"goths" poems
Why is it so cool to hate on a group
for their fashion sense?
Or that they like to be off the mainstream?
You are doing the same thing that
people were doing to the
grunge
goths
punks
hippies
beatniks
flappers
and they all did something with their counterculture.
Ever think that
ours is the hipsters?
Not really,
they've been around since *The *** Pistols*
actually
they started them.
They made it cool to go to a thrift store
and buy things out of comfort
then rip it up
change it so it looked brand new.
Punk
that made Hipsters.
But now they are just some fad
that people hate on.
Just because they like to talk about
indie bands
knowing them first
wearing band tee's of bands they listen too
wearing vintage and retro clothing
likes reading
being in a cafe
organic food
vegan.
Stereotyping a group is all people did.
Now I can't wear things or do things
because some *** hole is going
to say
**"Ha you're such a ******* hipster!"**
Why don't we stop hating people on what they wear
because how do you expect to get past
racism
homophobia
sexism
ableism
fatphobia
transphobia
prejudice
if we can't even get past how people dress?
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 12:28 PM UTC
leering lurking
before me
crazy jet black coal eyes
peer
red crimson droplets
forming on foaming saliva
teeth as sharp
as a bear trap
baited and ready to pounce
copyright gothic mistress 2012
May 28, 2012
May 28, 2012 at 9:39 AM UTC
I've seen hobos and hippies at bus stops
Goths, drunks and stoners
Pretty skinny girls with Starbucks in their pretty hands and leggings
Quiet girls with notebooks
Guys who are loud and always smiling
Guys who keep to themselves
People wearing a moustache and a skirt
Mothers with 6 children and a pet bird perched on their stroller
I always wonder of them
I have seen you
With your nice eyes
And silence
The quiet way you don't speak
How you always wear long sleeves
And I wonder about you
...Does anybody ever wonder about me?
I doubt it.
You have to be interesting, to be wondered about.
Or in a movie.
Or a book.
Or a fairytale.
You need to live in daydreams.
I think I need to move.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
Beach Goths melting into black puddles
The tide's coming in
It shimmers like a heavy metal
Crucifix
Paste wasted as it saturates in glitter
The sun's warm pallor on the purest white
Foundation
UV rays penetrate like
Guillotines, ghoulish things
From a bygone era
There's a hearse parked in the sand
The tide's coming in
For quite a maudlin little oil spill
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 7:42 PM UTC
I don't have a problem with
hipsters, goths, jocks,
skaters, rockers, preps,
farmers, plumbers, executives,
Blacks, Hispanics, Asians, Caucasians,
gays, furries, bronies,
foodies, junkies, abstainers,
republicans, democrats,
atheists, monotheists, polytheists,
etc.
People are people.
So, why begrudge them that?
I do, however, have a problem with mean, hateful people
who's greatest joy comes in a form of shadenfreude.
Be who you are,
but don't impose your self-image onto others;
impose others onto your Self with a healthy dose of salt.
You may learn a thing or two.
Live and let live.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 10:19 AM UTC
.*of course i dream i fame, who doesn't dream of either fame or fortune... but... i'm sane enough to want to achieve that sort of stature, postmortem... what? with all the celebrity culture big brother ******** who the hell seeks fame while still alive? oh... well... there are the countless examples...*
and why would i take an ancestry test
of my D.N.A. make-up?
i remember the first conversation
i had with the father of my
first girlfriend...
how many famous Poles (Polaks...
do i look like something akin
to an anorexic waving a *******
flag?) there were...
i forgot Copernicus...
i forgot Marie Curie...
i forgot Chopin...
**** i forgot my own name
when i saw my first girlfriend's
sister walk down the stairs...
why would i do D.N.A. testing?
i just looked at what we eat...
and i mean we, truly,
it's called haggis in Scotland,
it's called black pudding
in England,
and it's also called
czarna kiszka (black intestines)
in Poland...
the Vikings founded Kiev
after all...
i like Nordic music, take a guess...
take a while...
my maternal surname is
Batuk... which is a Bohemian
variant of the Polak Batóg...
so a mix of Czech and...
