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Chad Tannous Apr 23
Ms. Del Rey says “the world is made for two”,
but her idea of two is some fresh hell;
it’s seems that Lana thinks a girl’s abuse,
is cinematic fodder one can sell.
The other woman sings about her man.
“sO pOPuLIiSt” with flowers on her head.
While some may come from poor & tell the tale,
Del Rey wears being poor like it’s a dress. 
But voices that she channels in her songs,
Bespeak a femme fatale alone, and they,  
Are both no one, and everyone in one.
The guardians of endless summer days.
Sonnet (without the last two lines)  about Lana Del Rey.
I dream of becoming a world-recognized artist.

A glamorous one, appearing at the yearly Gucci runway shows. Gucci because Florence Welch clearly favors their designers.

I’ll be interviewed, either before or after the show, because journalists know people love reading about me.

I’ll tuck my hair behind my ear and bat my eyes like Courtney Love on Jules Holland, and I’ll be so disarmingly sweet.

Then one day I’ll coin a term without even really thinking about it: “I hate pseudo-creative types.”

“What do you mean by that?” that journalist will ask, enchanted into sincere interest.

I’ll give unimpressed smile, the kind Lana Del Rey is known for: “I mean people like James Franco.”
Ave Apr 2019
I've been tearing around in my ******* nightgown
24/7 Sylvia Plath
Writing in blood on the walls
'Cause the ink in my pen don't work in my notepad
Don't ask if I'm happy, you know that I'm not
But at best, I can say I'm not sad
'Cause hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have
hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have...
not a poem, just lyrics that i cry to every day:)))
harley r noire Mar 2019
I am no blessed poet nor songstress,
a sleepless mess, a jest in
swaying haziness
of **** peach and pinkish bliss
where I danced in faux Lana
and Marina skins
winning a couple hearts
his, hers, theirs, and yours,
lone wolf in romantic *******.

When the night show's over,
bows all over,
no faux skins of blessed poets
and songstresses,
neither, no more.

In my own skin, I am the sleepless mess,
the midnight mortal carving her bliss
and distress,
with the lights of blessed poets
and songstresses,
in a multitude of metamorphoses.
I couldn't sleep, hence this brainchild was born. Even to this very second of my life, I want to be someone else. I want to be the people inspiring me. But then, the right thing is to be like them in my own way, not to be them. I am me, in my own skin.

Loving myself and loving what I do is a long, seems-never-ending journey, but I am still trying.
harley r noire Jan 2019
dancing in the deep down
dramatic, lulling lays
of Lana Del Rey—

a quill on its snow-white
then tainted-black ground
and a flooded, brimful head
on its space—

till the airhead wakes and
weeps and wails.
A late post here, gotta admit that I still feel frustrated and mad at myself that I am unable to write lots like some of my friends. They are able to write long, gorgeous pieces even from the simplest of words.
Jade Jan 2019
Sometimes,
I imagine I'm some
mourning starlet
who sings Lana Del Rey
at the club
every Saturday night.

A honeyed halo of stage light
tangles itself about
the curled labyrinth
of my hair,
sparkles gold against
my tearing irises.

My mouth parts
and the war cries begin.

In the moments that
the melody offers
my voice repose,
I pound shots to the beat
of the drummer's ramblings.

The crowd applauds
my tipsiness,
their hoots of praise
shaking at the depths
of my eardrums
like an intoxicated tambourine.

My neuroticism
fascinates these people,
I think.

Not in an
exploitive,
let's-glamourize-depression
kind of way,
but in an
it is a truth universally acknowledged
kind of way--in a
"*******, cuz I've been there too"
kind of way.

See,
within my little,
concocted fantasy
of stage light
and music
and *****,
the people don't judge me
the way they do
on the outside.

Here,
I am not
melodramatic or
overly sensitive or
disposable.

Here,
my war cries sound
a little less
like death and
a little more
like poetry.

Here,
they love me
in spite of the sadness.

Here,
we share a song--
here,
they sing with me.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

jadefbartlett.wixsite.com/tickledpurple

(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience)
Ceyhun Mahi Apr 2018
You used to be a lamp to nightly eyes,
       You are a star right now,
You used to be a rose so fine and nice,
        Where is that flower-brow?
You have become a woman, proud and pretty,
        Just like a crownless queen,
I cannot blame your growth and change and ties,
        You never had a vow.
A modified ruba'i. I had seen this form in a divan (collected poems) of an Ottoman poet once. I was inspired by Lana Del Rey and her older self as Lizzy Grant.
Jade Feb 2018
You think the night

is beautiful,

with her endless

cascade of stars and

the way she wears the clouds

so seductively--

billowing wisps of froth

that adhere to her frame

like a silk negligee,

their mere existence

dependent solely upon

the curves of her body.



She's the girl next door;

the one who keeps you up at night,

the woman you want to undress.



You admire her

for her quiet,

for her stillness.



You worship her,

for she is the keeper

of both dreams and wishes



But I am afraid

you have mistaken her mournings

for loveliness.



What you thought were stars

are really tears,

molten pearls of silver

whose painful scorches

have blemished the

velveteen shadows

of the night.



And the clouds are not truly clouds

but ringlets of cigarette smoke

that arise from her

chapped, wine-stained lips,

imposing onto the air a heavy smog that

sputters throughout the blackness.



Sometimes,

she will sing,

her symphonies chaperoned by

the melancholy of Ursa Minor.



"I heard that you like 

the bad girls, honey. 

Is that true?"



The vibrato of her voice

ricochets off the

planes of the universe.

"A fine performance!"

they cheer.

(for someone who is

so unfathomably sad).



The Gods

say she is a warped record,

a label that is dictated,

not by her pitch,

but by her broken heart.



And you will listen

to her anyway;

for she will put you

to sleep with her lullabies

whose sorrow you have

failed to acknowledge--

a sorrow you have mistaken

for beauty.



But, then, perhaps you had known

of her sorrow all along.



Perhaps that was what

had captivated

you in the first place.



After all,

dark minds think alike.
"I heard that you like the bad girls, honey. Is that true?" --Lana Del Rey
Shelley-May Jan 2018
I don't want to continue.
I feel I lack the strength
For many reasons that weigh
Heavy on my chest.

Constricting my breathing of this life.
Julia Aug 2017
I'm happiest alone in my blue room
When the new moon
Brings hymns from my blue muse

Curled up in my blue egg
Bought some new Keds
Now I'm spinning blue webs

You didn't mean to do this
But you really blue this
Turning everything so blueish

We may just be two fish
But I don't know who this
Swimming soul is who could do this

I dug up some blue blooms
To fill my blue bath with fumes
While my bottle consumes
these blue veins like reigns how the hurricaine looms

I don't want to play with you boy
This blue pen is my favorite toy
I'm a kind kitten who doesn't **** coy

You can kick me til I'm sick and then make me lick the wounds
And from far away I'll meow to you blue blue tunes
It never gets better; it gets familiar
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