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On Hellespont, guilty of true love’s blood,
In view and opposite two cities stood,
Sea-borderers, disjoin’d by Neptune’s might;
The one Abydos, the other Sestos hight.
At Sestos Hero dwelt; Hero the fair,
Whom young Apollo courted for her hair,
And offer’d as a dower his burning throne,
Where she could sit for men to gaze upon.
The outside of her garments were of lawn,
The lining purple silk, with gilt stars drawn;
Her wide sleeves green, and border’d with a grove,
Where Venus in her naked glory strove
To please the careless and disdainful eyes
Of proud Adonis, that before her lies;
Her kirtle blue, whereon was many a stain,
Made with the blood of wretched lovers slain.
Upon her head she ware a myrtle wreath,
From whence her veil reach’d to the ground beneath;
Her veil was artificial flowers and leaves,
Whose workmanship both man and beast deceives;
Many would praise the sweet smell as she past,
When ’twas the odour which her breath forth cast;
And there for honey bees have sought in vain,
And beat from thence, have lighted there again.
About her neck hung chains of pebble-stone,
Which lighten’d by her neck, like diamonds shone.
She ware no gloves; for neither sun nor wind
Would burn or parch her hands, but, to her mind,
Or warm or cool them, for they took delight
To play upon those hands, they were so white.
Buskins of shells, all silver’d, used she,
And branch’d with blushing coral to the knee;
Where sparrows perch’d, of hollow pearl and gold,
Such as the world would wonder to behold:
Those with sweet water oft her handmaid fills,
Which as she went, would chirrup through the bills.
Some say, for her the fairest Cupid pin’d,
And looking in her face, was strooken blind.
But this is true; so like was one the other,
As he imagin’d Hero was his mother;
And oftentimes into her ***** flew,
About her naked neck his bare arms threw,
And laid his childish head upon her breast,
And with still panting rock’d there took his rest.
So lovely-fair was Hero, Venus’ nun,
As Nature wept, thinking she was undone,
Because she took more from her than she left,
And of such wondrous beauty her bereft:
Therefore, in sign her treasure suffer’d wrack,
Since Hero’s time hath half the world been black.

Amorous Leander, beautiful and young
(Whose tragedy divine MusÆus sung),
Dwelt at Abydos; since him dwelt there none
For whom succeeding times make greater moan.
His dangling tresses, that were never shorn,
Had they been cut, and unto Colchos borne,
Would have allur’d the vent’rous youth of Greece
To hazard more than for the golden fleece.
Fair Cynthia wish’d his arms might be her sphere;
Grief makes her pale, because she moves not there.
His body was as straight as Circe’s wand;
Jove might have sipt out nectar from his hand.
Even as delicious meat is to the taste,
So was his neck in touching, and surpast
The white of Pelops’ shoulder: I could tell ye,
How smooth his breast was, and how white his belly;
And whose immortal fingers did imprint
That heavenly path with many a curious dint
That runs along his back; but my rude pen
Can hardly blazon forth the loves of men,
Much less of powerful gods: let it suffice
That my slack Muse sings of Leander’s eyes;
Those orient cheeks and lips, exceeding his
That leapt into the water for a kiss
Of his own shadow, and, despising many,
Died ere he could enjoy the love of any.
Had wild Hippolytus Leander seen,
Enamour’d of his beauty had he been.
His presence made the rudest peasant melt,
That in the vast uplandish country dwelt;
The barbarous Thracian soldier, mov’d with nought,
Was mov’d with him, and for his favour sought.
Some swore he was a maid in man’s attire,
For in his looks were all that men desire,—
A pleasant smiling cheek, a speaking eye,
A brow for love to banquet royally;
And such as knew he was a man, would say,
“Leander, thou art made for amorous play;
Why art thou not in love, and lov’d of all?
Though thou be fair, yet be not thine own thrall.”

The men of wealthy Sestos every year,
For his sake whom their goddess held so dear,
Rose-cheek’d Adonis, kept a solemn feast.
Thither resorted many a wandering guest
To meet their loves; such as had none at all
Came lovers home from this great festival;
For every street, like to a firmament,
Glister’d with breathing stars, who, where they went,
Frighted the melancholy earth, which deem’d
Eternal heaven to burn, for so it seem’d
As if another Pha{”e}ton had got
The guidance of the sun’s rich chariot.
But far above the loveliest, Hero shin’d,
And stole away th’ enchanted gazer’s mind;
For like sea-nymphs’ inveigling harmony,
So was her beauty to the standers-by;
Nor that night-wandering, pale, and watery star
(When yawning dragons draw her thirling car
From Latmus’ mount up to the gloomy sky,
Where, crown’d with blazing light and majesty,
She proudly sits) more over-rules the flood
Than she the hearts of those that near her stood.
Even as when gaudy nymphs pursue the chase,
Wretched Ixion’s shaggy-footed race,
Incens’d with savage heat, gallop amain
From steep pine-bearing mountains to the plain,
So ran the people forth to gaze upon her,
And all that view’d her were enamour’d on her.
And as in fury of a dreadful fight,
Their fellows being slain or put to flight,
Poor soldiers stand with fear of death dead-strooken,
So at her presence all surpris’d and tooken,
Await the sentence of her scornful eyes;
He whom she favours lives; the other dies.
There might you see one sigh, another rage,
And some, their violent passions to assuage,
Compile sharp satires; but, alas, too late,
For faithful love will never turn to hate.
And many, seeing great princes were denied,
Pin’d as they went, and thinking on her, died.
On this feast-day—O cursed day and hour!—
Went Hero thorough Sestos, from her tower
To Venus’ temple, where unhappily,
As after chanc’d, they did each other spy.

So fair a church as this had Venus none:
The walls were of discolour’d jasper-stone,
Wherein was Proteus carved; and over-head
A lively vine of green sea-agate spread,
Where by one hand light-headed Bacchus hung,
And with the other wine from grapes out-wrung.
Of crystal shining fair the pavement was;
The town of Sestos call’d it Venus’ glass:
There might you see the gods in sundry shapes,
Committing heady riots, ******, rapes:
For know, that underneath this radiant flower
Was Danae’s statue in a brazen tower,
Jove slyly stealing from his sister’s bed,
To dally with Idalian Ganimed,
And for his love Europa bellowing loud,
And tumbling with the rainbow in a cloud;
Blood-quaffing Mars heaving the iron net,
Which limping Vulcan and his Cyclops set;
Love kindling fire, to burn such towns as Troy,
Sylvanus weeping for the lovely boy
That now is turn’d into a cypress tree,
Under whose shade the wood-gods love to be.
And in the midst a silver altar stood:
There Hero, sacrificing turtles’ blood,
Vail’d to the ground, veiling her eyelids close;
And modestly they opened as she rose.
Thence flew Love’s arrow with the golden head;
And thus Leander was enamoured.
Stone-still he stood, and evermore he gazed,
Till with the fire that from his count’nance blazed
Relenting Hero’s gentle heart was strook:
Such force and virtue hath an amorous look.

