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Torin Apr 2016
What I really need
Is better left unsaid
Its always been a dream
Always I believe
Esmerelda
I see you dancing by the fire
maybe I should tell you that I love you
I guess its better if I don't

What I really need
Is what tortures me
A place to go where I can really be
A place I know I'll never reach
Esmeralda
I see your body casting shadows
The silhouette of a beautiful woman
I guess its better if I don't

What I really need
Is a heaven
A way to feel like I'm alive
I way to hold an angel in my arms
Esmerelda
I see your glorious gyspey eyes
I see my peace in them
I guess its better if I don't
Keith J Collard Sep 2012
"So what are your eyes seeing?"
Only deaths of beautiful human beings,
while the hideous pass on by fleeing.
"So, in what do you believe?"
That to the back,
comes the knife from the sleeve.
and with your wife, he will sleep.
"If any, who do you pray to?"
Devil, god, wind--anything that is fatal,
or the unlikely, like a princess in the fable.
"In lieu of these things, there are not many options,
what do you see yourself being?"
A very lonely man, writer and tragedian.
I am aware of the non standard use of ' seeing'
Tori Jurdanus Feb 2013
He called me princess. I don't think much of it, let it slip my mind from time to time.
I'm fine with it.
Until today, when I watched a woman tell a little girl she wasn't one.
Talking about how her daddy shouldn't call her what she's not and her mama shouldn't be filling her head with words like, "You can be anything you want to."
Like, its not true and if you don't tell her now she'll never outgrow the idea of being
A princess.

And though Heaven forbid we dreams big,
I, was definitely a princess.
Princess Aleisia of the Beauties, a forest is my own back yard,
my castle was a tree I literally believed gnomes lived beneath: Alglenia.
An orphaned warrior; I was half gypsy, half native, half Neopian Light Faerie,
And though I clearly was not a princess who did math, I protected my subjects from monsters and evil that was constantly trying to overthrow good.
I could wield a Morning Star better than any boy on the block.
I had inner battles with myself, for I had the blood and horns of a dragon and it was always a challenge to be both Athena's apprentice and an aspiring sage because I thrived in the dark.
I was part demon like Inuyasha,
I was Sango,
I was Mononoke,
I was Mulan,
I was Pocahontas,
I was Bell AND the Beast,
I was Susan and Lucy,
I was Esmerelda, Anastasia

And that's still a big part of me.

Because, if someone had listed all the things I couldn't be while my knees were still to weak for me to stand and speak up for what I believed in, I probably would never have been a poet.
So excuse me for using the word "heroine" with the last ounce of innocence the world has yet to offer a little girl.
Pardon me for trying to learn to infuse grace and charm with strength and loyalty.
Now, imagine with me.
The places I used to play left in ruin. My castles disintegrating. The echo of my battle cries through the forests and fields and mountains have long since faded because the heir to my throne never took her place.

Deny her the right to grow out of her child hood?
Deny me the right to write?
This was never a career choice of mine,
This will always be a way of life.
anon Oct 2017
thanks
no i mean it

thanks

i was actually feeling a bit
d                          
o                  
w        
n

and­ i needed you to tell me
on a monday night
at 7:53
in the middle of july

that i had i nice ***

it really brightened my day
to know
that i
a human person

can be complimented
because of my
assets

instead of the fact
that i work
all the time
without getting tired
or giving up

or that
i study
so much
i feel like
i'm falling apart

or that
i spend time
trying to make the world
around me
a little
bit
better

i really wanted to affirm
what girls are told
from the time
they can listen

that cup size matters
and whether or not
you fill out your jeans
means
whether or not
you might matter

that we will be ignored
in the work place
if we aren't
supermodels

and even if we are
that is all we become

bodies

not people

you know
somebody once told me
it doesn't matter
what you look like
because your personality can make up
for anything

which should be good
like
i look like quasimodo
but with a sense of humor
and a bit of *****
i'm esmerelda

i can look like a spork
but if i laugh
and play along
like nothing's wrong
like girls should
i can be a full fork

i love that i have to be something

really

i do

i love that being
is more important than
existing

i love that i have to be someone who listens and never speaks

i love that i have to work with all my might to be thin enough for people who don't care about other people

i love that i have to have a double d and up in order to be even noticed

i love that my **** has to be filled out and gigantic so that i can be assured personhood by a man

because girls are only

what

the

men

see

we are reduced to objects
who give up
and don't fight

because the women who fight
are criticized
and *****
and killed
and we can't stop it

because the more we speak

the more we are silenced

so thank you
sir

for reminding me at 7:53
in a menards parking lot
your wedding ring glinting
like the malice in your eye
that all i am
is
what you see
The Black Beast Mar 2013
Watching those two
Happiness and Envy
The green-eyed monster attacks me
And I am left defenseless against a force I will never attack

The smiles and cuddles
The trust and passion,
I wish I could console them all within my heart and life
But I cannot get grip
I cannot hold on to the sparks of my former self’s heart
And I am left as cold as the unlit fireplace

