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ALC Jan 2017
I want to lunge at it,
I want to tear it to shreds.
It drowns me with my own grief.
This false grief,
This false grief that fills my body with weight, that wasn’t there minute before.
I hate it.
I want to rip at the pages and re-wright them.
I want to change the damning end that sends the destructive words to my eyes.
I want to carve out his name,
I want to carve out the man’s name that shot the fatal wounds.
Yet
Yet, I see the bigger picture.
I see the ending gives justice to all that has happened.
I have given her the shock value that she has wished for,
And I love it.
-ALC
ALC Jan 2017
The knowledge of her death kills a piece of me.
I sit, light blaring at the page, hoping for her to wake up.
I sit, hoping this is all just some terrible hallucination she is having.
My stomach twists as I see his face in my head.
Him, the one that learned how to love her, then lost her.
Sadness, guilt and pity swirl through my body.
I can only imagine the deep pain and loss he is feeling.
All of it is to savior for me to bear
I laugh whipping away my tears
This is silly.
I have watched them from a far this entire time.
Their faces are made up,
Constructed, sculpted, from the words that burn into my eyes.
Yet I feel this pain,
This pain I feel in my being must be the same pain that he feels now,
Staring at her life less body
Limp,
Gone.
I want to lunge at the paper
I want to scream, cry, and laugh.
This is twisted
I hate it for sending me to this emotional place,
But I can’t help but continue,
Loving the action and thrills it sends along the ride.
Her death kills a piece of me.
-ALC
The secrets of his soul
Hidden within the fabrics of the night
Away from the shame of the sun

He takes subtle steps,
Searching chambers of a *****,
From rays of a hollow moon

A wise man he imagines
Feeding his Frankenstein,
To quench his boiling lust

Oh! An Intelligent fool,
A beautiful noose he winds
Around his frail neck

Tethering his reputation,
On a decaying post,
To become but a slave,
When his past comes to light
Grace Jordan Dec 2016
There it was
In my head
Screaming at me
Wishing I was dead
Between the pages
I learned to live again
Be somewhere other
Than the wasteland
In my head

I learned to be a princess
A warrior
A brilliant fool
Anything but what was actually true
Grew chameleon skin
To flicker better
Between character to character
Just like the weather
All to forget the truth of what
Lingered within my head

It was fun playing perfect
Being everyone's art
But things started to get hazy
When cracks began to part
My body became numb
I let fingers crawl all over
Payment to get anyone
To glue me back together
But I couldn't really run
Nothing could blot out its stead
Unbeknownst to me
I never had been free
From the temptation to be dead
Preying on my head

So I buried in words harder
Trusting the denial
Pretending to be anything else
Must be a new character
Couldn't really just be me
The fingers grabbed harder
And I hungrily let them still
If my flesh became shredded
What would be left to ****?
Yet determination was stronger
Than my bloodlust to ****** me
It only left me screaming
Left me lonely
Left me in dread
From the death taking residence
Inside my pretty head

Our character knew
She could not live such asunder
The death would win
If she did not change her color
Through wretched teeth
And fierce blows of power
The foolish, brilliant princess warrior
Refused to lose her mental tower
Through years of war
And struggle
And pain
She won the rights to herself again
And with her mighty sword led
Away the demons
Inside her head

And now the tale halts
Where the chameleon begins to change
A lovely new form
One haphazard and so strange
Its a visage mixed of all
The characters played before
Yet now the skin's unmoving
And the parts become a whole
The fingers are only one
And soft and loving to touch
And pills and words are now used
For good instead of a crutch
The death has hissed its final roar
The reader final quits
They keep on reading stories
But they do not negatively benefit
Its more at peace
But still a clustered composure
Within the head
Of a happy dreamer much bipolar
Crimsyy Oct 2016
Anti is a character I've created, not a new poet name. And because characters have their own voice, Anti gets stand - alone poems without my name at the bottom of it. Because it's Anti speaking. The poems between Anti and I are exchanges of conversation, and they go in the order that I post them.. just letting everyone know, in case someone was wondering.
Comment your thoughts!!

Thankyou,

- Crimsyy
a consummate character actor
came to the footlight stage
his performances critically acclaimed
in entertainment's grand page

Burton nor Sir John Gielgud
had not a patch on his prowess
in all facets of the craft
this star did certainly impress

at The Crown Theatre he played
a bearded vagabond
who wandered the Yorkshire Dales
and further beyond

he received many an accolade
for a gripping role in "Where Is The Maid"  
the plot centred around
an English castle's moated ground

scripts by the score keep
flooding in each week
as directors love working
with the sensational Edward Deek
It was never about 'getting better'
No, I was way beyond that point
See there's a character, values, strengths, weaknesses, beliefs
That shape who we are, how we act, and how we respond

Getting better would mean I'd have to erase the past somehow
To make myself less broken, more oblivious, and happier
All of which I know to be impossible to reverse

Getting better, it's definition has changed so drastically
That it means not being the person
The person I've become
And I know I might have been more likable, fun, and hopeful
Maybe I seemed like a better person than I am now

But if you think I need to be fixed
If you think I still need to 'get better'
Than you don't have any right to be in my life
Because this is who I am now
Qweyku Sep 2016
Character is an island
Where men fear to sail

It's waters too deep a reflection


© Qwey-ku
Christian Bixler Aug 2016
I wonder, dreaming, lost in the
twist, in the curve of the road,
in the arching endlessness of
times eternity, and we trapped
just a little behind the center,
able to glance before, but not
beyond; I wonder then, when
lost in sleep, what peace may
I find, in living life, what joy
among such twisted lies.
I think of the lily, of the holly
tree, of Christmases, and
laughter free, but ever after
thinking thus, my thoughts
turn always to the empty
dark, to the thorn, to the
adder, to the darker parts.
What joy for me, when cursed
to think, to wander in
places cold and bleak,
led, abandoned, my nature
conflicted, I yearn for the
light, I lust for the dark.
I wonder now, thinking so,
what use there be in striving
so, in knowledge that mine
is a lesser struggle, a paltry
thing, devoid of sorrow;
and yet I feel it, through
and through, I rage at the
dark, I weep at the light,
petulant, true, as a child
grown fat, grown full
in the luxury of an easy
life.

What use, you say?
Why simply this, that
life is short, yet mine new
begun, and though short
it be, yet long mayhap,
I may run in the grass,
and forget my sorrow;
or if, indeed, my life is
marked, my fate be cast
for a darker lot, a shadowed
play, a twisted plot, then
hope there is, if hope it
be, that sorrows
undreamed of may yet
find me, and I may then
in bitter relief, say then
in truth: That though
mine before was an
easy life, a spring devoid
of pain, of strife, that
now at last I have joined
the ranks, of those
who have drunk of
the vinegar of life, and
found it bitter, to the
very dregs.
I have laid down here my thoughts, my feelings, laid them bare for all to see, as each poet does, to his own degree, but here, with me, to a greater extent, than any I have made before. Judge them as you will.
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