It lies not in our power to love or hate,
For will in us is over-rul’d by fate.
When two are stript, long ere the course begin,
We wish that one should lose, the other win;
And one especially do we affect
Of two gold ingots, like in each respect:
The reason no man knows, let it suffice,
What we behold is censur’d by our eyes.
Where both deliberate, the love is slight:
Who ever lov’d, that lov’d not at first sight?

He kneeled, but unto her devoutly prayed.
Chaste Hero to herself thus softly said,
“Were I the saint he worships, I would hear him;”
And, as she spake those words, came somewhat near him.
He started up, she blushed as one ashamed,
Wherewith Leander much more was inflamed.
He touched her hand; in touching it she trembled.
Love deeply grounded, hardly is dissembled.
These lovers parleyed by the touch of hands;
True love is mute, and oft amazed stands.
Thus while dumb signs their yielding hearts entangled,
The air with sparks of living fire was spangled,
And night, deep drenched in misty Acheron,
Heaved up her head, and half the world upon
Breathed darkness forth (dark night is Cupid’s day).
And now begins Leander to display
Love’s holy fire, with words, with sighs, and tears,
Which like sweet music entered Hero’s ears,
And yet at every word she turned aside,
And always cut him off as he replied.
At last, like to a bold sharp sophister,
With cheerful hope thus he accosted her.

“Fair creature, let me speak without offence.
I would my rude words had the influence
To lead thy thoughts as thy fair looks do mine,
Then shouldst thou be his prisoner, who is thine.
Be not unkind and fair; misshapen stuff
Are of behaviour boisterous and rough.
O shun me not, but hear me ere you go.
God knows I cannot force love as you do.
My words shall be as spotless as my youth,
Full of simplicity and naked truth.
This sacrifice, (whose sweet perfume descending
From Venus’ altar, to your footsteps bending)
Doth testify that you exceed her far,
To whom you offer, and whose nun you are.
Why should you worship her? Her you surpass
As much as sparkling diamonds flaring glass.
A diamond set in lead his worth retains;
A heavenly nymph, beloved of human swains,
Receives no blemish, but ofttimes more grace;
Which makes me hope, although I am but base:
Base in respect of thee, divine and pure,
Dutiful service may thy love procure.
And I in duty will excel all other,
As thou in beauty dost exceed Love’s mother.
Nor heaven, nor thou, were made to gaze upon,
As heaven preserves all things, so save thou one.
A stately builded ship, well rigged and tall,
The ocean maketh more majestical.
Why vowest thou then to live in Sestos here
Who on Love’s seas more glorious wouldst appear?
Like untuned golden strings all women are,
Which long time lie untouched, will harshly jar.
Vessels of brass, oft handled, brightly shine.
What difference betwixt the richest mine
And basest mould, but use? For both, not used,
Are of like worth. Then treasure is abused
When misers keep it; being put to loan,
In time it will return us two for one.
Rich robes themselves and others do adorn;
Neither themselves nor others, if not worn.
Who builds a palace and rams up the gate
Shall see it ruinous and desolate.
Ah, simple Hero, learn thyself to cherish.
Lone women like to empty houses perish.
Less sins the poor rich man that starves himself
In heaping up a mass of drossy pelf,
Than such as you. His golden earth remains
Which, after his decease, some other gains.
But this fair gem, sweet in the loss alone,
When you fleet hence, can be bequeathed to none.
Or, if it could, down from th’enameled sky
All heaven would come to claim this legacy,
And with intestine broils the world destroy,
And quite confound nature’s sweet harmony.
Well therefore by the gods decreed it is
We human creatures should enjoy that bliss.
One is no number; maids are nothing then
Without the sweet society of men.
Wilt thou live single still? One shalt thou be,
Though never singling ***** couple thee.
Wild savages, that drink of running springs,
Think water far excels all earthly things,
But they that daily taste neat wine despise it.
Virginity, albeit some highly prize it,
Compared with marriage, had you tried them both,
Differs as much as wine and water doth.
Base bullion for the stamp’s sake we allow;
Even so for men’s impression do we you,
By which alone, our reverend fathers say,
Women receive perfection every way.
This idol which you term virginity
Is neither essence subject to the eye
No, nor to any one exterior sense,
Nor hath it any place of residence,
Nor is’t of earth or mould celestial,
Or capable of any form at all.
Of that which hath no being do not boast;
Things that are not at all are never lost.
Men foolishly do call it virtuous;
What virtue is it that is born with us?
Much less can honour be ascribed thereto;
Honour is purchased by the deeds we do.
Believe me, Hero, honour is not won
Until some honourable deed be done.
Seek you for chastity, immortal fame,
And know that some have wronged Diana’s name?
Whose name is it, if she be false or not
So she be fair, but some vile tongues will blot?
But you are fair, (ay me) so wondrous fair,
So young, so gentle, and so debonair,
As Greece will think if thus you live alone
Some one or other keeps you as his own.
Then, Hero, hate me not nor from me fly
To follow swiftly blasting infamy.
Perhaps thy sacred priesthood makes thee loath.
Tell me, to whom mad’st thou that heedless oath?”

“To Venus,” answered she and, as she spake,
Forth from those two tralucent cisterns brake
A stream of liquid pearl, which down her face
Made milk-white paths, whereon the gods might trace
To Jove’s high court.
He thus replied: “The rites
In which love’s beauteous empress most delights
Are banquets, Doric music, midnight revel,
Plays, masks, and all that stern age counteth evil.
Thee as a holy idiot doth she scorn
For thou in vowing chastity hast sworn
To rob her name and honour, and thereby
Committ’st a sin far worse than perjury,
Even sacrilege against her deity,
Through regular and formal purity.
To expiate which sin, kiss and shake hands.
Such sacrifice as this Venus demands.”

