Take, take, take my heart,
take it while I scream.
Scarily, scarily, scarily, scarily,
Love's a heartless fiend.

Pretty Princess, primped in pink, never really stops to think about the idiocy she spews on a daily basis.  The dog cowers in the corner, afraid to be faced with her scarily unchaste, omniscient hands.  She certainly possesses a vast knowledge of the canine race QUICK, before the vet arrives, act in haste, lest the dog be victim to her knowledgeless, black-hold gaze!

Pretty Princess, never faulting, ever daunting, continues the endless flaunting of her limitless skill.  Planar geometry and collegiate calc are no problem for the persistent resident Isaac Newton, who scribbles phony calculations and bogus numerations on a Hello Kitty scratch pad.

Pretty Princess works by the candlelight of her over-bright, tower-tall, double-wide lamp and paces across her pink and purple flower-*** rug as she fantasizes about the greasy local pint-size **** who’s oh-so dreamy in his Nike cut-off dishrag.  From her desk, she scrawls the inane on a beat up, college ruled, blue-green, hand-painted notebook, for all to see, but none to name.

Pretty Princess is unstoppable, tearing through the grocery aisle where Earl Grey and Einstein fall into place betwixt bacon, sausage, and salmon paste, and then for show, she takes the liberty of becoming the resident nutritionist, which here means “amateur ‘botchulist’”, as she tells us what we’re doing wrong.

Pretty Princess keeps a hidden diary wherein are written all her fiery rants and new to-hit lists, saving space for all the boys she wants to kiss and yes, even room a tear stain or six BUT, she claims, it doesn’t exist.

Pretty Princess is afraid of her secrets, afraid of leaking them to the outside world where that entire girl would become just another whirl in the machine of elementary girls’ gossip.  That unrelenting pack of wolfish half-wit rug-rats, teeth bared and armed with magic hands, would seize the Princess in their dastardly plans BUT, they say, it’s only for a single day that Pretty Princess is robbed of her dramatic time at play.

Pretty Princess is unheard outside her environment, her voice never reaches above the casement of the teacher’s oblivious predicament because she’s completely preoccupied with the class’s rampant evil stride of impending doom.  The classroom bully sits, high atop his throne, and from his face is evil shown only to those who know how to see it.

Pretty Princess knows how to see it.

Pretty Princess comes home crying more often than not, misunderstood by her snotty, hot-headed teacher or “witchess”, and storms to her room in haste, leaving Mother to pick up the pace, lest the wrath of a pre-teen girl blow up in her face BUT, much to her disbelief and in some sense a strange relief, the truth comes out.

Pretty Princess just wants to be heard.

Verily, the moon is bright
Merrily, I rejoice the sight
Scarily, I will re-form
Hairily, I am reborn

Exclamation points are little lies we tell each other
In this digital age it's easier to feign surprise or excitement
When in actuality, nothing surprises anyone anymore
Now - disgust, apathy and scarily even hate
These things you can't disguise electronically as easily
And sadly even less so face to face

i belong to the daybreak
when humans with sleepy eyes
and mousy morning hearts
are brave enough to face
the scarily mundane world once again.

i belong to nature
to the hidden wonders of the world
there's unknown modern hanging gardens of babylon
and the secret sanctuaries
where the teenagers of the megalopolis
go to rest.

i belong to the ocean
in the deepest trenches
no man has seen
where it is quiet and still
and darkness reigns supreme.

i belong to outer space
in the galaxies who are
strangers we'd like to know
there's dark matter that swirls
space dust coalesces
and stars are born to die all over again.

i belong to the rain
when the sky cries and
the typhoons turn to drizzle
the water runs through
empty houses and thrift stores in the gutters
and on and on, to underground,
to God knows where.

i belong to the night
to the time when the busiest people
submit to slumber
but a few who are not
bothered by lightyears
sit by their windowsills
to watch the stars.

*i belong to the world
and the world belongs to me.

A long trailer
In a sombre forest
Two young boys creep
Through a long corridor

One blond and fair
The other is sometimes mistaken
For an immigrant from India

The floor is sticky and smells
From spilt pink lemondae

****** Doo cries out from the TV
"Jeepers Creepers it's the Creeper!"
The two boys watch wide eyed
******'s antics and Shaggy's
Immense appetite

They giggle and scream
In delight
As a ghostly axe misses ******
By a hair

The movie is over and it's time to go
It's dark out, scarily dark
They laugh nervously
But jump into the large truck

Both clad in the trappings
Of young explorers:
***** sweat pants
T shirts with wolves
Hair bleached by the sun
Skin dark and freckled
Finger nails ***** from building forts
And muddy shoes from testing
If river banks are as solid as they look.

