hide.

But I'm a tree,
I'm mighty Belle Arbre.
Broken, Earthly.
Yet reduced to garb,
Everything I am: His.
I'm completely open to editing and critic. Please tell me how to improve!
:) CESmith

— The End —