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Truest tell tale thoughts
Endearing entertaining
Well wrought words written
Ronin 3d
self-hatred
is art
just like
poetry
it needs to be expressed

a razor blade
is my pen
my skin
the paper
and my blood
the ink

art tells a story
coming from
deep inside
our darkest secrets
revealed
and once they're written down
they stay
forever.
Yesterday I found my heart teetering
on the tops of your fingertips.
I was attempting to walk across a tight rope
from my chest to yours without falling.
Ev'ry word you spoke was a gust of wind
pulling me closer to falling and I spoke
my own words to stabilize my legs.
But I knew the tragedy of one slip,
If I said something too strongly or
or I didn't listen well enough,
stumbling off the rope was inevitable;
whether I hit an unknown bottom
or kept falling down the rabbit hole
the result would be the same.
My heart, broken on impact,
the force of gravity tenfold
because the value of my love for you
is everything times ten to the tenth power.
I cannot really fathom a shattered heart right now,
but I'd imagine its something like--
Humpty Dumpty on steroids falling
from the moon instead because someone
accidentally mixed up the two children stories.
Humpty Dumpty jumped over the moon
and shattered every piece of himself on the way down.
For the kings men would never find him again
And I would never be able
to put the pieces back together.
...Hey, ******, ******...Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Reif Airen Oct 6
It was from a book I hold
A lot of stories yet to be told
Containing magic and wonders to unfold
Journeys of heroes brave and bold.

It was from a book and all thag it contain
The stories and experiences that will remain
All the knowledge I continuously gain
Will all be kept inside my brain.

It was from a book that I developed my skills
Brought me the things that would remain still
Allowed me to travel through lands and hills
With timeless excitement and thrill.

It was from a book wherein I learned
From where I felt the longingness I yearned
The things in reality that cannot be earned
It was from a book that the world has turned.
Amanda Brown Sep 22
A new page has turned.
Your eyes are blinded by the bright shine of the clear page.
You’re not scared because you don’t know what your expecting.
You are scared because you’re leveling up.
With each level you move up in life, the more you develop yourself in your new skin.
Eventually, the right time will come.
You’ll look back at how much of the page you’ve covered.
Stories of happiness, hardships, lessons and much more.
When you look forward, you’ll keep putting your best foot forward.
The uniVerse Sep 18
Words they made me
now they break me
fracturing my psyche
treading so lightly
so not to disturb
the words
shadows of sentences
how could I have prevented this
where was fair warning
heralded by morning
now afternoon has come and gone
a battle lost the war not won
deviations delight at dusk
brain reduced to a single husk
barricades hold no strength
the words they come
they don’t relent
beliefs bolstered by burning desire
the mind is jaded it does tire
a saint, a sinner a sentence between
grow faint, it dimmers no longer gleams
eternal this casket
who asked it
to be
this story
has ended
for all to see.
As Atlas attempted to seize the heavens
he learned to bare the weight of the world.
Such is the cruel fate
of love to scorn turned.

And what of all the legends of old,
of hero's tales from bronze to gold.
Why instead of stone statues
are cement hearts held
in every man's chest
while we lay old stories to rest?

The songs of sirens
swapped for plastic promises,
Heads of hydras
exchanged for two faced friends
as our magic morphs to cheap tricks,
all that managed to remain
Is an Achilles heel for sincerity

So when two souls like worlds collide
and create a place of bliss,
too often one bares the weight
of both worlds, with the burden
of unrelenting loss.
Your name wrung
between the lines of
fresher tender cuts.
Brushing a slower finger
over dusty pages,
disturbing untold stories
that was long untouched.

Your name is
the tap-tap of hammer nails
and the crimson consummator.

The barricading name,
of the mesmeric temple of apologies
molded by unequivocal agony and anger
lying in the bleak moor
laced with your remnants.

My mind is left shambled on the floor,
shards of memories
now leaking as exudate
am I being inflamed?

If I were to paint this across the canvas,
it’d be red, blue then purple
a galaxy with mismatched constellations
on a rippled fabric of night skies.

If I were to ink you to paper,
tracing you in black
you’d diffuse, cry and leak
into a pool of red,
dripping at the edge of the paper.

You are the cactus
pricking with every temptation.

The one engrained in my figmentation
wrapped in lessons
coloring the pigmentation of my skin
with various hues.

You are the open wound
with the fabricated scab.

You are the name
that rings inside my head,
echoing through my memories
trembling shakes, tremors
through the cronies
widening the past a little
more within me.
Tony Tweedy Sep 12
I walked into life's library to seek perhaps adventures there.
Not really knowing what I sought my expectations unaware.

I looked first at the non-fiction upon shelves marked clearly with tape.
The more I looked yet did I realize it was from that I sought escape.

I chanced upon a section where great imagined dramas did abound.
Where mystic stories and strange creatures on the pages could be found.

Caught briefly by the imagined on the pages with heroes deeds upon.
I realized all was fantasy so through the pathway of books I ventured on.

Time passed as it tends by some scale that seemed so erratic in its flow.
As shelves and stories passed me by along the route I chose to go.

I came then to a section with a long queue of people standing there.
Patiently in their place and each with determined and focused stare.

What was it that drew them and caused this lengthened line?
Their looks suggested that the need, was very much like mine.

I had passed so many shelves with random people here and there.
But no other shelf or section for which this queue I could compare.

Through strong and strange compulsion I resolved to take my chance.
To join the much sought after line toward the shelf of "Love and Romance".
If only it were a book on a shelf....
So many books.... but each only works if there is both writer and reader.
We all seek to write and be read and so be a story shared.
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