Viking? the Goths...
if i had the time, and also the time
reference to reply to my first girlfriend's
father... while i was rudely
interrupted by the nymph that was
her sister... it's still a dream to me...
or what's called an arranged marriage
in India...
well... i would reply...
and how many Nobel literature
laureates... came from... England?
deathly silence...
you're right...
you're importing all this ******
post empire post colonial
perspectives and you have...
0 Nobel laureates in
the category of literature...
none!
zero! nil! oh!
yeah...
oh... really?
yes!
zilch... so zip-it-up, shrimpy.
i take certain words to heart...
sharpens my memory,
i'm not offended...
i just remember better...
you sometimes require certain
rubrics that are exclusive
and do not include
the rubrics of formal education...
this memory?
oh...
2003.
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 7:26 PM UTC
For I to cherish soaked in sunbathe dream of freckles on cream and strawberries
For you to see and sigh and fill with warm fizzy pink water too sweet to contemplate
For you to see and sigh and long for long sleeved sheathed in jealousy spilling out in bright red syrup
For I to paint faces with my utterances fanciful making ugly alluring curious mysterious attractive
I can take my nose to be strength clever seducting wicked men and women to listen to my describes or look upon papyrus sheets
I can make my jaw a naive child stricken with blue veins translucent skin clinging papery like wings to brittle bones under eaves ready to snap
I can write my eyes wide innocent in first time headlights first time frosted firsts filled with empty antecedents of unclasped things and fifty fifty longings
I can make the ugly striking like a stinging snake cruel contemplating lashing smarts or make it sad sorrowful quiet longing new to life love mature but still a child
I can add grace poise to my stretched out neck make it stand tall of pride training because it's ladylike to do so and so I must and say my prayers every night too as I powder over my faintly drawn freckles
Boyish humour uncaring to my generous brows a baseball mitt bubblegum cards and a fetish for goths forever unrecognised as spit flies and at home haircuts compose a flyaway life
Embellish the hollows collarbones and detract the too-broad shoulders make the frailty proud and small shrink it down to fit in a girl big brothers to gentle and lovers to rough pinned wrists that near snap
With my words I reap the benefits of my own mindly kindling I wander through half made times in history and finished times two seconds right now
I can create myself and so I do my thirst to be is insatiably insatisfied like my attraction to bad grammar and lilts when you talk so I do I become each and every one
I create myself and it's addicting
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 5:41 PM UTC
Hot latte, with some chocolate dust sprinkles on top. Man I will be frank, Americans got it to easy, to easy. That's the american way. To many American's now have it to easy, ******* off of government funds away from the one's who really need them. We got a ghetto every 5 or 10 miles. A suburb every few miles, a mansion 1 to every five burbs. We got It easy with groceries, a store we get food from! Dont need to grow food anymore really, everything is manmade poisoned and antibiotic shots in your chicken and beef. We have dudes who wanna buy women, or men that wanna buy men. Even men who wanna buy trannies ( transexuals) or dudes who buy woman who are really men. but what countrys not that way. We got all different creeds breeds all here. Doctor's you can pay 200 bucks for the illegal way to get scripts, prescriptions for the not knower's. We have mad alcoholics here like no tomorrow. And serious ****** and dope addicts, We have jocks, idiots, goths, strippers, musicians, the best actors in the world. Along with the best movies. We have the old western U.S. we have the east coast where oceans you can get from the south to the east to the west. We have hillbillies, rednecks, gangsters, wannabees, liars, thieves, killers, rapists, city boys, country girls, Mercedes Benz, old pickup ford, motorcycle gangs -baddest ever.. We have everything here to get you in jail, hell and heaven. We can make you sin. Or make you want to repent. Come to us. Come to the united states of america. Forgot a big thing! The soilders. We got the best marines army navy all soilders in the world here.we have the most weapons of any country in this weird place. We have soilders who lose their lives for things they think their fighting for when really its rich overshadow government money their fighting for. We got huge graves, big tombstombs. Mostly marked with men who died unrespected from world war 1 , 2 and possibly three sometime in our sunny future. Welcome to America. Heaven and hell in one slice.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 7:12 PM UTC
Strange as it seems,
November schemes,
For Isi bears the moonlight gleam.
For as I saw
This fluffy awe
Ricardo, memes, on me bestow!
She melts my heart,
This kitten-tart
Propels me from the very start!
Yet, fill my soul!