My obsession lays only with Calvin Klein.
A proper noun with capitals.
A drifting strong aroma.
Another obsession in my world.
Is sometimes somewhat lighter.
I am an obsessed pusher.
Obsessed only with my pen.

If I can create an image well.
Then hell so be it.
Real people I don't like much.
It's only words I wish to touch.
Desire fires obsession.
It's just a bunch of words.

Sweet strawberries so succulent bring words of summertime.
Clouds weigh down around my head
Dark winter days of misery.
Moments when I wish I was dead.
I put my pen to work.
Writing darkness scarily black.
About bursting eyes.
Where no-one dies,
Except emotion cruelly slaughtered.
By the one known only in kindness.
As the smiling devil's daughter
Definitely no relation.
Just the mother of eccentricity.

Kindness in persona.
To be so dark.
That's very rare.
In a heart that's ribbon bound.
I write my words with tender care.
Sometimes, just to remind the world that I am still there.
Moreover, like a hornet.
I cheese you off and get stuck in your hair!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

I don’t recognize you, but you’ve returned, oh it
must be you. No one else comes here but you.

Do you remember this music?

Kaleidoscopically gemmed it repeats, perhaps too
delicately—a quiet, tinkling knell, fishtailing through the
glimmering rain—mauve—soft-soaping the soil to darker clumps
beneath—soppy—slowly sinking so pretty, yet
terrifying now you’ve stepped into and through each
silted deepness, holding time.

This music begs you still—it has not stopped begging since—
to step further inside the wet loam (You clutch time now.)
To press down on it, in it, and listen tender the key you touched in
life between moments. It’s the reason you’ve returned.

You won’t, it’s not music, this feels like a baby’s head you’re on, you
cringe. About to cry.

Again, I’m sorry, but you have to—you have to feel it
scarily give a little. Feel it sink, infolding inside-out through its
thin pleura overflowing, always overflowing with the visceral
sap of everything on it—(I mean really everything.)—this
glistening ick, this frog-soil—moist, sickly cloying, susceptible
almost to light. And breathing.

It’s about to give out under your feet.

And kaleidoscopically gemmed it repeats, can you hear it?

Yes, you could be stepping on all their naked lungs, but there’s
nothing to fear, it’s an eternal field of their lungs—pink and gasping—
and that’s all there is here.  

Feel with your foot, like me. Is it alive? Or is it life? Listen, it
bleats a note. Why so sweet if, by touching it, we’ve made it drip
first truth from its tongue, look!—the blood of its eyes’ red
rivulets. Of its heart. The slightest breach it was. Barely an
opening

I’m sorry. I don’t mean to force you. If I was only me, I’d
leave it be, so it could spare us the look at the inner red that yokes
flesh to spirit. But you arrived here, and—listen, now it’s been
done, do not close your eyes.

You didn’t want to see this, I know—the sticky gum or muck that
licks over the fibrous bridges. Keeps them glued down and
invisible in the other world. It is all much better when the mucilage
does not ooze out. When the form is skin-tight, because that’s how
it works best. Without you probing its pores.

But now do you see, probing its pores, what you may find?
Look. Now do you see why the music has begged you?

What rests underneath there—what you may find in that dark
indigo clay which the shamans dug and pressed over their
blackened eyes in the night-trances—glows transparent somehow.
In pulses. Like Aurelia, the silver moon jelly.

Now it is just within your reach.

Light would pour to the other side, and their mouths would stiffen
with several infinite unintelligible syllables remaining stuck there
under their tongues. As it poured, they felt their blood replaced
in a surge with veinless essence, which sustained in its flow
through them something of precarious beauty—ascending, swirling
itself in air, then back into again, again returning to the home of homes
within them.  

The silver-moon-jelly-clay is continuously poised on the tip
(of not being clay).
About to break into splendor, into finally birth-giving of real breath.
Of meaning to breath, and to breathing.

This is what feeds, unknowing to them in that world, their field of lungs.
But you will know instantly when you feel it, that by feeling
(in feeling)
you have really always known.

