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Can't you see the signs?
Couldn't you see I was losing myself to the darkness?
I know I didn't reach out
I know I didn't open up
But I tried to show through
one way or another.
Because no matter
how hard i tried to disguise it,
I wanted someone to see the
pain and reach out.
Some of you did care,
but no one showed enough care

But who am I to blame,
I didn't show myself enough care .
I should've cared enough for myself
to not give up on myself.

I should've relied on myself,
rather only on others.
To care enough of myself,
but now I've gone to sleep
and I see no save.
Stella Jul 21
Clear, glimmering, white.

His hand claims the sequined waist
That he earned to hold with jewells.

Cut, polished, sewn.

The chandelier above emanates
The ones hung from her ears.

Strung, tied, boxed.

Not as much a girl's best friend
As a man's trophy wife ticket.

Bought, gifted, worn.
The definition of insanity isn't always doing the same thing and expecting different results

Sometimes, it's believing in a glamour

and at the end
when you're broken
scarred, fractured
and penniless
finally seeing the numerous curtains fall
finding that the creature you've had faith in
shattered everything
the strength and power of my charm,
will rule the lust upon the land,
my lips so cruel they shine the power,
some dis-beliefs withstand my glamour,
one day they will rue the day,
I ****** and destroy your reign,
on my throne you will not survive,
I **** and rule, now stay behind,
in quest for love I saw the man,
so strong like death, beyond God,
he stole my charm,
he made me melt,
we start to reign,
now knell before me and my man beyond God.
Poem from my book 'The Allure Of Time' now available on amazon in English, French and German.
adorn my manner with a blast,
posh, huge, cemented, **** lust,
adorn and redefine a glamour,
it’s so hot, it’s melting in the summer,
it’s melting mountains of despair,
it’s heavy rain inside my mind,
it’s funny, **** in the dark,
Fragment from my book 'The Allure Of Time'
Luna Jay Jan 24
A Rose-
I opened myself to you.
Not yet deflowered,
Only… depowered.
Knocked down a few notches
To nothingness.
A prose-
Roping myself to you.
Never empowered,
Always soured.
Locked frowns drowning in
Paint swatches of ugliness.
Muddiness.
I never liked your artwork
Anyway.
You create to abuse,
To use,
And to trade.
You threw me away…
And now your garbage can
Is much more glamorous
Than your gal is.
Allan Mzyece Dec 2018
Venus-Intergalactico princess,
Why is Victoria keeping so many ******* secrets?
It's time to let the Gucci cats out of the Louis Vuitton iconic bag,
Sparkling Supermodel? can you walk with your hands swinging behind your back?
Legs up front!
Look left!
Look Right!
Turn around!
now you qualify for first class,

Venus-Intergalactico princess,
in your hologram eyes I see a glamorous savage,
Versace snakes to replace your long hair,
Chanel number 5 the breath you fill up in the air,
Your face made of prada is nothing but expensive art,
When you deeped your fingers into glitter and plunged right through my chest to pull out my leathered heart-
I saw an Angel with Cashmere Wings
wearing a glowing Alexander Mcqueen gown
In Jimmy Choo Shoes,
You looked like a queen with a gigantic crown. <3
juliet Dec 2018
your prestige and glamour
have grown too much
so many people bow down to you but
you can’t see your own feet.
expect me unwelcome
to your golden throne
i’ll raise your prices
flat iron my tongue to make you happy
rhythmize my lips so they sway
to the beat of my hips,
to the music of love
                                  love
                                             love
Faded gilding, rubbed through to cracking, flaking wood.
A glamour of ages, sliding, flies to the breeze.

The little bird perches on a once-fine moulding;
Head tilted, one bright eye turned towards the mantle
where a half-blind mercurised mirror barely reflects
an army of creeping vines, consuming naked angels
and the God of this house.

Our hero’s velvets are ruined, dripping and eaten through.
Where riches have lived, decay succeeds.
Nature’s velvets; opulent mosses and emerald lichens
are devouring damask
and smoothing over marbled hardness.

The bird listens for footsteps.
The lady would scatter crumbs on the windowsill
and he would flutter, unafraid,
to peck at her sweet feast.

Once, she drew him.
Fine-lining passerine delicacy,
her pencils fetched him,
and bestowed him an artist’s nobility.
He turned, this way and that,
flashing gold-touched wings,
miming a duchess snapping open a fan.

She’s gone now,
and so have the crumbs.
The bird senses no sugar on the sill,
nor the faintest reminiscence
of lavender perfume, glittering as star bursts
at the hollow of her throat.

He sings regardless,
a mournful beauty
longing to return to a glorious, lustful age,
where light refracted in cut crystal,
danced upon frescoes
and illuminated the **** –
- to render them enchanting.

He swoops to dance on the mantle,
answered by the mirror
and sits a while, preening.

The gentlemen and ladies are gone forever.
Ejected from history to echo as ghosts of fancy and excess,
undeserving of remembrance or pity.

The bird will never forget.
And knots up secrets
kept tightly in his breast,
committed to his tiny, fierce heart.
The Goldfinch is my favourite bird - both owing to its numerous appearances in Renaissance art and as the silent protagonist in Donna Tartt's book bearing its name.
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