And make me whole
Till I have reached the final goal.
You moonshine light,
That fills the night,
With lunar gleam and kitten blight.
And dear sweet cat,
I'll tell you that,
I'm fond of you, from sole to hat.
Of ears and tail,
I shall not fail
To feel your floof beyond the pale.
And they shall love
This morning dove
That's you, who's sent from up above.
Ah! Isi dear,
You make me steer
Towards your sight, your kitten-gear.
This kitten-gear!
So sweet and sheer
Shibari-knots dispel my fear.
Shibari-knots
And dazzling Goths
Victorian air, I breath a lot!
Sing high, my soul,
From pole to pole,
That you, my cat-girl, make me whole!
Nov 14, 2019
Nov 14, 2019 at 8:17 AM UTC
I don't wear black clothing (when I do)
because I think it'll make me fit in with 'cool' people,
I wear black because I like it.
I enjoy it. I think it's rad.
I don't wear black nail polish on my fingers and toes
because I think it's 'cool,' or that I want others to think so,
I put it on because I like the way it looks.
I like the chipping that happens;
I feel it's a microcosm of Time, itself.
Nail polish exemplifies Wabi and Sabi.
Besides, I have quite the affinity for black.
I don't wear black eyeliner (when I do)
because I think it makes me so metal,
or because I think I need makeup to look good,
I wear it because I enjoy the theatrics
and I like the way it makes me feel.
I don't have the style I do
because I want to associate with
Goths, Rockers, Steampunks or Metalheads;
I have the style I do
because I genuinely like the way it looks.
It just so happens that I get those labels
because people like to put people in boxes.
I don't do what I do
because I want others to notice and like me for it, if anything,
many others will simply mock and make fun of me for it,
but, ironically, much of that spite and disdain
merely fuels my relished rejection
of modern cultural normality and gender roles.
In times of identity crisis, how weird is it to self-identify?
I do what I do
because I like to do it,
because it makes me happy;
because everything is a way to express yourself,
if you only allow it to be such a medium,
if only you find things to use as such mediums.
I see it as Art for the body,
somewhat poetic and transient;
make of it what you will.
It's truly too bad
everyone misconstrues expression
based on their own psychology,
even me. I do it too, though I try not to:
I am not exempt from my own critiques;
I am, in fact, my closest frame of reference.
At the end of the day, though,
you just have to do what you like,
for people and words shall fade
but it is what you have within that stays.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 4:03 PM UTC
in ref. to the supposed "unholy" trinity -
i can only clearly identify one member,
antonym of the holy spirit (alias of
a community, rather than a person,
as stated by Žižek - in his words, should
it be different, it would be a profanity) -
if that is the case, then the variation
of holy spirit is ascribed the title zeitgeist -
or: the spirit of the times - the 20th century's
example is filled with zeitgeists -
communist, nazis, hippies, punks, goths,
beats, squares, or 21st century's militant atheists
and Jihadists, Blairites...
as is evident, the zeitgeist is short lived -
it's naive in being easily influenced - but because
of its gullibility it's also brutal in not being
influenced for worth of establishing a religion -
it's "unholiness" is precisely the reason why
it's poly-adaptable - multi-faceted - unruly -
it changes very quickly and is never rock-like -
but because of its gullibility it's also brutal in
not being influenced to the point of permanence -
the fluctuations are numerous, and democratically so,
many people can attach themselves to the "unholy
spirit" at any time they want, without knowing
they're actually part of a congregation - and as soon
as a congregation is established, the zeitgeist
implodes and disappears - the congregation breaks up -
soon overpowered by the forces of imitation -
ah - now the second person of the "unholy" trinity -
the Imitator - the flawed first entry post-zeitgeist -
never reaching the zeitgeist's potential, this tsunami
wave lasts longer than the actual zeitgeist - it's
a variation of nostalgia - not a nostalgia of thinking back
but a nostalgia of trying to revive - resuscitate -
the assortment of vanity projects; now i'm either too
hangover or just know what i have to do today
before the Royal Opera House and Verdi's Nabucco -
a peasant is heading into town, peasant better iron
his shirt and trousers and look respectably urban.