Did you reach for it? Did you feel it in that second? You did not, I see
(you were so close!)
for now we’ve passed the origin symmetry and are sinking up! Going
deeply back up through the sticky goop with red glue in our hair,
through the moist-frog-ick-soil, choking dirt again, squishing loam
with our heads, shooting upward like falling, hearing lungs, and now
out, atop the surface again, in this bare garden that grows only under.

The skies above, still mauve, and the rain lips quietly the same
melody which, kaleidoscopically gemmed, repeats. It was all as quick as
nothing.

And, as I look at you, I see you’ve already forgotten
everything.

And now you’re leaving me! Fading back through the spectral
break in the clouds, whoever you were. Whoever it is you became.

I did honestly believe this was to be that one moment when, together,
we’d finally get to touch it. Press it like real sun to our blackened
eyes. I cannot tell you, it has felt like the one each time.

But I know to wait. I can wait. In this world I keep fluttering hope
in my hand. And you, whoever you’ll be, will return here.
You always do.
Do you ever remember why?
It’s because, when you leave through the clouds to go back to
that world, you are still. Always.
Clutching time.

I see less and less of you each day
At least that's what you told me last time you weighed
I notice your scapula prickling through a shirt
I can't tell you otherwise even if it does hurt

Because telling you I'm suffering would make you feel less
I can't completely understand, it's only my guess
That your smile is a disguise, it's your precious defense
If I could only sneak into your mind and teach you some sense

But no word I could utter would be new or unique
All I can do is sit here and wipe tears from your cheek
Just hug you tight in our tilt-a-world ride
Because everyone needs a friend by their side

I'm scared you won't change, you can't bring yourself to
I can see the way it's ripped apart and mortified you
Your body is scarily shrinking, striking and dissipating
And all I can do to help change is sit here waiting

They say that life is a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death
But you seem to live it, grasp its size and its breadth
I wish you could see your worth in another's eyes
It's your humor, your vibrance, but never your size

I
have this
friend,

she will
tell you
nothing
but
the
truth
(which
is too
truthful,
most of the time)

she is
the
type
to know
the code to
the printer,
and will
print off
75
pages
just
because
she can

she is
the
type
who can
make up a
story to
get out
of
anything,
and she
will,
too

and scarily
enough,
I feel
safe
when I'm
around her

and I
find myself
wishing
sometimes
I was
more like
her

and
when she
is not
around,
I'm wondering
who she
is
tantalizing
now

it's probably
some old
*****
who is
just as
uninterested
as she is,
but
he wears
expensive
glasses
and a
fancy necktie
and
this fills
her
void

and yet,
somewhere
in my mind
I know
my friend
will
not
get away
with living
her whole
life
this
way

someday it ends
and
then
what

The Red Sea! It lay like a distressed soul, unsettled, deserted and restless;
On its tile-paved shore, I leant against a lamp post, in the desert land;
Women in burkas busied themselves with their kids and picnic baskets;
While cats searched voraciously, among the rubble, for the left over bones.

On my left lay Sanaa, the once upon a time city of Shem, first-born of Noah,  
Whence Queen Sheba embarked in all majesty with gifts for King Solomon.    
And far, beyond the saltiest swelling Red, lay the darkly exploited continent.
Now, a warm gust of wind slogged its way into my lone distraught self.    

Tides heaved, flickered their wet tongues across the rubble, and licked me,
Then withdrew themselves tired, but again and again returned half-heartedly
With much salty tears and sweats of ******* and sufferings of bygone ages:  
The assorted agonies of the Mediterranean, the Indian and the Pacific deeps.

Through the dull splashes, waded to me, Moses and Aron and the Pharaoh;
They said: “Visitor, listen to the voices of the depths!” And I heard well
The abysmal rattle of chariots, wheels and bones, uncarbontestably ancient.
And in the splash of the Red, I scarily tasted the tears and blood of torments.

Then they cautioned me: “Beware of the pseudo-democrats and pseudo-reds:
The gunpowder brokers!” and quoted: “In this world, you’ll have troubles.”
And now, the Sea sounded: “Sorry my dear son, I’m here to bear all these.”
I sighed in pain, but the Sea, through the burning lamp posts, smiled at me.

soft, cold tread
of careful footsteps on the ice
and it's so ironic
that i'm holding your hand
to keep from falling

and i thank you without thinking
a knee-**** reaction
to each time you make my day
while inside my head the obsession
replays
asking myself in circles
twisted, burgeoning circles
is this just the game again?

