They tell me I couldn't be more beautiful, or be anymore kind,
Clearly the fools here are blind.
An ugly truth uncovered,
A dark fore-telling discovered.
For I am a siren,
Singing against the wind
If you listen to my song,
Closely you can see
There's a darkening world inside of me.
You will hear the words
Full of pain,
They become hostel, and vile.
Thier potent words
Masked by false hope.
As my mouth spews fire.
And you fall in love,
blinded to my ways.
I shake my head in dismay.
Standing next to you but,
I'll let you waist away on my battleground,
So here I stand in my manipulations.
Never once did I lend my hand,
To pick you up again.
Your soon to be a distant memory,
Like a passing thought played in slow motion.
Your gone now,
Did you enjoy my song?

Do you know what I am?

A siren--
Destined to tip the boat,
Pull you off,
And watch you sink:
Drowning.

I want the attention
And the glory
Of being the unbroken one.

But watching you fall
Makes me shiver beneath my feathers.

Instead I let you swim for the shore.

Your face,
Tender, round and dimpled,
Framed with gilded, carved, tawny curled
Whirlpools of hair, long, lighted, and sparkling,
Your face is the face—
Of Ireland.

Your lips,
Full, moist and deathly deep,
Are wells, not well for me, not safe, taboo,
Tantric, tall told tales of brave Odysseus
Under Circe's alchemies
Of forgetfulness.

Your *****,
The zenith of blossom in fabled
Elysium, gateway to the forbidden gardens
Of sage and sinners, warrior-poets, Aphrodite's
Envy, Poseidon's drowning
And smoldering Zeus.

Coming down and over
With a narcissistic tide
Daddy's little nightmare
but to momma she's alright

Punched with independence
to hide her own stigma
Breaking hearts left and right
Out for lust, not love

Regurgitating phrases
as if anything was new
Somehow I was blind enough
to ever be with you

I'm never turning back again
You're only burning time
You have taken happiness
But you'll never take my pride.

Tired of the sleepless nights
Thinking if my percieved reality is a
reflection
Of my desires
Or if we stand here flesh and bone
Paranoia making fresh wounds of the scars
left...
From the last time i adored false idols
But the song of the siren drew me from the
night
And it fed me the nectar of its fruit
So her venom now flows through my veins
My every thought laced with the poison
whoms cure lies in the sirens cloak.

He sails along the open seas
She lingers beneath the waters
Her sultry voice calls to him
Luring him into her waters
He's a sweet man
That's what she finds most enticing
She sings her song of heaven
Until he travels within her reach
Then her song changes from heaven to death
He doesn't realize it
He's captivated
He thinks she's perfect and harmless
Her intentions, however, aren't so pure
She doesn't mean to
She's lonely
But she can't resist the hunger for his soul

Hush, dear hero, don’t say a word
Steer with my breath as the wind in your sails
Fall asleep dreaming worn out dreams
You’ll sail to a place called hell

Come, dear hero, blink not an eye
Over storming seas by and by
Drink my voice as honeyed wine
The rocks, your pillows, tonight

Rest your head, dear hero sweet
Let the music cloud your eyes
Hush, listen to my lullabies

There's a feeling I've felt hindering on the tip of my tongue, twirling with sawdust at the end of my bed. Its tingled my toes and tickled my nose and killed all hopes that this is just happiness.

Sleep is for figments and products of sanity, neither of which I can claim heritage. Well perhaps figments in the waking hours of the darkness, but that is a tale for another time.

I can feel his fingertips stroking my sides, reminding me what it is to feel human and vulnerable and perfect. Didn't know he boosted me ego and turned me into the self absorbed maniac you see before you today. Tyrant, remembrr? Oh wait, that's another tale altogether again.

I ramble in the night, in the morning, all the time. My thoughts wander with echoing clarity to encompass the truth about me; not everything is quite right. The teacups are lopsided at the unbirthday table tonight.

Yet again, speaking in riddles and stories unbeknownst to you. Stupid me, stupid Grace, stupider you. Why are you so open to my madness anyway? Maybe you're the crazy one.

This sick godlike embodiment I feel is one I forget isn't real, isn't me, isn't life. But wait. Its a part of me, so perhaps it is real as well? Call a jury, wake a judge, there must be a verdict on my elation. Am I a minor deity or are the synapses playing some cruel joke on my heartstrings?

Heartstrings, why did I bring them into this? I have shut them off for now, for they are dumb and deaf to honesty and logic and do whatever the hell they feel. Or is it whatever the heaven? I forget sometimes where the real misery is, or how the expression goes. I've never quite gotten everything right, being as upside down as I.

Insomnia brings out the manic in me, and I know its not real, but for a moment, just a moment, I belong. I am real, I am loved, I am powerful. Weak little Grace is no more, with her fears and contradictions. Just strength is left, and it is glorious.

Just remember not to let the heffelumps get you in the night, for they are the true evil behind your honey ***. Or am I a heffelump? I can't remember anymore.

This is going nowhere, everywhere, somewhere.

Wake me up inside before I destroy myself, or simply perpetuate my perfection with a caress of your hand. Whatever suits your fancy.

Call me Aphrodite and we'll call it a night after hours of mindblowing ***. But you expected that all along, of course you did, because you know my bones better than we both realize.

When you put your hands on me I feel ****. But yet again, right now I an perpetually **** and twitchy and awake and fake. Dare you to kiss me anyway.

Dare you to see me, psychotics and all.

Bet you'll run like the rest, yet like all good hiders its refreshing to be found every once in awhile.

Find me, and see. See the monster behind my beautiful eyes. That's the day when you'll see what true danger looks like; me.

Insomnia makes me odd, but yet again I'm always odd.

Little miss muffet sat on her tuffet, eating her curds and craves, for a man betwixt her to tell her she's killer and make her a siren next day.

Forget, no, yes, its all I do. Its not how that goes, for sirens are certainly not temporary. I am certainly a black widow every day, not just each odd thursday.

Go to bed, Grace. I beg of you.

Close my eyes and say goodnight to the beloved moon, for the sun is nearly up and it certainly hates me, I am sure of it.

Just never forget all this is wrapped up in one little old me. No one seems to remember that until its far too late, so might as well run now, because otherwise little miss muffet here on her tuffet will be the death of you.

The spells she's casting  .  .  .
Enchantress offers her hand,
  .  .  .  Waving like a wand.