Thereat she smiled and did deny him so,
As put thereby, yet might he hope for moe.
Which makes him quickly re-enforce his speech,
And her in humble manner thus beseech.
“Though neither gods nor men may thee deserve,
Yet for her sake, whom you have vowed to serve,
Abandon fruitless cold virginity,
The gentle queen of love’s sole enemy.
Then shall you most resemble Venus’ nun,
When Venus’ sweet rites are performed and done.
Flint-breasted Pallas joys in single life,
But Pallas and your mistress are at strife.
Love, Hero, then, and be not tyrannous,
But heal the heart that thou hast wounded thus,
Nor stain thy youthful years with avarice.
Fair fools delight to be accounted nice.
The richest corn dies, if it be not reaped;
Beauty alone is lost, too warily kept.”

These arguments he used, and many more,
Wherewith she yielded, that was won before.
Hero’s looks yielded but her words made war.
Women are won when they begin to jar.
Thus, having swallowed Cupid’s golden hook,
The more she strived, the deeper was she strook.
Yet, evilly feigning anger, strove she still
And would be thought to grant against her will.
So having paused a while at last she said,
“Who taught thee rhetoric to deceive a maid?
Ay me, such words as these should I abhor
And yet I like them for the orator.”

With that Leander stooped to have embraced her
But from his spreading arms away she cast her,
And thus bespake him: “Gentle youth, forbear
To touch the sacred garments which I wear.
Upon a rock and underneath a hill
Far from the town (where all is whist and still,
Save that the sea, playing on yellow sand,
Sends forth a rattling murmur to the land,
Whose sound allures the golden Morpheus
In silence of the night to visit us)
My turret stands and there, God knows, I play.
With Venus’ swans and sparrows all the day.
A dwarfish beldam bears me company,
That hops about the chamber where I lie,
And spends the night (that might be better spent)
In vain discourse and apish merriment.
Come thither.” As she spake this, her tongue tripped,
For unawares “come thither” from her slipped.
And suddenly her former colour changed,
And here and there her eyes through anger ranged.
And like a planet, moving several ways,
At one self instant she, poor soul, assays,
Loving, not to love at all, and every part
Strove to resist the motions of her heart.
And hands so pure, so innocent, nay, such
As might have made heaven stoop to have a touch,
Did she uphold to Venus, and again
Vowed spotless chastity, but all in vain.
Cupid beats down her prayers with his wings,
Her vows above the empty air he flings,
All deep enraged, his sinewy bow he bent,
And shot a shaft that burning from him went,
Wherewith she strooken, looked so dolefully,
As made love sigh to see his tyranny.
And as she wept her tears to pearl he turned,
And wound them on his arm and for her mourned.
Then towards the palace of the destinies
Laden with languishment and grief he flies,
And to those stern nymphs humbly made request
Both might enjoy each other, and be blest.
But with a ghastly dreadful
Andrew Rueter Jun 2017
When education was restricted
They ran to religion
When solace was stripped away
They ran to martyrdom
Loved ones fell
Hated ones rose
As hearts sank
To the depths of the maelstrom
Fueled by the unholy trinity
Value, vindication, and violence

Bombs decimate Afghan villages
With the precision
Of a needle hitting a vein
And as casually
As a contractor putting a dollar in his pocket
The rubble of their town
Lost in a mist of dust
The rubble of their minds
Lost in a mist of vengeance

The rabid dog chases the subjugated raccoon
The raccoon discovers a sacred hole and hides in it
The predator attempts to encroach the void
The raccoon quivers in it's sanctuary shelter
Finding relief as the hound becomes stuck
And laughs as the infected beast starves to death
But ecstasy turns to terror
As the raccoon realizes it's only way out of this hole
Is being blocked by the gargantuan corpse
Terror turns to sorrow
As the raccoon starves to death
Alone
In the dark
It's holy land now hell
For once it had protected the raccoon from unbridled rabies
But since the hound's death
It's Cerberus size obstructs all progression
Holes become graves
And prey are left to pray
For someone to drop a bomb and clear a path
Can be found in my self published poetry book “Icy”.
https://www.amazon.com/Icy-Andrew-Rueter-ebook/dp/B07VDLZT9Y/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Icy+Andrew+Rueter&qid=1572980151&sr=8-1
Lynnia Jul 2018
We were dueling with sparks
Now we’re juggling fire
Flame still starves in the dark
Never beaten or tired
Doesn’t dim with age
It can’t be blown out
Still alive with rage
Feeding on your doubt
It doesn’t think
And it can’t feel
Driven to the brink
Craving its next meal
Anger scorches your soul
Many have learned
If you play with fire,
you’re bound to get burned.
Anger scorches you from the inside out and letting the blaze speak for you has its consequences.
A man, who never believed in Gods,
Refused to acknowledge the supremacy of the imperialist British Lords,
Challenged imperialist world empire with stubbornness,
Wished to build a peaceful superpower country, with farsightedness.

Through his reading, kept himself on evolution,
Sowed in the hearts of Indian youth, the seeds of revolution,
Raising and threatening administrative tones,
Stood fearful and could only break his bones.

From, soviet World misunderstood,
Revolution a product of blood & bullet,
He approached and transformed revolution,
A product of inspiring pen and booklet.

Never limited himself to fight for boundaries of administrative right,
Expanded himself in the jail to throw away human plight,
Fought a death-nearing battle to regain the human right,
To finally set all things for his jail mates completely right.

Pen is mightier than sword,
His life bore testimony to prove that record,
When others attempted for freedom movement to nurture,
He dreamt and worked for building his country a beautiful future.

Born an ordinary Sikh man,
Misinterpreted a lunatic gunman,

Lived a life of comrades,
Hated in every step, caste, religious and gender retrogrades,
Wanted to save his country from blood-******* renegades,
Decided to break all the youth-distorting barricades,
And put his life to a mortgaging death trade.

Lived a life of an unselfish tree,
Decided to give his life to witness the country free,
Evolved his life, a chapter of sacrifice,
Offered overprice to fight the imposed injustice & cowardice.


His physical life remained short-lived and temporary,
Lived for the country to set an example for ideal revolutionary,
Beaten by humanimal imperialists, black and blue,
Opened the youths towards fight for freedom, on a new avenue.

Imperialist empire remained pathetically cruel,
His thoughts & phenomenon inspired a never ending fuel,
For the youths, to sacrifice themselves for liberation of the soil,
Through revolutionary paths, filled with constant sufferings and toil.

The world personified, revolution is,
Red, blood, blood and blood,
He defied and responded, revolution is,
Think, evolve, unite, and change, by the act of read, read, read and read.

He proclaimed a desperate need,
To get ourselves away from disturbing ****,
Sowed the fire of revolutionary seed,
Thus stated to read, read and read.

Imperialist empires killed people like blood-******* vampires,
He fought and responded, with the shot of a demonstrative gunfire,
When ordinary humans aimed to save their family,
Every millisecond, lived a life, personifying whole country his family.