and i love that rush
icy lights above, hard seat below me
and then your mouth is soft on mine
in the middle of everywhere
and i have trouble opening my eyes
when you pull away
and i am ashamed when you notice
the shifting colours in my cheeks
because i am afraid
to betray
the easiness with which i sink
into you

we are too familiar, you and i
too similar, too scarily in tune
and it didn't take long, did it?
where did this comfort come from?
these questions carve my tongue
into ribbons, and yet
you never notice
when yours meets mine
and the guilt is swallowed
before you can taste it
just in time

and i ask, again
where did this comfort come from?
or are we just two people
in the middle of winter
taking solace in the warmth
of each other?
will we part ways easily?
somehow, i find myself
dreading that experiment

where did this comfort come from?
this heat that spreads
across my chest
and through my stomach
and down into my frosted knees
as the cold melts away from me, forgotten
like the hour and the place
as the wall behind me
is crushed into my spine
and i am strong again
our bodies create a hole in time
so perfectly fragmented around us
and the clock fades into grey
tugging at my fears

and i want so badly
to keep feeling this way
all through winter
for as long as i can
but
i just wish i didn't care

where did this comfort come from?
and will you meet me there?

Anne crutches herself onto the green lawn of the nursing home and sits at one of the metal white painted tables and in one of the white metal chairs and drops her crutches beside her Benedict whom she called Skinny Kid follows her and sits at the same table looking at her his hazel eyes focusing on her on her black straight hair and dark eyes other children are playing on the swings and slide or sitting at other tables a distance away don't want none of those other sick kids here Kid Anne says they're sneaks and tell tales and moaning Minnies and such but you Kid you're all right you’re possibly the only one here I can tolerate and O those pesky nuns ****** penguins walking about poking their noses into things saying have you had a motion today? have you passed water? yes I said to Sister Agnes I did a dance on one leg as a motion and I passed the running water tap on my way to breakfast what did she say​?Benedict asks she said manners Anne we must have manners and asked me again and I said both and plenty of them and she went off in a huff her black habit gown flapping behind her like some ****** bat one of the kids comes to the table and says can I sit here? of course you can sit you've an **** on you but no you may not Anne says shooing the girl away like she was a dog the girl went off looking back pulling a face how's your leg? Benedict asks missing and aching and driving me to distraction Anne says the ****** stump throbs and gets hot and it makes me a miserable sod can I see it Benedict asks what its like? you're a one aren't you always after seeing my stump later maybe not here with the nosey penguins gawking at everything we do a nun walks down to the table her eyes like black dots behind her wire spectacles ah Anne have you been upsetting the other children again? are you asking me or telling me? Anne says rubbing her leg eyeing Benedict Lina says you swore at her and told her to sit elsewhere the nun stares at Anne then at Benedict well? what happened the nun asks I never swear Sister I never swear I just said she could sit elsewhere be better for her I may have an illness she may catch and may bring her out in yellow spots the nun doesn't smile or move a muscle in her face her dark eyes move over Anne then Benedict well Benedict were you here? what happened and I want the truth or you'll not go to Heaven if you lie the nun says eyeing the boy scarily she didn't swear the boy says just said to go elsewhere the nun stares at Anne do not be horrible to other children they've as much right to sit here as you do now behave or I’ll report you to Sister Paul and then you'll know it the nun says and walks off like a rook unable to fly Anne farts and smiles sums her up that she says Benedict nods and looks at the table want to go to the beach? I can push you in the wheelchair? how old are you Kid? she asks ten nearly eleven he says she muses looks at him do you know how old I am? she asks eyeing him his quiff of hair the hazel eyes the skinny frame no idea Benedict says I’m twelve Kid although my mother says I’m big for my age got ******* and such Benedict looks past her head at the avenue of tree behind and the path to the beach got ***** hair too she adds to see if he'll blush what's that? he asks what’s what? Anne says ***** hair? he says that'd be telling wouldn't it spoil the surprise although you could always ask the good sisters and say dear Sister Paul what's this ***** hair stuff? she laughs to herself well Kid go get the wheel chair and off we go to the beach the boy smiles and gets up and walks quickly towards the nursing home Anne watches him go she winces and rubs her stump with her hands backwards and forwards she watches the other kids at play at the nuns walking here and there then Benedict comes across the grass pushing the wheelchair at a fair speed she smiles as he comes up to the table here we are one wheelchair he says slightly out of breath right bring it round here Kid and so he pushes the wheelchair next to her and manages to get herself in comfortably and rocks about until she's settled right then Kid did anyone stop you? yes he says Sister Agnes asked me where I was going with the wheelchair and I said you had need of it and she pulled a face then walked off with a face like a pinched behind Benedict says good on you Kid now let's' to the beach and away from the peasants and sickly she says so Benedict gets behind the wheelchair and pushes away from the table his arms outstretched his hands gripping the handles and off they go over the grass and onto the pebbly path between the trees and the sound of birdsong and the smell of the sea filling their noses and out the back gate and onto the path along by the sea the sounds of sea rush and waves and gull cries and people calling out and laughter and kids calling and crying and she says O this it Kid this is ******* living breathe in that air breathe in deep and Benedict breathes in deeply as he pushes her along the path smooth and easier and his thin legs pushing along the pathway and as he pushes he gazes down at her black haired head then at the red dress with the one leg sticking out the stump not visible but only the outline of it being there and the smell of the sea and salt in the air.

