Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Alienpoet Dec 2016
In the land of books and make believe
A story unwritten with the power to make you cry
The modern day Orpheus looks to the sky
For the answer
The answer to why.

See everywhere there are answers
But love doesn't follow through
With Reflected mirrors it doesn't respond to you
See the path may be long and prince must be strong
But endurance was never his strong point
Disjointed he always disappoints
The princess whom he favours

A thousand years to savour in the eye of the storm
Nothing can touch him
But if that's true why was he born?
In feeling pain of loves sweet kiss withdrawn
Hand that held her hand now is worn
Getting older and older each day
He prays to time to make it ok
But time is a trickster and it will take itself away

He is the night to her day
But somewhere a dead man is calling for his crown
Was their love only a noun
A name for something that lies underground
The prince's heart still beats
And while it beats he will not retreat
But he must give up all he has gained
Or be maimed
By the wisdom that all despise
The temple of a thousand eyes
The tangled web
That tethers us all together


See he must fight himself and die
Or be caught up in his own lies
For if love be eternal
Can it stop the fires of hell that be infernal
And maybe all can be saved
Through union

But royalty must break
And be severed
One must yield
For the madman must be revealed
Or he must return his hostage
The other mind
To break the curse to finally be free
His love must bear responsibility




The white rabbit prince goes to war

Monsters gather underneath my bed
Like fallen angels
My beaten heart
Unyielding




The white rabbit prince goes to war part2

The door stands unlocked
A war for salvation
Must be fought
With the broad sword
That comes out of his mouth
You may think what you like
His is the heaven age,  begetting a new age
People may think they can get to him
They never will
**** his words


The princess dies

She is overwhelmed by the dark
He cannot save her
Demons grow out of her heart
Terrible to behold
A heart made cold
Her bloodline ends with her son with him
Now her heart flickers dim
She devours tragedy
Avidly
Her eyes rage against him
Her words cut through his mind
They run him through
Like the madness that grew and grew
Carnivorous eyes
Stare from the palace
That used to be holy
She is a woman scorned
Sets him up for a fall
As their love hits the wall
She can never forgive him
Only her soul remains
With raging fire
Against him
All he has is nightmares about her now.
Stefania S May 2016
that night
that dress.
the way when
i turned just
right, my
breast appeared.
and you, pride?
but a scolding
while you sought
candy all night.
nothing underneath,
and i was flushed,
hopeful, always.
you didn't see me
though.
you never
did
sanch kay Apr 2016
when i was young,
i only lived
between the pages of a book
between the words of a sentence
between Privet Drive and Baker Street
between bookstores and libraries
where I did not have to speak
to make friends;
where I made friends
who would not leave,
where I could leave
and return to see
that nothing had changed;
nothing, except me,
but only a little.

now that i’m older
i’ve been twice
to the other side and back;
i think i’d also like to live
between time zones and skylines
between silken sheets on starry nights
between your fingers and your eyes,
where conversations are passports
to other worlds in
in other hearts beating
in other bodies;

if only for just a little.
for #napowrimo. to you, from me.
cgembry Apr 2016
I love villains in fiction
The ones that captivate you
From the moment they strut onto the scene
Who drives the plot better than the hero
The type of villain that can turn the story on its head
And shamelessly hurl it into chaos