Like a wood that offers light, and burns itself in fire,
Gave freedom a ray of light, submitted himself happily into the death wire,
For revolution, turned the court his Centre of propaganda,
Responded the ruthless imperialist, a warning memoranda.

On the imperialist death rope, he was killed
The batons he passed for the youths of next generations,
His final dream for India, still unfulfilled,
On the presence of present blood-******* politicians,

A baby that never cries on starvation,
A child that never starves for education,
A youth who never roams around to get dignified occupation,
Let’s at least work and fight towards, fulfilling this mission.
This poem is about the Indian revolutionary named Bhagat Singh. He was a Sikh youth born in India. He is wrongly misinterpreted with bullets and blood. But his approach towards freedom, worthiness of human life and knowledge, shows him distinct from violent loving extremists. He was not a terrorist. He was the most non-violent person, who valued human life than everything. The bomb he threw never had any harmful chemicals, it was thrown on an empty place of assembly to get the world to hear him. He killed a police, who deliberately lathi-charged and killed people involved in a peaceful protest. He sacrificed his life for Indian freedom movement. He was the highly-read and the best intellectual reader during his life short-lived (1907-1931). At the age of 24, the then imperialist British executed him by hanging him to death. His vision and clarity for India and his predictions are happening today. His vision and thoughts still ignite youths of India when we think of him. In short, he is an icon of the Indian youth and revolutionary.
There's a certain peace that settles inside you when you hear the wind whip through the forest, the sound soothes you until your muscles quiver with joy and you begin grinning with delight as the cool air runs soft fingers down your spine and sends shivers back through you. That was the feeling going through Fayowin as he stalked his prey, a nimble buck that mindlessly grazed in the snowy glade. Fayowin was a wolf, tall and regal, his fur ran a silver-white with intricate blue lines spiraling and writhing around his muscled body. His eyes glowed pure white in the night and shimmered in the daylight. The fangs lining his jaw were longer than the other wolves'... then again he was also larger than his alpha as well. Fayowin saw everything clearer and faster than the most skilled hunters in his pack, and he was also the swiftest. He should have felt proud of his uniqueness, but he felt outcast instead. The other hunters shunned him and disliked hunting alongside him, leaving Fayowin to hunt alone.

Today was no different. It was his turn to hunt and he had to hunt alone. If he failed, the pack would force him out into the cold. "If the pack starves, the hunter freezes," was the motto of his alpha, Alexei. Fayowin narrowed his white eyes and drew in the scent of the deer. As he did, he caught the hint of a she-wolf nearby, not of his pack. Distracted for an instant, he snapped back and sprinted for the deer, lunging for it and tearing into its throat and ripping out the windpipe and blood vessels all in one bite. As the smell of blood coated his senses, he began to feel uneasy and whirled around to see a silver wolf snarling at him. It was the she-wolf he had sensed earlier. She stood just a little shorter than him and had strange markings of her own: she bore black marks under her eyes and one on her forehead that resembled a paw. What struck him the most was the band around her upper foreleg. His eyes wandered as he observed her and she growled, bringing his attention back to her glaring green eyes.
"That... was my ****!" she growled. "I don't know how you managed to get it before me, and I don't know how you managed to escape my notice. Who are you?!"
Fayowin sneered and raised an eyebrow, "This, my dear, is MY ****. I've had my eyes on it for a while now. And frankly, this is my territory as well, and unless you want to become part of my territory, I'd suggest you treat me with respect."
She edged closer to him, surprised and infuriated at this male's straightforwardness. But there was something about that and his scent that appealed to her though. "I'm not leaving without this deer."
Fayowin chuckled, "It looks like you will be leaving without it, whoever you are."
"My name... is Feiria!" she licked her lips hungrily, "and that is MY deer!"
Fayowin narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as he studied her. Even through her winter coat, he could see the outline of her ribcage and could smell the desperation on her scent. He saw Feiria's muscles contract as she prepared to lunge at him. He sidestepped and she landed face-first in the snow, a mere inch from the warm deer meat. She looked at him hungrily, almost pleading. Fayowin sighed and nodded his head once, after which Feiria voraciously tore into the carcass.

He slowly meandered towards the center of the clearing and flopped down into the snow. He could hear the she-wolf eating ravenously behind him as he thought of his next move. If he returned to the pack, he'd be ridiculed and forced to live in the snow. If he stayed out here he faced the same problem.