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 8:52 AM UTC
SOMEWHERE IN MIRROR MIRROR LAND
she belts out a tune
into her pink hairbrush
he plays lead tennis racket
the mirror watches their every move
a bird listens on a tree outside
joins in every now and then
they are recording their songs
over Mum's BEST OF ABBA
it's better Mum doesn't know this
Dad bangs on the ceiling
with the sweeping brush
"Hey...that's quite niffty!"
later they grow up to be
Punk Goths they call themselves
PINK HAIRBRUSH AND A TENNIS RACKET
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 8:09 PM UTC
Queen of Goth’s
She will be sitting in a graveyard,
Waiting for her love.
She will be the Queen of Hearts;
She will be the Queen of Goths.
The Queen of the tormented being,
Will come to me like a darkened dream
And show me everything she can see,
In our future underneath the moonlit scene.
The Queen of despair;
The Queen of tomorrow.
The Queen of forever.
My Queen of Goths...
I am in love with your sorrow.
(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 4:26 AM UTC
Homeless guy
sits begging for change
where the streets
don't care for your name
lugging about
all he owns
home
a rough patch of turf
down by the docks
His plight ignored
shunned by those
that walk by with wrinkled nose
save the few
that flick him the odd coin
Guys got to eat
and the cold cobbled stones
ain't no solace
for a warm bed and a roof over head
As the emos and goths
passed me by
congregating by the flying v guitar
the hippies sat drumming
in a circle
singing
lets give peace a chance
As homeless guy
heads to Greggs
a hot drink
and a feed
the sun is setting
on the streets of Newcastle
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 7:30 AM UTC
To Ellac, I bequeath a nifty hat trick:
The Treaty of Margas,
Which Rome will probably now
spit upon,
The Sword of Mars,
Once taken by your unscrupulous
cousins, the Vandals,
And Esperanto,
For talk around the water cooler.
To Dingizich, I bequeath my Alexander the Great
Commemorative plates and the Gaza Strip
--have fun with that one.
To Emak, I bequeath the Goths
--Visi, Ostro, and Joy Division.
To all my remaining children,
I leave you a year's supply of
Rice-A-Roni, the San Francisco treat.
To my many, many wives, too numerous to count,
I leave my fingers and toes
Or a portion thereof.
And to that one particular wife, you know who you are,
I bequeath the title
The Scourge of God.
Dec 19, 2019
Dec 19, 2019 at 3:55 PM UTC
As the full moon uncovers, I rise from my slumber.
The dark sky portrays...
I have awaken within
The dead has risen.
The witches hour hits it's peak.
Goths come alive and demons stalk the empty streets.
Ghosts wonder the dark valleys and haunt the ones that cannot see.
Possess
The dark has no rest.
Hell opens up, the fire begins to leak.
Cracked open roads and monsterous screams...
The souls that cannot speak, search for bodies, as its life that they seek.
Haunting you, pulling you, holding you down
The dead come alive...
Celebrate the tribe
Friday the 13th, a traditional day for the dark, dead and lonely.
Haunt the alive in their misery, and take the souls as they escape.
Creep...
Dark nights and twisted minds
Who knows what the dead will find
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 10:15 AM UTC
She asked me how she had come to me
On a sunny afternoon,
She couldn’t remember anything,
Her memories had flown.
She looked in awe at the dress she wore
And the sparkles on her shoes,
‘I didn’t have any of these before,
But what have I got to lose?’
I had her in mind for a Faery Queen
Or maybe a party girl,
I hadn’t a plot to fit right then
But thought I’d give her a whirl.
She had such grace and a lovely face
So I thought she’d fit right in,
And later, plenty of colour for
My lepidoptera tin.
She flittered and fluttered about the field
While I got my butterfly net,
She’d probably still be fluttering
If I hadn’t caught her yet.
But that’s how I catch my characters
That I fit in every plot,
I chase them round and I bring them down
Whether they want, or not.
The women are always butterflies,
The men are usually moths,
I struggle to keep the women sweet
But sometimes they are Goths.
As long as they play their part so well
That the reader doesn’t twig,
That all my casts are butterflies,
The small parts and the big.
For villains I use the Death’s Head Moth
For his markings are so grim,
But the innocent girls in chiffon are
The first to let him in,
He’s mean and cunning, and not so sweet
As the ones he seeks to fool,
But I am only the writer, so
Their conflict is my gruel.