But something stirs
The spark within myself is starting to reheat my body
To reheat the passion and trust I once had
Then it hits me

The fact that I cannot truly love
That I cannot truly have passion
I cannot truly be in love
Because I cannot be loved

This hideous monster
The thing many hearts have wisely shut out
The thing that loves like a hunchback Quasimodo
And needs its Esmerelda to set it free from its isolation and pain

But she is long in the future
And all I can do is wait
Wait through the pain of happiness
And the pain of envy
The green-eyed monster attacks me
And I am left defenseless against a force I will never attack
wash the cabbage
peel the parsnips
down to church
for morning worship

Esmerelda at the *****
on the triangle (Bermuda)
Captain Morgan,

Mathew, Mark, Luke and when
we've read the verses one to ten
the vicar drones on once again

I'm going down the pub.
Onoma Dec 2023
kyphosis/hunchback--basket of abandon, made

stronger than a dozen shadows of men.

mustachio bushel eyebrow covering his left eye,

a bloaty flap of toad-warts covering his

right eye.

palsied arms clamped at his sides--like a chick's

wings embossed in yolk, draggy right foot trailing him.

Quasimodo: 'half made'--to swing from thickly fibrous

ropes & land on musty planks.

swinging/sliding/climbing, up & down, man to creature--

creature to man...in the attic of housed worship.

made deaf by the struck-unstruck sounds of Notre Dame's

bells, cathedral that gave him ears to hear.

of which he named each, each a heroine of the belltower.

made King of Fools by the townspeople during festivity--

crowned & propped up on a third-hand thrown.

stealing away a crowd throwing currency in a gypsy

goddess' tambourine: Esmerelda, whose proceeds went

to the: King of Thieves.

not long after Quasimodo/Hunchback is accosted with

rotted vegetables by the townspeople as he's led to the

public square.

after blindly following orders to abduct a certain gypsy

by the archdeacon.

where he's bound to a rotating pillory & flogged thirty times.

Esmeralda mounts the pillory and pours water from a leathery

flask into his mouth, as he called for it crooked-faced, the jutting

topples of sparse--but hard in the yellow of teeth.

amid bloodlust catcalls that already drenched the pasture-green

rags of his shirt.

his surrogate Father, archdeacon: Claude Frollo, the one that

first reached into a basket to coddle abandonment--as to invest

in afterworld treasures...rebreaks the bones of fifteenth century

sacrilege into covetous place.

whose unanesthetized voices escape from the mouths of Quasimodo

& Esmeralda.

whom the Hunchback rescued from the gallows, citing sanctuary

by church decree, after being falsely accused of murdering

Captain Phoebus.

a philandering standby of integrity, that saw Esmeralda's

eyes follow & fall for the span of his sword, all the wooded

babes of her marital hopes--dashed.

followed up by the sped blackening of the archdeacon's

hooded robe, ripping open the door of jealousy he spied thru.

an almost unbroken motion of forced entry, & ****** of blade

into Captain Phoebus' back--though the ***** survived the *****.

this active underbelly could withhold no more the fat of

a pig on a spit, so after several **** attempts on Esmeralda--

the "bewitched" archdeacon: Claude Frollo, was impaled by

a nail like a renounced garment by Quasimodo, and left to moths.

he loved Esmeralda as he hid his face from her in their brief

interchanges, with the rests of a pianist absorbing unplayable keys.

along with the gargoyle that spat fire from the belltower to ensure

her escape into the arms of her true love: Piere, a poet.

along the underground torches of safe passage, Esmeralda &

Piere, followed Quasimodo's secret instruction...as they were seen

to sunset.

as the king's army closed in on: The Hunchback of Notre Dame, he

clung to his stony confidant--a gargoyle.

where the pale stories of dawn climbed the cathedral, Quasimodo

clung to the gargoyle's head, where he was talked way down.
Quasimodo
ringing bells in slo-mo
must be Sunday, so
I go back to bed.

Esmerelda
( is that the right way how I spelled her? )
always on the 'hurry-up'
brings me in a loving cup,

the bells continue to toll.
It mutters morning
mourning all the mornings
that have been.

What should not have been
became
and not because it was
although it was.

A smell of woodsmoke
stokes an ancient memory.

But lost now in the statuesque
hidden amongst the grotesque.
Esmerelda .


Who dared paint this picture
of the ruins in Cathedral square?
Isaace Jan 4
Burnished green,
Coloured crimson—
Reminiscent of the city of Dis.

Rising from churning seas of the onyx chagrin!
Carrying clandestine echoes of a civilisation within!
Dismantled— reassembled—
Delivering concrete messages to a futuristic kin—

“This is obscene, Esmerelda!”

Gaunt of the clergy,
Of the orchid,
Of a worship violation,
Conjuring apparitions of violent steam!
The blue and the teal, they kneel, unseen,
Receiving concrete messages from a cardinal, unseen.

Sun bearing down upon the straining, emerald trees!—
Many eyes and many limbs reach skywards,
Towards temple steams.

— The End —