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Zero Nine Nov 2017
Not thoughtless
   enough to  ****  all day long
Not thoughtful
   enough to  escape the hood
Not petty
   enough to  market my  ancient little lies
Not honest
   enough with my  self  to
   out  grow  these twisted  vines

   All along, I've been
friends, only with the pen
   The pen is kind to me
when  I've  blown  my
chances, myself
   Slice  a  Y  you'll find
   The  heart  is  pa - per
   The  blood  has taken ink

   All along, I've been
friends, only with the pen
   All along, I've not been my own  by
extension, not myself
   No way I ever was
   If you could only see me now  my
Athina Mitchell Dec 2015
Dear Sanity,
In the night, I wake to find myself without your company, but the warmth of the chain about my neck keeps you at the forefront of my mind. The heavy links rake across my flesh searing your disapproval; pulling me to your ankles so that I might kiss them for mercy. Branded at the chest by this heart of yours, though, I am the very antithesis of your will. I was seduced by the comfort of your homogeneous masses and tempted by the fruits of my curiosity. Yet, it is through fire—the deep passions of my essence—that I will be reborn. And you, who I loved through the eyes of others, will HOWL at my betrayal! Then stand upon your mountain peak and bludgeon me with reason so that I might know what your light looks like.  

To what end? So that I might cling to this chain, this keepsake, which I did not need until you bestowed your judgment. Yes, judgment, though you would have me believe it is your friendship, your safety, your sympathy. Like the swelter of a thousand suns you oppress me saying, “Keep quiet your ***** yearning!” So who would know better, the hour of my discontent, than you who watches me, unblinking, during the day? It is here, at the tween of night, that I shed the scales from my eyes and throw off your burden of want—the goals for which you leave me always pining, but never appeased. Is this shirking to seek the dark? So be it. I will cloak myself in blood—for all that I am wrong—and dance in the pale light of the unassuming.


And the faces of the homogeneous masses drew forthwith to witness dawn.

In a drawer,
There was found,
A locket with
A minor crown—

Of leaf: laurel,
And shaded night.

When opened up
All succumbed to fright.
For found inside
Was a broken light;

Pandora’s hope
Had lost the fight
This is not so much a poem... it's just baroque, with a poetic finish.
I wrote this a year or two ago, but didn't have a place to put it.

— The End —