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Jessica Colbalt May 2014
Perhaps it's time
For the stag to stalk the gun
For the driver to be blinded
For the killer to panic.

Perhaps it's time
For my porcelain mask to crack
For the sweet smile to twist itself
For the pain to be revealed.

I have wasted the days.

Only now
As I dwell on the years old
Does my future end.
Only now
Does the stag stalk the gun.

Only now.

I have wasted the days.
Elise E Apr 2014
Love is a delicate piece of art
It is beautiful in every way
Beautiful to look at, to be around
And warms any heart

Love is a handcrafted porcelain sculpture
God sits on his throne and fashions it Himself
Each person's love as different as a snowflake
He finds joy in doing this, He is the only one who can

He decorates His work with figures such as open flowers
He may use gentle songbirds, or brave angels
Every one is different
He then gives us our love in our mother's womb

We are born with it, we live with it
We try to let it show
We embrace it, we share it
But we don't just let it go

We must be careful to whom we give our love
Not everyone is worthy, they may drop it
It will shatter to pieces, and we are left without it
Our hearts are left broken

My love was broken
I never tried to mend it, only God can mend it
But before you try to mend it you must clean it up
It is a shattered mess and only time can clean it

Then God must come down through someone to mend this broken love
He picks someone very special to do this
When you meet this very special person they restore your love
You forever share this love

I have met this person, the one God sent for me
He mended my love and it is now whole
It now shines with songbirds and open flowers
It now glows purple

My love is now whole because of him
I never want to lose him
He mended my love
Oh, how I love him


#11_2/23/2012
A beautiful picture of our delicate love.
Steven Fortune May 2014
If you hear endearment in the plea
leave the echoed sigh of sympathy
and come with your libretto lungs
and lips of red zephyr absolution
to purify the black coughs of cumulus
evaporating the enclosure
of my satin-threaded fetters

A failed emblem of security
in solitary journeys

Come and lay your mortal coil
of seraphic incarnation
next to my imprisoned vessel
of corrupted humanness
Slow my palpitating hourglass
of ashen peace-of-mind
with organic visitations of
your marble maze shrines
Here I can placate my warped
direction with the porcelain decor
of your serene skin

Angel

Wrap your light around my being
like the sun around an icicle
then release me long enough
to euphemise the darkness in me
from de-light to silhouette enlightenment

Hear my plea
muffled by annulled identity
Be the angel
hiding in my boiled
satin threads
and reveal me
09 04 13
cosmic poet Apr 2014
there's a coldness in her eyes
mystery in her smile
death in the way she moves
hollow little girls have more room for secrets
Jazzelle Monae Apr 2014
To feel like porcelain,
fragile and easy to break
is something I'm no stranger of

Now to feel like
stone,
solid and dense,
is something I know nothing of

But to feel like
oxygen,
impenetrable, flawless;
to be the air that fills your lungs
is all I aim to be
© 2014 by Jazzelle Monae. All rights reserved.
Darvoid Mar 2014
Poor poor toothbrush
Precariously perched upon the porcelain precipice
Each night I push your plastic pricklies into my plentiful plaque
Only to reduce you to your perch
To ponder your pitiful plight
I commited this to memory from my childhood. I don't know who wrote it. There was a cartoon attached of a little dog looking up at the toothbrush on the edge of the sink.

— The End —