Fayowin flattened his ears back and started to doze off, still listening to Feiria eat his ****. He began dreaming of gaping mountain passes, tall forests, and warm valleys. He felt oddly warm, not freezing cold as he had expected. He didn't care though, warmth was a gift in the winter. He slept peacefully until nightfall overtook the forest and the moonlight shone down and illuminated his fur, the lines becoming like blue fire. His eyes would have glowed if they were open, but they remained oblivious to the change in scenery until a cold wind blew through his fur and he shivered awake. He nearly jumped when he realized why he was so warm: the she-wolf lay curled up, pressed against him, sound asleep. He tilted his head slightly as he watched her sleep, probably the most peaceful she'd been in a long time. Fayowin would've hated to ruin his gift to her, albeit an unwilling one.
Feiria woke up soon after midnight, and gazed fearfully into Fayowin's glowing white eyes, taking in his
Cynical stare and his glowing body. She whispered, "I've heard of your kind..."
he looked curiously at her, "my kind?"
"the star wolves.."
he averted his gaze, "Never heard of them.. I'm just a normal wolf.."
Feiria glared at him, "You're glowing, *******.. Not normal. Unless.... Unless your whole pack is made of star wolves!" her face seemed to light up as she said it.
Fayowin whipped his head around, "No! I'm the only one like this..." he looked solemnly down at his feet as he finished.
She blinked, dumbfounded. Clearing her throat, she said, "I really should get back to my pack. They'll be worried about me if I stay out for much longer." she glanced at the massive deer behind them and sighed quietly.
"Your whole pack is starving...aren't they?" said Fayowin quietly.
Feiria nodded and he stood up and walked through the snow silently towards the deer. "you'll need to lead me to your pack if they're to get this meat."
Feiria blinked again, then nodded, getting up and starting off  
Towards the north. Fayowin gripped the deer's neck and drug the carcass behind him as he walked. After a half hour of walking, Feiria howled long and low, signaling her pack that she was near. Fayowin sighed as he heard their howls respond. He thought, there will be no howls for me tonight...
As they neared her pack's clearing, a group of young wolves sprinted towards them, rushing past Feiria and surrounding Fayowin. "Who is this outsider, Feiria? Why did you bring him here?"
there were five of them and they all went into attack mode, growling and circling him.
Feiria attempted to stop them before they got into a fight, but one of them pounced, and in a flash Fayowin had him pinned to the ground with his fangs around the wolf's neck. Fayowin watched the wolves around him react, stepping back and glancing at each other. Feiria shouted at them to stop but they didn't seem to hear her immediately, backing down only as Fayowin's growl tore through the trees, echoing throughout the forest
. They finally heard her, "he's a star wolf!" by now a crowd had gathered around them, Feiria's packmates watching Fayowin closely. He let go of the young wolf beneath his paws, who quickly scampered away, and Fayowin sat up straight and tall, his markings and eyes glowing for all to see. The wolves ooh'd and ahh'd amongst themselves before the alpha stepped forward and looked him up and down. "You killed this deer, yes?"
"I did."
"Why bring it here? We are strangers to you."
Fayowin glanced at Feiria, who shifted, uncomfortable with the silence. "I brought it here because i could tell that this pack needed the meat more than my own." Fayowin looked directly at Feiria and continued, "besides... She saw it first."
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(End of day one of writing, really enjoyed it, look forward to writing again)
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Fayowin perched high upon an rock outcropping, overlooking the clearing below and the wolves within. The alpha had allowed him to stay, grateful for the meat. Feiria was pressed against him again, but this time Fayowin didn't mind. He enjoyed the warmth that she provided and felt at ease around her. She nuzzled his cheek affectionately, a move that surprised him enough that he turned to face her, brushing her nose in the process. He gazed fondly into her eyes for a moment before standing. "I have to return to my pack."
Feiria looked shocked, "No, stay here with us. We could use a hunter like you. Plus you're a star wolf, and it doesn't seem like your pack appreciates that."
He let the words sink in before replying, "I have to go. I'll return in the morning." Seeing the desperate and doubtful look on her face, he added, "I promise. I will come back."
Fayowin walked to the edge of the forest, the glow of his body soon disappearing from Feiria's view.
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...
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F­ayowin sprinted relentlessly back to his territory, smelling the familiar and not so pleasant scents of his packmates. The smell of blood ran thick in the air as he neared the clearing. The moonlight cast eerie shadows around him and he could feel the eyes of the wolves watching him as he reached the gore pile. The mound of bones and rotting flesh dripped blood into the white snow.
"You're late. And emptypawed. You know what that means, filth." the voice was that of his alpha, Marroy, who stood three feet tall at the shoulder, a whole foot and a half shorter than Fayowin. His fur was a mottled black with a grey underbelly.
Fayowin bared his fangs, the longest being three inches long, and he growled, "My name.. is Fayowin."
Marroy cackled in the darkness, "So straightforward. That's unlike you. No matter, you failed to bring us fresh meat. As punishment, you'll be reminded why we protect you in the first place."
Fayowin heard growls emanating from the trees. The pack of around 25 wolves was massive compared to other packs, and there were enough hunters to go around. Fayowin took a step back and let his eyes adjust so he could see them in the trees.
"You don't protect me, Marroy! You fear me!"
Marroy laughed again, "Not from where I'm standing, Mutt. You look pretty frightened." Fayowin took another step back. "Run! Run! Give us some entertainment!"
The wolves started bounding out of the trees and began chasing Fayowin out of the clearing. They seemed to be pouring from every shadow. He ran faster than ever before, the trees blurring past him as he tried to get away. He ran for what seemed like an eternity before seeing the snowy valley at the edge of the forest. He added a burst of speed and instantly regretted it. A rock beneath the snow tripped him and pain shot up his left foreleg. He tumbled end over end in a heap of blue and white, coming to a stop twenty feet away. Fayowin heard the pack coming for him and he tried to crawl away, but to no avail; the pain was too much. He whimpered as he was surrounded, and shut his eyes tight as he felt them bite and claw at him, retreating only after there was a ****** pool around the star wolf. Marroy walked slowly up to him after they had gone and said, "I hope you die out here. If you aren't, we'll make sure that changes." Then the alpha left him there, cold, ******, broken and alone.
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* (End of Day two/Start of day three of writing and i'm really hooked on this, I believe this may be one of my better stories...)*
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Feiria lay silently on the rock outcropping above the pack and she thought of the star wolf. Something about the breeze brought thoughts to her mind.  
Feiria lifted her nose into the air as the smell of blood became present. She sniffed intently and heard her packmates do the same. She looked in the direction that Fayowin had left in and saw a dark form slowly shambling through the shadowy flora towards her. As it neared her she could see that it was dripping a dark liquid, trailing it through the snow in a scarlet path. "Its Fayowin.." she thought to herself. "Why are his eyes so dark? Why isn't he glowing?"
she rushed to his side and the smell of his blood was almost overwhelming. There were numerous bites and cuts all over him and his left foreleg seemed broken.
Feiria called for the healer, an older female named Sheya, and supported Fayowin as they walked to the glade and waited for the healer. Fayowin collapsed in the center of the clearing, the moonlight hitting him directly, making the blood seem black against his white fur.
Feiria whimpered helplessly, waiting for Fayowin to answer, but his eyes seemed so lifeless that
She felt it was almost a false hope. When Sheya finally arrived, the blood had stopped flowing and his breathing had slowed until he was asleep. When the healer examined him, she looked puzzled.
"what's the matter, Elder?"
Sheya pondered a moment before saying, "His wounds have healed. I'd say its a miracle, seeing as he lost so much blood."
Feiria examined the sleeping wolf herself and found the elders words to be true; there wasn't a scratch left on him. "Leave him here, the sunlight will warm him once daylight comes and his fur is thicker than ours so the cold will not affect him as much." the gathered wolves sat in silence as Feiria washed the blood from his fur with snow and lay down next to him, pressing her body against his. The blue lines on Fayowin dimmed and brightened in tune with his heartbeat, and Feiria listened as her own beat matched it.
[][][][]][][[][][][][][][][][][]
...End of day 3....
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Fayowin felt like he was in another world, this one so much quieter, but at the same time he could sense every noise, every movement, every vibration. His fur was no longer the bright white it once was, but rather a deep black with crimson lines flowing round him. He was lying down, surrounded by a wolf pack, Feiria pressed against him for warmth. He saw, or rather sensed her spirit energy, a type of green fire that outlined her entire body as she slept. Fayowin stood up, thinking to wake her and let her know he was alright, but she hadn't moved. And neither had he; his white furred body remained as it was a moment ago, but he was looking at it as if in another body. He took a step back as he realized he was roaming about in his spirit form. He looked around at the pack and none of the gathered wolves seemed to notice him. He exited the circle of onlookers and gazed up at the falling moon, watching it descend into the horizon, chased away by the rays of the sun coming over the mountaintops to the east. As the sun peeked over the ridge, Fayowin caught something out of the corner of his eye, a dark mass that didn't fit right with the rest of the environment. He looked and saw two sets of glowing purple eyes in the shade. He called out to them, hoping they might hear. "Hey! Can you see me?"
The eyes looked at each other and then back at him, staring for a moment before turning and running.
"Hey, wait!!" Fayowin called after them and began to chase them deeper and deeper into the mysterious forest.The beings moved faster than Fayowin had anticipated, disappearing soon after the chase had begun. Fayowin stood there in the middle of the woods, panting and searching for the elusive forms. After a moment he saw them at the very edge of his vision, their eyes glowing brighter, almost as if they were taunting him forward. Snarling, Fayowin bolted towards them and they led him on a winding path marked by a barely discernable scent trail. The smell was that of burnt wood and crushed pine needles and was oddly alluring to Fayowin as he ran. It seeemed as if he were running for ages, the sun and moon rotating numerous times around him as he traveled over mountains and rivers, through forests and valleys. On the thirteenth solar rotation, the figures finally stopped, joined by eleven other figures surrounding a circular rock with vines and overgrowth covering its base.
As he neared the figures, he saw that they all looked like him, long furred and covered in glowing lines. "Star wolves... Like me..."
The wolves all surrounded the dais and watched him with razor sharp eyes, watching his every move. As he gazed back, Fayowin noticed that each of them had some form of a trident mark right below their left eye, the color matching the lines tracing their bodies. He felt the urge to move forward, as if an instinct were telling him to stand in the center of the circle. Fayowin stood, all eyes on him as he waited for whatever was about to come.
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....I have nothing to say to you HP... I dislike you at the moment....
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Nightfall was coming swiftly, the moon and the stars swirling into place above them, reaching their peak and then halting completely. All of time and
SweetCindy Aug 2014
The phrase came to me like a silent epiphany...Like an arrow piercing my flesh & reaching my heart like a bull's eye.