Alas! The fleeting years glide on.
Eheu fugaces labuntar anni

So it goes, an old poet
rose, to tell the story of
the beast and the decaying glass rose,
petals falling softly cracking into broken
glass.

When you look at someone through rose tinted glasses, all the the red flags just look like flags.

raise a generation on Eminem and Cobain
then
scratch your head wondering where all us grown boys
went a little insane

from Timberlake to Bieber
Brittany to Miley
what's really changed?
anything
but our age?

a president named Bush went to war on terror
in the the middle-east,
ten years later his son does the same thing.

again I ask,
what's even changed
but
our age?

The ****** scandals begun by our ******* president
continue today under an eponymous tabloid cover
called Kardashian.
exploitation the name of the game,
everything is done for us,
especially our thinking.
less scarily,
our cooking.

there has never not been an "us vs. them"
mentality in human history.
we are cultured cannibals, tribesmen who have outgrown
our britches.
****** and racial liberation continues against
****** and racial tension
*** is cheap
drugs are cheaper
morals are depleted
agnosticism the happy sedated norm
nobody expects a revival but the saved themselves, the born
again.
well do I even wish to be born again into a life as this?

If I have learned anything thus far from life's teachings:
One is nothing and everything
Nowhere and everywhere
   spirits abound where you least expect them  
There is no zero and no infinity

Watch a fire burn and you will know this truth

Alas! The fleeting years glide on.
*Eheu fugaces labuntar anni

The Red Sea! It lay like a distressed soul, unsettled, deserted and restless;
On its tile-paved shore, I leant against a lamp post, in the desert land;
Women in burkas busied themselves with their kids and picnic baskets;
While cats searched voraciously, among the rubble, for the left over bones.

On my left lay Sanaa, the once upon a time city of Shem, first-born of Noah,  
Whence Queen Sheba embarked in all majesty with gifts for King Solomon.    
And far, beyond the saltiest swelling Red, lay the darkly exploited continent.
Now, a warm gust of wind slogged its way into my lone distraught self.    

Tides heaved, flickered their wet tongues across the rubble, and licked me,
Then withdrew themselves tired, but again and again returned half-heartedly
With much salty tears and sweats of ******* and sufferings of bygone ages:  
The assorted agonies of the Mediterranean, the Indian and the Pacific deeps.

Through the dull splashes, waded to me, Moses and Aron and the Pharaoh;
They said: “Visitor, listen to the voices of the depths!” And I heard well
The abysmal rattle of chariots, wheels and bones, uncarbontestably ancient.
And in the splash of the Red, I scarily tasted the tears and blood of torments.

Then they cautioned me: “Beware of the pseudo-democrats and pseudo-reds:
The gunpowder brokers!” and quoted: “In this world, you’ll have troubles.”
And now, the Sea sounded: “Sorry my dear son, I’m here to bear all these.”
I sighed in pain, but the Sea, through the burning lamp posts, smiled at me.

