There is nowhere to hide,
When the dark comes alive;
And it's all in your mind;
And they whisper inside...

[What is offered: denied.]

In each breath that you take;
In between every sigh;
In each fear you can't shake;
Where the whispers reside...

[and the
echo inside]

She stared down her demons - dead in the eyes;
So softly they murmured (such beautiful lies);
They taunted, declaring she must choose a side.
For in light and in darkness her soul did reside...

[deep in the dark, where her monsters would hide]

Behind the masking of dark she wore light;
Her demons - like shadows - were lost to the night.
Though deep in her heart (in a place born of fear),
The darkness would beckon, enticing her near.

In each ragged breath;
Caught between every sigh;
In each little death, where the whispers reside...

[where the
echo inside]

And she said she did know she was wicked of heart;
The monster within, recognized from the start.
And though she had witnessed, she never did fear;
The darkness that fell, as the whispers drew near...

They beckoned: she followed.
[down into the black]

There was nowhere to hide.
[there was no turning back]

For it was all in her mind, she no longer denied;
The whispers, whispers, that echoed inside...
My view of the world
           through rose tinted glasses.

I hope that we can pick up roses
      hand them to each other
rather than point weapons upon
                       brothers & sisters.
But a rose is a sour beauty
for even thorns can bleed
              deeper than a dull sword.

We must speak to each other find
             solace in others humanity.
For words can heal rifts that started
                 long before we were born.
But syllables latching on to the misgivings
                      of insecurities can wound.
Like papercuts on the mind,
        speaking to the shallow cradles swinging
        in a hateful wind of whispers flawed.

I wear glasses that I take of every now
          and then, I have a idealistically flawed
view seeing the potential of us.
But knowing we can fall harder
                                      than when can get up.
Lyn-Purcell May 27
Dear ribbons of waterflame,
                       gold, green and blue
                swathes itself around my palms,
            a ball of radiant waters that floats in
          cupped hands and at the thought of
      love, it buds and curls like a lily's
             the years of hushed times
                  eat at my very soul, nulling
                      deafening me to the music
                             of the mint-dark sky,
                                of the flame-thorn sun
                          of the bone-white stars
                 My feet are kissed by the
            star-studded shores, washing,
       relieving the
  fragments of my shattered
I keep the shell of my hope
      in my bosom, near the heart
        My eyes dancing zultanites
           With my gaze on the horizon
                   rise the clouds of trouble
                    How long will I plan to thrive
                  when I am but a shrinking violet
            cold, iced with scorn
       I am the Mistress of Waterflame
    Daughter of the Mers
  Scion of the Dragon Line

     So blood will bend and billow
         like flowers
            So fits the one of the skies and sea
             An expert who delivers in
        the trade of

But the hope in my bosom pulses
      As my bloodlust evulses

                As I dream of the warmth that will soothe my weary
This poem is basically a continuation of my old poem 'Drift'
'Whispers' speaks to me.
It's a statement, a proud affirmation that I'm not ashamed to have my head in the clouds.
For the world is too harsh...
© Whispers by Lyn-Purcell

Be back soon
Lyn x
Viji Suresh May 20
I hear those whispers in my ears,
Just like the flutters of a butterfly,
The words that I want to hear,
The words that's lost somewhere,
Like a fine song that leaves the flute,
I strain to hear the tunes of wild,
The bamboo calling out for me to try,
I closed my eyes anticipating the shrill cry,
My lips circled and blew the tune,
Started not right, but there was a music..
Music that followed the sway of trees,
A song that embraced the whole outdoor,
It wasn't my worry if my tunes were wrong,
There was no one to listen to this particular song.
I knew then I should take the steps alone,
My ears tuned to hear those little whispers,
Let me make a song from what I heard and what got lost somewhere,
The filled blanks are my emotions,
When I played them in my flute,
It got better and better..
Even the lost song is for a better tide...
cait-cait May 18
anger burns so deep within me ,
i dont know where
it stops .

god told me there was a mistake
when creating

(and he whispers when he lies)

look me in the eyes next time --

tell me it's not painful .
did he lie?
Bleeding eyelids
Exploding insides
Stop the shouting
Stop the screaming

A speck of dust
In the grand scheme of things
Stop the voices
Stop the whispers

All your nightmares
Coming closer
Stop the shelter
Start to run
All sorts of
Mr. Bo Jangles
OH! Grace
Secretive smiling

Cheeks and lips
slip out potent
Wines spill about
He lashes out!!
Only to mask
Not to see
Never to ask
Do I ask?

Whispers Nirvana
Palm Trees dance
Salsa Hot steps
Let, not get caught up in our own affairs we need to mingle if we are single or married the tangle hair affair over the threshold let's carry on...
zeebee Apr 30
whispers are just words in black and white,
so let your voice fill my ear with sepia-tone
paint my skin monochrome
let your words tint my blood with white-out
and my skin with ink.

touch my hair
and rub the colors of your heart
onto my split ends
like hair dye from a discount store,
stain my face
press your dyed fingertips
into the hollows of my cheeks,
because they lack color.

let your gaze
cast honeyed light on my shoulders
let it warm my freezing fingers
let it thaw my frostbitten lungs,
make my elbows lighten
with the heat of your palms
imprint the spaces between my ribs
with the marks of your fingers
like puzzle pieces, meant to fit together.
six hundred and eleven
She sits rather still, stitching her loom
shackled and bound to the whispering room
While the walls shutter speeches
she slouches then reaches,
her stitching resumed.

Threads of silk pool in spools
cast to the floor
Hushing the voices
as they pour
Not sure. I've been editing it for awhile and I give up.
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