"pawprint" poems
Your Toxin
Always
Brings Sorrows
Of The Undead
That Always
Keep Tears
Crying
For The Dead
Toxins
Perfume
Your Blood
With Staleness
Of The Night
Your Pawprints
Never Could
Be The Same
Without
Your Toxin
You Feel Pain
You Hold It
Like A
Child
That You Cannot
Hold On
Forever
~Paris Styron~
Toxic
Black Roses
Grind
Between
Your Furry
Toes
With Despair
With Grief
That Always
Bleeds
In My Heart
That Cannot
Grow Apart
I Am A
Leech
That Cannot
Go Away
Because
I Carry
Your Diseases
Away
Infected
Pawprint
Message Of
The Day
Of The Night
~Paris Styron~
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 7:52 AM UTC
The wound on the beating red
Has lain bare for some time now.
The jagged edges do nothing
To stop the oozing flow of blood.
The pain’s immense—it won’t stop,
Not for all the salves in the world.
But an animal shows up,
A cat, a dog, a mouse, a snake, a turtle—
The species is irrelevant.
The animal approaches in a dream,
Looks the red flesh over,
And gently lays a paw or tail or foot over it.
The edges start to shrink,
New flesh sprouting over the bridging
The two far sides, healing has begun.
The wound will never truly heal;
A puckered pinching of the skin will remain,
But it will be in the shape
Of that paw, foot, hoof, or tail.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 5:21 PM UTC
Crying
In The
Shadows
My Heart
Withers
Wilted
In
Shame
Of
My
Loneliness,
Trapped
Beneath
The Shackles
My
Heart
Rattled,
Hoping
To Find
Someone
Who
Finds
My
Pawprint
In
The
Black
Snow,
Who
Follows
Through
My
Mist
Of
Loneliness
Who
Sniffs
Who
Finds
Hope
For
Me
Emotionally
The
Honest
Ones
Who
Get
This
Message
The One
Who
Is
Honest
To
My
Face
~Paris Styron~
To
My Face
During
The
Black
Dark
Days,
Which
Leads
To
My
Tearful
Black
Tears,
Running
Somberly
Down
An Empty
Hole
Saying
"Where
Will I Go"
~Paris Styron~
My Dark
Sorrows
Grasp
My Hopes
And Dreams
Render
Them
Helpless
Tantalizing
My Emotions
With
Sorrows
And Disbelief
Perfuming
Me
With
Despair
That I
Cannot
Describe
But
With
Black
Bleeding
Tears
Running
Down
My
Face
~Paris Styron~
Sniping
One By One
The
Tones
Darkened
The Gray
Clouds,
Drooping
The Bodies
To The
Grave
The Bullets
Flying
To
Their
Victims
Precious
Light,
Farewell
My Friend
Your
Black
Rose
Diminished
In My
Heart
~Paris Styron~
~Farewell~
The Dove's
Heart
Woos
The Somberness
Of
One Soul
Leaving It
In
Ashes
Shriveled
From
Existence
Wooing
The
Woefulness,
Weeping
For
Its Victim
Dripping
Drooping
Filling
The Room
With
Puddles
Of Blood
~Paris Styron~
Her Heart
Rendered
Helpless
Between
Her
Tears
Weeping
For
Forgiveness,,
As Time
Passes
By Her
Eyes
And Her
Tears
Grow
Dimmer
Of
A Color
Known
As
Black
Then
Her Soul
Shattered
Into
A Grave
~Paris Styron~
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 9:41 PM UTC
Your Pawprints
Numbed
In The
Deep Dark
Lonely
Snow
Blood
Dripped
Down Your
Face
Into
Your Deep
Dark
Pawprint
Outline
In The Snow
And Turned
Me Into Blood
Of Beautiful
Sorrows
That Always
Leaves
My Tears
Hanged
~Paris Styron~
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 7:12 AM UTC
The Gentle
Pawprints
Lurk
In The
Desolated
Abandoned
Snow
Where
Tears
Wrap The
Cares
The Prison
Bars
With Sorrows
The Bones
Cry
In The
Lonely
Snow
With Scratches
Of
Words
I Wish
"I Was
Here
With You
The
Only Death
Worth
Fighting
Seeing
Hearing
For
Was Your
Heart
Of Bones"
~Paris Styron~
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 6:07 PM UTC
meow, meow, meow
sings the moonlit shadow,
a velvet-footed ghost
with candles for eyes—
slipping between the ribs
of midnight’s broken fence.
A pawprint pressed
in yesterday’s rain,
a secret
curled
in the crook of a dying star.
meow, meow, meow
is not a call—
it is a spell,
whispered
in the hush
of the hunted.
Each syllable
a claw scratch
on memory’s silk.
She is dusk,
wearing fur made of fog,
tail a question mark
dragged through fallen petals,
bones rattling like wind chimes
in a temple no one visits
anymore.
meow, meow, meow
—again, again, again—
echoes in the cathedral
of a dream,
where fish fly
and time is just
a mouse
we keep chasing
through the rafters.
Aug 14, 2025
Aug 14, 2025 at 1:09 AM UTC
Nostalgia is the little girl you see drawing on the sidewalk with colorful chalk. Her favorite lollipop flavor is watermelon. She also likes cotton candy and Blues Clues (she sings along with the theme song and yells “pawprint!” and “clue!” to her TV). She is the girl who lives in the big blue house at the end of the cul-de-sac. She wears silly bandz from her wrist up to her elbow and makes all the other kids want that limited edition glow-in-the-dark piece of rubber. Nostalgia is a gets a little sad when she falls and scrapes her knee. And sometimes― sometimes, when she breaks one of her precious silly bandz, or loses one of the jibbitz on her blue crocs, or doesn’t want to wake up in the morning but has to anyway― she gets a little sadder.
Nostalgia doesn’t really know what she’s going to be like in the future. She wants to be a pet doctor, as she calls it. She wants nothing more than to not be sad, but who knows who she will turn into. Bitterness? Grief? Wistfulness? All she knows is she will eventually turn into someone else. Nostalgia just wants to keep her silly bandz, keep playing in the woods, fake sick in bed, and never move out of her big blue house on the corner of the cul-de-sac. Nostalgia never wants to grow up. Does she really have to?
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 8:39 AM UTC