Where I was then?
Where was I when I decided to “be” according to where I thought I wasn’t, but should be seen or be or had been.
Who was seeing me and why?
A stranger’s approval superseded my own deny...but why?
Doesn’t matter now, the story’s “how”, driven by eyes not mine, saw me there then, not now....
Don’t remember the why, where or when....
you get the picture, the state of mind I was in.
A situation, a moment, a scene,
Where I thought I would “mean”, make an impact or at least when I thought I was making efforts to intervene.
“The Scene”, alas, conveniently never convened to pass because it was not of truth-tried substance but flammable gas.
Whether my “right here, right now” approach would be enough for the price of smell, taste and touch....too stubborn to be coached,
too proud to see myself beyond reproach...
A rhetoric heretic riding coach facing every new horizon I approached...
Prime for being poached.
First, I crater.
You’re a target for more abuse if you cater.
Later I learn, earn, burn, know better.
Bitter, I turn hater.
Sell your self now to matter later...
Instead I try to unplug,
to be better.
Isolate yourself just to make a difference.
Creators that steer clear of best interests,
bent to mechanize.
We consent, but don’t recognize.
The “Society-interests second” dance?..fat chance,
their intent to capitalize so you can look good in tight pants.
People consume more processed salt, fat and sugar.
Drunk youth dance to music made by “industry entrepreneurs” that never played an instrument.
“You make how much??? Here are the 10 neighborhoods, restaurants, cars, clothes and other some-such you can identify by...I mean afford...I mean identify with.
Sacrifice a category to move up in another, the gratification will root in your  instinctive brain,
recreating the same situation like a bad joke,
ever-riding the razor thin line of addiction and cope,
correction and hope,
direction and scope.
Men can **** it or **** it or brag about someone else who did.
Women can socialize, feel, share, dance or share about someone else who did.
It’s well researched, they know the instinctive needs
Only opinions allowed, the truth carries too much responsibility.
I can always change my mind later, the truth does not change.
Funders will shake any baby or kiss any hand to get you to say yes to “this is why they’re bad” but never change brought in “this is how we can”.
Thunders will quake any wonders if they’re felt without Lightning’s blinding flash to closed-lash eyes.
Sliced, Spliced, Splintered and splendidly split.
Thrice not twice I was hindered to commit to give but not get.
Crises without advice,
a soul’s Tendency to admit quit, at least, so is writ.
Heresies cost,
scarily tossed across the lost sea’s vast length crossed.
You only drown if you leave the shore, better not, how dare you want more.

one day everything will be just how i like it.
itll be warm but not too much.
the bed will be soft and so will the duvet and the light
and you'll be right there by my side.
because we know what we have.
our bond our trust will exceed all else.
ill have no words to describe how i feel but one.
an album actually not so much a word.
blonde.
ill feel like summer and new opportunities and lost loves and achingly sweet heartbreaks.
ill be scarily tranquil. a feeling that is greatly unbeknownst to me.
still ill have no words to describe how i feel but my favorite color.
ill feel like the color of sunsets and fire.
ill be a warm yet dusty orange.
so light and airy youd almost think i was a simple pink.
and this is what happiness will feel like

She is not the cure to your cancer, that toxic heartbeat you hold so wearily, that blackened hand you hold so scarily. Tick tock sound of the clock. And yet her heart beats on in your song, her smile is sat down and made to wait a while. She’s an excellent choice for you my dear, if only you wasn’t so queer. If you only didn’t sit in my seat, if only you didn’t make the tea, if only you were a bit more like me. Like you, like you, like, who? You? A mirrored image is that what I have become, I am not here, I am not one, with you. You want to see yourself in my smile, to make me sit and play with you for a while...for this time shall too pass my sweet. I meet your hands with a full on gaze, a full on face, I am not what I seem, I am not what you chose to taste.

What a spectacle, too powerful to behold and yet you are beheld in her grace, you can see the mark you leave upon her face. Her novice ways to you are upsetting, you have too much time to let her forget sin, and happiness leaves a crown upon your face? You laugh, she laughs, you sigh, she cries, you swoop, she falls, you live, she dies. Embers burn brightly in her eyes when you talk sweet nothings in her ears, If I were to understand you would it make much sense? Does god look for you around corners in dark bars? Her sweet breath becomes tainted in the morning light, you watch as she searches for dreams untold. She was never pure, never here, never an apology. Oh woman of mine, sweet divine being, I will not betray your trembling sight.

There is beauty in the fact that you are not there. Left behind, she looks to the sky, learns to live, learns to die, without. You. Heartbeats shatter and fumble around your ears, colours explode to your left and there she stands, to your right. Job done. Move on. Left, left, left, right, left. Full stop. C’est suffit. She gave you something from the folds of her dress and the car rides down the dusty path. Heralded by a greater cause, no with, what or who for’s, no silence begging for attention, you are preceded by your own detention. Beauty, beautiful, beatific, be still, sweet girl around my head. Hold my hand, let me walk with you by my side. You are my introduction to be made.