I need to go where the sun is bright
And they flutter in the breeze,
To hold my butterfly net upright
And pursue them through the trees.
Then one day soon in the afternoon
I shall write a plot that sings,
And catch me a lepidoptera,
The one with the brightest wings!
David Lewis Paget
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 3:23 AM UTC
We are the Forgotten, the Outcasts
We are the many
We are the strong
We are the bullied, the teased
We are the ones you left in the dirt
We are the ones you cared nothing of
We are the ones you laughed at
We are the Emos, the Goths, the Scene Kids, the Nerds
We are the weird ones, the Metal Heads
We are the ones who aren't the football or cheer-leading star
We are not the alone
we are not the unloved
We are a family
We are the faithful ones
We are the proud ones
We are the happily different ones
We are The Happily Forgotten
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 1:47 PM UTC
dreadfully and drearily so she picked around her nose where her ring used to be
full of dead and destruction she ripped out pages of John 3.16, where her crown chakra used to feel free
wistfully wishing for her black jeans with a string instead of a zipper; she now wears a gown
wondering why, she contemplates in her midnight blue constellation journal: to down-
right mortify me,
to make a mockery, to….to, to…. to…. find me in case I pull the fire alarm and try to escape
she puts together puzzles with her mother’s name in cursive in the bottom right corner and puts them together with tape
begrudgingly so she ties up the used new balance sneakers she borrows and moans
she wants to move her body, for her form has been stagnant, oh how she wishes to roam
jogging, running, sprinting from the wolves to the butterflies and bunnies
painting a stain glassed window as a holy shrine to The Queen of The Goths, she’s so spunky
wondering where her soul’s mate could be in a blizzard this thick
but she knows she’s been a real witch, flying into her alter ego’s psyche on a broomstick
if she can infiltrate her reflection in the mirror she’ll catapult into outer space
although, around her neck, she’d much rather wrap a shoelace
In five days time, 120 hours, 7,200 minutes, not only does the doggy door open,
so does the front door, who had the key? Will the door be closing?
Jogging, running, sprinting from the eyes of the doctor to the arms of the unbroken
My feet are swollen
My hands need lotion
My thoughts are golden
I am coping
He is coping
We are coping
They are unbroken
Over a basket of fish and chips, I realize I was chosen
Is that a ****** up notion?
I just don’t want to feel hopeless
Is this excess of energy a bad omen?
Back in the free world now, I’m so scared of my spirit being stolen
But my energy is as vast as the ocean and potent
I win, I win, I win !
But the imperialists are closing
In
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 11:19 PM UTC
Death stands on the corner, picking pockets of the passers by.
Looking for discard sweets and transport tickets.
He's hungry.
Not collections.
He hasn't had a sweet for years.
He pinches a toffee encased in a cellophane wrapper.
You may just see him standing there, sickle leaned against the goth shop wall.
He is a bit cheesed off.
Begging for help.
Unwrapping it impossible.
Bony metacarpals no use.
All he can do when he opens it, is ****
The shop staff, all willing to help.
A little scared of death himself.
Looked into his hollow sockets.
Oh F**K
The goths loved death and so it was done.
Death had a toffee,
His wish was won!
(c) LIVVI
Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 6:31 PM UTC
I don’t watch the news for one simple reason
It’s stereotypes goths and punks
Not all of us are in the black occult
Not all of us are killers
Not all of us are either school shooters either
I don’t watch the Newfor one simple reason
They paint
People with mental health issues
In a very bad light
showcasing our bad sides
I do not watch the news for one simple reason
Foreign perpetuates hate
Anti-Semitism
Islam a phobia
Let’s turn off the TV said and think for ourselves as human beings as we are supposed to
Not as fearful robots and computers programmed to hate
Feb 28, 2021
Feb 28, 2021 at 8:05 PM UTC
It's prime time we get into business,
nothing like a schizophrenic crisis,
You see; DEATH IS BUT A BRUISE TO THE RIGHTEOUS
AND THOSE WHO LIVE A HOLY LIFE AIN'T AFRAID TO DIE.
See the man in my shoes; he is feeding the sheep slaughtered wolves.