From the moment we enter this world, our hearts thrive on love. Screeching infants instantly silenced by the warm embrace & nuzzling caress of their human makers, their parents.

A child's first crush & the rush of holding hands. Chasing young love on the playground, but somehow it always gets away.

A favorite toy lost. A dropped ice cream cone. Being the last one picked for the team.
Our first kiss, first date.. Getting dumped by our first love.

We find love, get married, but maybe they're not "the one". Do you stay or call it quits?

Or maybe we hold out for "the one", single, alone. Love teases your heart like an *** with a carrot.
You go through the motions, too many times until you believe you have lost the vision of real love, true love.
You find your life's passion, your major, your mentor, you the prodigy.

In your mind you hear the warning: "There's a fine line between ambition & obsession."

Through all the stages of life, regardless of our social class, background, history or current circumstances, our heart prods us..
Beckons us to strive for our dreams, pursue our desires, reach our goals & aspirations, proclaim our love .. but that dream, desire, goal, love is always just beyond our reach, at our fingertips but never truly acquired.

Like the chef who slaves over his feast to make it perfect & basking in it's delicious aroma & savoring the taste test to serve it up for others to enjoy, longing to sit down and indulge, but alas! there's not a morsel left for him to partake - it's all gone.

Our heart starves.
This is still a work in progress.. some thoughts flooded into my head.. I've yet to find a rhythm or style that I envision this in & still battling with the verbiage.
Alone in the workhouse. Is where she gave birth.
The starch Parish Surgeon. A Drunken old Nurse.
The cries of a boy child. In her arms did he lie.
Gently kissing his forehead. Before she did die.

Not to be married. Mentioned the Nurse.
Was not to be heard of. Almost a curse.
No Father to speak of. Illegitimate offspring.
His Mother a corpse. With no wedding ring.

Without relations. Brought up with force.
Grown as a captive. Poverties course.
Life in the workhouse. Juvenile offenders.
Selfish providers. Fat cat Pretenders.

"Mrs Mann", Overseer. An hierarchy lie.
Starves and abuses. Would let them all die.
Nine years of age. Each picking a straw.
The boy stumbles forward. Asking for more.

Gruel knocked aside. The fat man, Bumble.
Shocked and alarmed. Off top shelf does stumble.
Dragged by the scruff. Out in the snow.
Sowerberry’s undertakers is where he will go.

Childish look. Innocent way.
To walk at the head of the hearse, they will pay.
Treated unfair. Leading the dead.
Next to a coffin they position his bed.

Insecure Claypole. With nasty remark.
Temper unleashed. Thrown into the dark.
Overwhelming silence inviting a tear.
By morning, escape. Will leave this room clear.

Seventy mile trek. Things look so bleak.
In London he lands. Dejected and weak.
The first friendly face stands counting his loot.
All wide eyed and fresh. In whistle and flute.

"Jack Dawkins the name. But you call me Dodger.
Need somewhere to stay, cause I know this old Codger."
Old Fagin insists to offer him bread.
A warm place to live. A snug place to bed.

Next mornings instruction as Fagin explains.
We live by our wits. Rely on our brains.
Its not thieving we do. We take it by slight.
If they wanted to keep it, why leave it in sight?

Bet and Nancy drop by. For a drink they are glad.
Showing concern for this down trodden lad.
Oliver’s training goes on for days.
Each time he succeeds is allotted with praise.

The day that gave Oliver oh so much tension.
When he met the man he had heard no one mention.
Gruff, rough and evil, A man no one likes.
With Bulls-eye his dog. The man known as Sikes.

The day comes around, when Oliver goes out. With Charley and Dodger, their isn’t much doubt.
The two older boys get the items they sought. Though in all of the turmoil Oliver’s caught.

