"matalic" poems
Through beaded tears, and trembling body
the wil-o-wisp of fears leave you tiered and groggy
your pain is as an iron blade on the tongue
a matalic mixture of sorrow and angush that extend for so long
ah that you would find some relief
that your hunched form may straighten to joy's belief
but these are only my wishes, inconsiquntial
try as I might they will never prove to be influential
I would hold your trembling form
and in doing, offer what little comfort that I may afford
For your agony feels as if it is my own
and betwist us I pray a healing balm be born
for there is no joy in isolation
compounded by pain's desolation
But all things constant, if another were to wade into the icy waters
the cold as slicing knives to the skin
with the knowlege that there would be naught but suffering
but with the intent to suffer with you
Then we would but clutch to each others trembling forms
and within pains bitter writhing cold
we would find peace, as our journey to the dark abyss began to unfold
For my love for you extends as a bridge between us two
Know that you need not suffer alone
I shall stand as a home from the pain you you knew
and I would stay and suffer with you
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 11:13 AM UTC
Hello old friend
How I missed you in my absence
In the darkest time you were always there your matalic smile glinting in the dim light
I missed the slick way you dance across my skin
Gracefully gliding leaving a ribbon of beautiful crimson across your pale stage
I know your destructive nature but how I love to dance with death
Sinking into the void only to awake the next day with a little less will and a lifetime of pain
How I yearn to be held in his strong arms and dance slowly into oblivion because who would miss the girl with the pale blue eyes. Ask, dear friend and find no one ever cared to look past her glasses. If I never woke up again not a soul would miss me they would simply miss the smile I masked my pain with. They would miss my bubbly personality that has been adopted after years of acting like everything was fine. Plus if I die my writing will be here forever an eternal piece of my soul representing the realest part of me
My pain
So old friend the question stands
Shall we rekindle our fire? Or should I sleep and just feel a different kind of pain?
Nov 22, 2018
Nov 22, 2018 at 2:20 AM UTC
*The little eyes, they sparkle in the silver moon that dances in the Heavens
The little eyes of the little children that will forever live in the snow coveres woods that will always be lost
But from the little eyes of the little children stream golden tears that stain the white floor of the forest.
With their little hands they wipe the golden tears that fall and stain
They do not fall for the sadness deep in their hearts, golden hearts, the hearts that have been beating far longer than yours or mine
They fall for the happiness that flows high in the Heavens in the silver moon
The silver moon that flows with streams of with matalic white, giving life to the little children with little hands that wipe golden tears that stain the white forest floor*
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 6:29 PM UTC