Crisscrossed in the night, arms and legs are making shadows in the moonlight, sign language only lovers can hear, noises that escapes from even the most pursed lips, hits my fingertips; drag me with you, tear my throat as you hear me. Sigh. A midnight dancer , she misses the spot on which you had her stand, lost the grasp of her amazing hand, and by my sight, by which I see, she is a most superb delight, the most gracious flight you ever did heed. And let my love be born from holding you in my arms, from when I watch you and you, in return cannot see; your ignorance is that of the most majestic kind, your internal war I can see in your person, you are not a battle scar, though a battlefield is more apt to the tune you dance to. Your lonlieness is sometimes too large to bear, my back is small and weak, my hands only hold your heart first, your tears must fall, fall, failing, to the ground.

Smile. You make me. Dance, I for you. Hear, the night sounds of your dreams. Touch, my heart with your words. Write, me a sonnet made of lies and imagination. Paint, me a picture. Fire, in my eyes, for you. Burn, burn, burn out the night sky. The stars have all combusted and dropped out of the sky for this. Me, I am acceptable in the shadows. You, play a violin unaccompanied to your nightmares. We, make this our own. Belief, a hope i have for you.

Something silky, scarily there,
Ghostly and diaphanous,
Stole our socks and underwear,
And had a ghastly laugh on us.

Oh, those sixteen seconds; —
schoolings we learnt, stories on the
sixteen streets, where a few flowers
  Would be daring enough to grow.

YOU!
Bystander to the narrative of six teens,
learning about life, through every twist
and curve. Take part in such an account,
for you too, to be flourished in what
  Truths we learned.

I was sixteen; though that made
you feel like eighty-four in a concrete
jungle, where you heard stories of
its corruption, as it scarily roars.

The novel days, but with a broken
system of old. From feeling broke;
covering holes with holes,

— You could only tap into success by
the connections of who you know, and
they know; prior sixteen years. Henceforth
  Why we all sensed being so old.

Or was it, "owed"
—dang, what youth could know?
But to be honest though, the feeling of it,
was so cold: a degree less than sixteen, for
  Any flower to be frightened to grow.

As if the promise of an improved
tomorrow would never really show,
To say—"you head in your own way
and I'll be a head, ahead of you; thinking
up sixteen likely ways of where to go,
  And how to go.

I was told a story by so and so,
who knew so and so, —that said,
So and so, about so and so, that a man
claimed this was the right time to sow.

He threw out his seeds; some that hit the
emotionless ground as cold sixteen stones.
Others were pierced by the cold’s thorns.

He spoke a lot of brave words and
eccentric quotes, that held with them
great wisdom and growth.

Some hard to swallow, some fell on
deaf ears, the rest gnawed by birds.
These teachings didn’t speak of being
owed, as we were told; but were
secrets he seemed to own,
  That shone out of his soul.

I was sixteen, a nervous teen,
who gave this story sixteen seconds.
We were careless and obviously reckless
—a wonder of which gods ever forgave us.

Feeling cold as snow, in a place where,
it gets colder as the rain pours.
The man gave us sixteen of the most
profound words:


“Sixteen seconds of the Word,
your spirit grows, — sixteen
seconds of rain, and life will show.”

I was termed a flower in that story,
given sixteen words of advice
from a stranger I didn't really know.
And it was by age sixteen, the bud
  Had started to grow.

I guess flowers are
the boldest of us all.
—on where, and through which
situation they choose to grow.

upset tummy after a night of liquor
while I stayed in, unable to eat, getting sicker -
I can't hold down a bite,
my stomach won't have mercy on me.
Dry heaves,
wet tears
and a bed I wish wasn't empty.
it's night like these
I wish for my mother's womb -
a warm, dark place fit for the likes of me.

I don't know what I'm doing,
but it feels a lot like drowning.
being with someone
can feel scarily like -
you're holding your own hand.


I fear the morning,
because I'm afraid you'll leave in the night.
(That's how they all go.)

I swing from the monkey bars,
From arm to arm, from mind to heart;
Touch base and then let go,
Lose grip and then regain my hold.

Fall down, scrape my knee,
I’m alive because I bleed,
Swinging high scarily, for
I’ll go flying as soon as I let go.

Secrets in the sand,
Things that should be covered, and
Castles blow away,
I can make nothing that stays.

Sometimes on the seesaw
You can’t get off the ground,
But be careful before you start
Throwing your weight around.