Brought before Fang, the court Magistrate. Innocent plea onto deaf ears migrate.
Last minute witness brings light forth to shine. On innocent captive in front of said shrine.
The message is out, the crooks are all fraught. Nancy is allotted to spy in the court.
The boy is acquitted. Nothing is told. Nancy relays that they haven’t been sold.
The kindly old victim shows pity on boy.A quiet misdemeanour, a look in his eye.
A child of worth, should not be alone. Mr Brownlow decides to take Oliver home.
For the first time in ever, contentment and love.Poured onto said urchin from those up above.
A picture looks down on this scene from the wall. Similarity so true, most evident for all.
But outside a danger does start to lament. The signs coming out from a previous event.
Sikes and his lady hide out in the shade. Waiting in patience for mistake to be made.
A simple small errand would easily portray. That Oliver Twist is not of bad way.
Mr Grimwig suggests that the boy should be bound. With a parcel of books and the sum of five pound.
Brownlow agrees but his friend will soon gloat. Of the loss of said books and the crisp five pound note.
Surely as hell the time is upon. When onto the streets the child is soon gone.
But Grimwig still boasts that the boy they did trust. Was simply a fraud and just earning a crust.
The kindly old man does have to agree. That Oliver Twist is about on a spree.
Held up and imprisoned by this awful pair. Terrified boy removed to old Fagin’s lair.
Bill Sikes decides that the boy needs a blow. Nancy steps in, she will not stoop so low.
Be satisfied Bill for you have ruined his life. Condemned the poor boy to an history of strife.
Is that not enough to cast onto him. He has been through the mill, now he’s out on a limb.
Brownlow decides to post a reward. For information on the loss of his young ward.
Bumble arrives for the five guinea toll. As he opens his mouth the lies they do roll.

Oliver is taken, carted away.
By Nancy and Bill to the place where they lay.
No notice is taken to the tears he will sob.
For Sikes plans to take the small boy on a job.

Shepperton town is the place they will go.

To silence the boy a gun he will show.
Darkness will produce where his sights are set on.
A quick in and out and with goods they’ll be gone.

Toby Crackit and Sikes are partners in Crime.
Through a small window will make the boy climb.
But plans all go wrong and they do not get a jot.
Although in the event the poor lad will be shot.

Old Bumble is called to the workhouse for wine.
With widowed matron intending to dine.
Things interrupted the matron must go.
To visit old Sally on deathbed below.

The dying old woman does make good a wrong.
As she pours out a death persons song.
She tells Mrs Corney about a gold locket.
That she in the past had decided to pocket.

Inside it gave clues to someone’s true worth.
As owner was dying whilst still giving birth.
To a small sickened child it could of helped save.
Returned him to family as she went to her grave.

Three Cripples a pub where to Fagin will fast. A man named of Monks will throw light on the past.
The story of Oliver’s plight he does pitch. Not knowing the boy has been left in a ditch.
Giles and Brittle two servants regale. Remembering the robbery they did make fail.
An embellished story that has one slight hitch. The bloodied young man will make their story switch.
Doctor and Constable soon to arrive. While injured is taken upstairs to survive.
Upon seeing Oliver, Miss Rose does exclaim. That burglar and boy are not one and the same.
Officer’s Blather and Doth examine the scene. Oliver soon will explain his regime.
Miss Maylie house owner and her niece Miss Rose. Will not let the boy to a prison expose.
Losberne the surgeon and Rose take some time. For ways to conceal the boy from the crime.
Giles and Brittle are forced to retake. Admitting to Officers that they made a mistake.
Oliver’s life takes an healthy uplift. And lady and niece are so glad of this gift.
Tender care and love, make this young lad at home. Never again need to feel so alone.
Losberne takes Oliver to London to see. Where Brownlow and Bedwin could possibly be.
Upon their journey the news they do find. The persons in question have left England behind.
Without any warning poor Miss Rose gets sick. Oliver runs to get Losberne so quick.
On his return as he walks down the lane. He comes on a man who is writhing in pain.
Having retrieved some assistance for man. Returns towards home just as fast as he can.
Wanting to make certain of good news for Rose. Memory of the man in the lane simply goes.
Maylie’s sons Giles and Harry attend. Harry wants Miss Rose as more than a friend.
Whilst Harry is aiming for fortune and fame. Miss Rose has a sensitive mark on her name.
Although the misdeed was no crime of her own. Her parents wrongs will not leave her alone.
Harry is aiming at Prime Minister. So marriage beneath him would cause quite a stir.
With love in his heart the relentless Harry. Tells Miss Rose once more that he does want to Marry.
Although after this time he will not ask again. A tearful lady does have to refrain.
Oliver wakes up in shock from a sleep. Whilst at the window two men they do peep.
Fagin and other man, run off for their shame. Memories rekindled. The man in the lane.
Giles and Harry soon at Oliver’s aid. Searching the grounds but no trace can be made.
Away from the scene things come to an head. Old Bumble and Corney it seems have been wed.
The matron tells husband about what she’s learned. About the dead woman, money could be earned.
Chance meeting with Monks Bumble does make. To meet this caped man his new wife he does take.
For twenty five pounds a deal is made. She passes the goods for which she has been paid.
The locket from Sally, she did take and hold. Inside of locket a ring made of gold.
Inscribed on the inside the man Monks saw there. The name of Agnes and two locks of hair.
Inclined is the man, evidence must go. Weighted and thrown into rivers own flow.
Sikes is in fever and sweat it does shine. As Fagin arrives to deliver some wine.
Fagin replies he does not think it funny. The sickened Sikes still demands from him money.
Fagin takes Nancy back to his hideaway. To get Sikes the money he must indeed pay.
A visitor arrives, two men speak alone. Inquisitive Nancy can hear their drone.
Whatever she heard commits her to see and knock on the front door of Mrs Maylie.
Admitting to Miss Rose so that she should know. Who kidnapped the boy from Mr Brownlow.
She explains what it is she heard from the other. That Monks is indeed poor Oliver’s brother.
Oliver later is out for a treat. He spots Mr Brownlow out on the street.
The young man relates what he saw unto friends. Mr Giles and Miss Rose to Brownlow attend.
Oliver is allowed a visit to see. Brownlow and Bedwin who don’t disagree.
The story from Nancy is passed onto both. To keep it from Oliver they all swear an oath.
The idea to see Nancy would be a vantage. So visit they must, upon London Bridge.
Plans are drawn up things are in sight. The deadline is Sunday. The time is midnight.
Sowerberrie Robbed, Claypole the crook. To London a journey. The police he should duck.
A meeting with Fagin does help to define. The shaking of hands as this union align.
With Dodger locked up the need for a new. Association, by joining the crew.
First on the agenda a visit to court. To view on the sentence that Dodger has bought.
The sentence is in, result deportation. For Dodger a blow, Fagin some irritation.
Fagin tells Noah he will give him one pound. To latch on to Nancy and follow her around.
The midnight meeting from shadows perceived. Of talk about Monks who is not too relieved.
Spying for gentry Nancy will announce. When Monks will attend at that old ale house.
Idea as such, he will be forced to declare. The truth about all he has worked for and where.
Sikes is informed of Nancy’s concern. Anger and hatred through him will burn.
When he returns home, throws the girl onto bed. Lifts up his stick and beats Nancy dead.
Sikes will flee London the following day but tries to drown Bulls-eye who could give him away.
Brownlow captures Monks, taking him to his home. After constant question his cover is blown.
The secret of Monks they were soon to discover. Real name Edward Leeford they then did uncover.
His father he told was forced into marriage. With woman with whom he had tried to disparage.
This loveless union for the father was coarse. So he left but was not to secure a divorce.
Agnes Fleming, this lady became his only affection. The two of them seemingly lost their direction.
As a result of this loving affair. A woman alone with unborn child to care.
Fagin and Noah by police are detained. Though Sikes and his freedom still they remained.
Held up alone at his iniquitous den. Out of the way of all other men.
Bates he does follow, Bulls-eyehe will track. Calling on others to help him attack.
Murderer Sikes is forced now to flee. For the ****** he did to his poor Nancy.
He uses the rooftop with avoiding intent. Hoping that crowds will soon give up, relent.
Using a rope to air his escape. About his person the rope he will drape.
High up on rooftop Sikes does his trek. With rope still entwined in a loop around his neck.
A slip as he ran caused a rooftile to loose. Effecting in Sikes with his head in this noose.
Onlookers can see this of this man that they dread. Asphyxiated. Hanging stone dead.
They say what it is that made this man die. Was caused by seeing into Nancy’s eye.
That her ghost came along and did have its way. Making Bill Sikes forever pay.
Even though this story we cannot prove. For many a persons minds this does indeed sooth.
A Letter its told was found by another. Proving to us to be Edwards mother.
Destroying both a Will and letter. Ensuring that Edwards life will be better.
Agnes’s father found out when she left. Became broken heart and soon to bereft.
His shame and honour were both denied. Accelerated greatly the time when he died.
Poor little sister is taken we see. By good Samaritan lady named Mrs Maylie.
Bringing this child up as her own. Miss Rose as she is now, to us be it known.
Bumble and his wife confess. To their dealings in this mess.
Concealing to Oliver’s history. Never again, office be held by he.
Harry’s makes change of his life’s employ. Prime Ministers aim he will deny.
And thus open another direction. To marry her of his hearts affection.
Fagin is sentenced for all of his crimes. The Gallows imposed for his evil times.
Oliver will feel a need to beset. Fagin for proof of his legitimate
Noah is pardoned, excluded his time. For his testimonie about Fagin’s crime.
Monks travels by ship to the new world. It isn't to long until his life is unfurled.
His wicked ways again he will try. Imprisoned, eventually this is where he will die.
Oliver becomes the adopted son. Brownlow a father does also become.
Miss Rose as aunt that will often frequent. To see Olivers life gaining so much betterment,
Life now to all will be a good friend.
This story is formally now at an end.
A poetic translation of Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens..
May 28th 2011
always anxious Oct 2014
It's our little secret.
You'll have to keep it
Feel the pain in your gut
Close your heart and keep it shut.
Let no other person in
And let the punishment begin.
Every wrong thing that you make
Will also be my mistake