Villains who are smarter deadlier yet somehow
More charming than the main character
Making you feel guilty for loving them
Their electricity surges through you  
Their presence echoes long after the story has left them
Searing your memory and leaving you begging for their return
Do you have a favorite villain?
Rachel C Apr 2016
I have done many exceptional things in my life.
I have traveled to far-away worlds with effervescent seas.
I have fought alongside rebels and mutineers: against oppressive dukes and deities.
I, so vividly, remember the times I danced on the tops of skyscrapers. Thereafter howling at the moon with my fellow gypsies. But more than that, I remember the gentle laughter of friends.
I remember the soft hands of those I love on mine, while the sunsetted on an entirely unforgettable day.
I find my grandest adventures after the sun has dipped down out of sight, and the moon has risen to illuminate my so out of focus world.
I find them as I’m hunched over in my bed.
I find them as my fingers are trembling over the keys of a laptop; the glow of the screen burning in my eyes.
As I rip post-it notes full of ideas off my walls and mesh them together, I become some sort of enchanter; thus beginning yet another journey.
Although I may have not truly gone on such adventures, the feeling would remain the same if I had. Because, as I’ve come to realize, the truest of grand adventures starts with simply a single blank page and the desire to tell an earth-shattering story.
Nigel Finn Mar 2016
Our words have power. Our story is important. I think it's important to remember that, and I know people forget it sometimes (I certainly did), and some people don't believe it at all, but I believe that even if nobody is listening, even if there's no-one to tell your story to; it is still important.

Sometimes it's all we're left with and we have to cling to it with all our might. We're lucky enough to be main characters in a lot of other peoples stories and that's a hell of an achievement. We get the chance to influence other peoples stories,and they in turn influence even more peoples stories. Without us, everyone elses stories get shortened and there ends up being less variation in the story-telling world. If we don't add to the storytelling process then the whole world slows down.
Every single relationship we establish with someone gives them more of a story to tell. Even if you don't make a story of your own you're still a vessel for other peoples stories to travel through, and that's amazing in itself.

The tiniest detail can change everything - the memory of holding a hand, a snippet of information, recommending a favourite ice-cream, falling over in a hilarious manner - it travels through other peoples stories, and without you that story doesn't get told, or gets told at a later time by someone else, by which time the person you could've shared your story with has missed out on the chance to pass that story on to a whole host of other people. That changes the whole storytelling world. Every future chain of events in which you could have, but didn't, tell your story becomes different - there's less of a story, it's not as full as it could have been, and everyone, albeit unknowingly, suffers a little more for it.

Most of us aren't wise enough or powerful enough to be the true "wise man" that our speices name **** sapians implies, changing the world in a dramatic way in one fell swoop with a single action or in the course of our lifetime, but we're certainly capable of being pans narrans (story-telling apes) and injecting a bit more variety in the lives of others. I can't think of a better reason to exist other than mattering so much that the whole future of the world becomes less varied, and slightly less impressive, if we simply cease to be.

Every moment of joy, every moment of anger, rage, suffering, jealousy, euphoria and even numbness contributes to the stories we end up telling other people, even if we're not talking about those moments specifically. We learn from them, we change because of them, and the stories we tell evolve with each new experience.

You don't even need to write yourself, sooner or later, somewhere down the line, someone will write something that never would have been written if you had not existed, and their work will be all the more glorious for the stories you helped to pass on. You are literally part of a bunch of great works yet to be written. You are a poem. You are a play. You are the beginning, middle and end of several bestselling novels. You are the first sentence in a book that grabs a publishers attention and the last in one that spawns a whole franchise. You are important and without you the whole literary world loses a masterpiece that would make a whole bunch of people feel like they weren't alone in the universe. You are their comfort as they lie awake at night with nothing but a book, and the inspiration that causes a child to believe in themselves. I can't think of anything more important than your words, your thoughts and the story you have to tell, but I know that, without them, the world never becomes as glorious as it could have been.

I love you, I know that others love you as well, and I'm certain that a part of the love that people feel for you will travel throughout the stories they tell, eventually end up in a famous book, song, or an artists brushstrokes and cause someone else to love that piece of a story you helped create.

And then they'll pass it on...
A note I wrote to a friend.
melli7 Jan 2016
see here's the
thing: this
thing  happened one
day but I
don't know what
exactly
Sweet songs from long ago
Carried gently through the wind
Translated threw the rustling leaves
To the mothers
   To the daughters
        To sisters
                Brothers
                         Friends
Heaven it must be
To be soothed and cooled
By the sweet winter breeze
Just chillin by my window
Next page