See the man in my shoes; he got lost a thousand times in between a black cloth,
See the man in my shoes; he has become the king of the Goths,
And these walls that talk carry ancient ghosts.
You see; DEATH IS BUT A BRUISE TO THE RIGHTEOUS
AND THOSE WHO LIVE A HOLY LIFE AIN'T AFRAID TO DIE.
As clocks tick and times flies, we are in it for a big surprise,
As clocks tick and time flies say "WE ARE IN IT FOR A BIG SUNRISE"
And these walls that talk carry ancient ghosts that keep screaming "king of the Goths."
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 5:57 AM UTC
I met someone today
With cute black clothes
And a long trench coat
We walked to the park
To sit on the swings
We talked as we watched
All the cars in the street
She told me all her stories
Of almost being arrested
For smoking ****
So why does every cute girl
And every edgy guy
Have to get high
And listen to MCR
Where are my preppy goths
My ****** band members
Because I'm just a punk
Who doesn't do drugs
And wants some friends
My parents won't hate
Aug 29, 2019
Aug 29, 2019 at 4:54 PM UTC
Quien no ama, no vive.
Oh ! qui que vous soyez, jeune ou vieux, riche ou sage,
Si jamais vous n'avez épié le passage,
Le soir, d'un pas léger, d'un pas mélodieux,
D'un voile blanc qui glisse et fuit dans les ténèbres,
Et, comme un météore au sein des nuits funèbres,
Vous laisse dans le coeur un sillon radieux ;
Si vous ne connaissez que pour l'entendre dire
Au poète amoureux qui chante et qui soupire,
Ce suprême bonheur qui fait nos jours dorés,
De posséder un coeur sans réserve et sans voiles,
De n'avoir pour flambeaux, de n'avoir pour étoiles,
De n'avoir pour soleils que deux yeux adorés ;
Si vous n'avez jamais attendu, morne et sombre,
Sous les vitres d'un bal qui rayonne dans l'ombre,
L'heure où pour le départ les portes s'ouvriront,
Pour voir votre beauté, comme un éclair qui brille,
Rose avec des yeux bleus et toute jeune fille,
Passer dans la lumière avec des fleurs au front ;
Si vous n'avez jamais senti la frénésie
De voir la main qu'on veut par d'autres mains choisie,
De voir le coeur aimé battre sur d'autres coeurs ;
Si vous n'avez jamais vu d'un oeil de colère
La valse impure, au vol lascif et circulaire,
Effeuiller en courant les femmes et les fleurs ;
Si jamais vous n'avez descendu les collines,
Le coeur tout débordant d'émotions divines ;
Si jamais vous n'avez le soir, sous les tilleuls,
Tandis qu'au ciel luisaient des étoiles sans nombre,
Aspiré, couple heureux, la volupté de l'ombre,
Cachés, et vous parlant tout bas, quoique tout seuls ;
Si jamais une main n'a fait trembler la vôtre ;
Si jamais ce seul mot qu'on dit l'un après l'autre,
JE T'AIME ! n'a rempli votre âme tout un jour ;
Si jamais vous n'avez pris en pitié les trônes
En songeant qu'on cherchait les sceptres, les couronnes,
Et la gloire, et l'empire, et qu'on avait l'amour !
La nuit, quand la veilleuse agonise dans l'urne,
Quand Paris, enfoui sous la brume nocturne
Avec la tour saxonne et l'église des Goths,
Laisse sans les compter passer les heures noires
Qui, douze fois, semant les rêves illusoires,
S'envolent des clochers par groupes inégaux ;
Si jamais vous n'avez, à l'heure où tout sommeille,
Tandis qu'elle dormait, oublieuse et vermeille,
Pleuré comme un enfant à force de souffrir,
Crié cent fois son nom du soir jusqu'à l'aurore,
Et cru qu'elle viendrait en l'appelant encore,
Et maudit votre mère, et désiré mourir ;
Si jamais vous n'avez senti que d'une femme
Le regard dans votre âme allumait une autre âme,
Que vous étiez charmé, qu'un ciel s'était ouvert,
Et que pour cette enfant, qui de vos pleurs se joue,
Il vous serait bien doux d'expirer sur la roue ; ...
Vous n'avez point aimé, vous n'avez point souffert !
Novembre 1831.
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