Sometimes you have a friend,
Sometimes you play alone,
And the older you are the harder it is
To find your way back home

I don't need help changing my tire
I need your political support
to put out this fire
set by the angry mob of course
and there's no way I can force
you to see from the high horse
you gained from light chores
so keep your random acts of kindness
as long as you cure your blindness
I think we could find this
more profound niceness
embedded within the social construct
so kindness is required and not luck
because our intermittent charity
won't achieve economic parity
making our situation scarily
here to stay apparently
so don't tell me to be civil
from behind the American sigil
that sits on a swivel
with **** symbols
and those that swindle
a nation of marks
pushing shopping carts
in a lockstep art
dividing us from the heart
so even if you mow my yard
we'll still be miles apart
separated by a canyon of cordiality
that a river of oppression runs through
carrying away our ordeal reality
as fast as guns do
when they're held by the sightless
who convince themselves they're righteous
through random acts of kindness.

Scream, I want you to scream,
Rag doll-- tearing at the seams,

The thread that's threatening to unravel,
The baked bread that's burning the faithful,

I want to hear your lion roar,
You're so mundane always a bore,

Your mind is scarily sublime,
But Coraline, the time is mine,

This is the test, the pitfall of the faithless,
You may be a mess, but show them why you get no rest.

Happy
Falsely happy
Strangely happy
Way too happy

Angry
Truly angry
Amazingly angry
Overwhelmingly angry

Sad
Drowning sadness
Hidden sadness
Muted sadness

Normal
Always happy
Frighteningly angry
Scarily sad

Truly
Quiet happiness
Snapping anger
Boiling sadness

Blooms like stars on clumps of mystery grass,
purple pops of violets amidst tangled clovers
and random hyacinths planted years ago—
You’re all jumbled merrily, scarily together
in my yard this April twenty fourteen.

You’re all wrong, you riotous jungle,
you unkempt chaos invading our suburbs
in tempestuous leaps.  We’ll have to
corral you, scissor and mow you
to maintain the illusion confusion’s at bay.

But just when calm comes sneaking in,
up pops a rogue thistle, a twine
of morning glory to choke the tomato
but sing all morning a pink and purple song.
Now that is some cool **** right there.

Into the night a phantom visits.
A blinding panic of fear built upon fear.
Shook in her shoes, the ones that were missing.
Tries to run there's nowhere to run.
In a night of sweats so fueled by panic.
Stumble through darkest cloak.
Wind blows in her face of beauty.
Scratching her eyes.
Giving only blindness.
Word blindness.
So dark.

Terrorized by the power of one so strong.
Compelled to forget as she wakes.
The way they left her shaken.
Forsaken.
The reminder of the spiteful night.
Disturbed sleep of dreams emblazoned.
Amazingly, dreams scarily so profound.
Thrown out of the window as her pen finds it's voice.
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

he* came to me
   i didn't seek him out
he
   flirted
   teased
   baited
   and propositioned
he tried to
   persuade
   charm
   tempt
and ******
                 me

i was *intrigued

enough to
   flirt and
   tease
but not enough to
   to be caught
and i definitely was not
   persuaded, charmed nor seduced

but i was
   tempted
scarily so...

...so i propositioned
he collect all that energy
   used in charming me
and invest it towards
making it work
          with you.

you're welcome.

scarily too good to be true
i see through it
it feels good
to see it
to read it

There is a little flower
Sat in front of me
Purple and delicate
It tilts its head in pity

As it watches in forever silence
At my scarily endless tears
At my gagging devastation.
The realisation of my fears.

I'm thinking of my only Daughter
The very light of my being
That lost her life last night
A sudden, unjust reckoning.


This flower in front of me
Has a note attached to its stem.
It says "I'm sorry you lost Her"
But Her life meant nothing to them.

This beautiful, wilting creature
is meant to replace Her
As if a pathetic flower
Could ease these crippling burns.

This single papery display of nature
Is just as temporary as She.
In a few weeks it'll be dead like her
Tell me flower - was she robbed of life,
or is she free?!

Is this some kind of cruel joke?
They feel my pain "like an ache in their heart"
But as if to remind me of what I just went through
They give a grieving mother a dying plant.

And yet...
Its beauty reminds me of Her...
Its delicate movements in the breeze
Its quiet solitude and sophistication...
Colour of the deepest seas.

I'll enjoy it while I can
The lift before the fall
I'll give this flower a chance because
maybe it's not so bad after all...