I'm beginning to see.
What people think of me,
I swear it's not by choice,
But ana has this voice.
She starves me of my youth,
And that's the only truth.
This hunger grows in me like cancer
I expected her to have the answers
And she did
But she haven't made me fit
1.

Like a white snowdrop in the spring
From child to girl I grew,
And thought no thought, and heard no word
That was not pure and true.

2.

And when I came to seventeen,
And life was fair and free,
A suitor, by my father's leave,
Was brought one day to me.

3.

“Make me the happiest man on earth,”
He whispered soft and low.
My mother told me it was right
I was too young to know.

4.

And then they twined my bridal wreath
And placed it on my brow.
It seems like fifty years ago —
And I am twenty now.

5.

My star, that barely rose, is set;
My day of hope is done —
My woman's life of love and joy —
Ere it has scarce begun.

6.

Hourly I die — I do not live —
Though still so young and strong.
No dumb brute from his brother brutes
Endures such wanton wrong.

7.

A smouldering shame consumes me now —
It poisons all my peace;
An inward torment of reproach
That never more will cease.

8.

O how my spirit shrinks and sinks
Ere yet the light is gone!
What creeping terrors chill my blood
As each black night draws on!

9.

I lay me down upon my bed,
A prisoner on the rack,
And suffer dumbly, as I must,
Till the kind day comes back.

10.

Listening from heavy hour to hour
To hear the church- clock toll —
A guiltless ******* in flesh,
A murderess in soul.

11.

Those church- bells chimed the marriage chimes
When he was wed to me,
And they must knell a funeral knell
Ere I again am free.

12.

I did not hate him then; in faith
I vowed the vow “I will;”
Were I his mate, and not his slave,
I could perform it still.

13.

But, crushed in these relentless bonds
I blindly helped to tie,
With one way only for escape,
I pray that he may die.

14.

O to possess myself once more,
Myself so stained and maimed!
O to make pure these shuddering limbs
That loveless lust has shamed!

15.

But beauty cannot be restored
Where such a blight has been,
And all the rivers in the world
Can never wash me clean.

16.

I go to church; I go to court;
No breath of scandal flaws
The lustre of my fair repute;
For I obey the laws.

17.

My ragged sister of the street,
Marked for the world's disgrace,
Scarce dares to lift her sinful eyes
To the great lady's face.

18.

She hides in shadows as I pass —
On me the sunbeams shine;
Yet, in the sight of God, her stain
May be less black than mine.

19.

Maybe she gave her all for love,
And did not count the cost;
If so, her crown of womanhood
Was not ignobly lost.

20.

Maybe she wears those wretched rags,
And starves from door to door,
To keep her body for her own
Since it may love no more.

21.

If so, in spite of church and law,
She is more pure than I;
The latchet of those broken shoes
I am not fit to tie.

22.

That hungry baby at her breast —
Sign of her fallen state —
Nature, who would but mock at mine,
Has made legitimate.

23.

Poor little “love- child” — spurned and scorned,
Whom church and law disown,
Thou hadst thy birthright when the seed
Of thy small life was sown.

24.

O Nature, give no child to me,
Whom Love must ne'er embrace!
Thou knowest I could not bear to look
On its reproachful face.
K Balachandran Jan 2012
stories are full of flying animals and talking birds,
Gautama rushes home evening,  
hoping to listen some from mom or dad,
dad seems always busy in conference calls
with north american clents.
every night with out fail
dad tells the  same excuse.
mom comes late at night tired and irritated,
Bangalore, sure rides the wave of global IT boom,
Gautama,  all of five, thinks , a child here lives in hell.
no one has time to read a story to a child
life has become a mad rush to and back from school.
no one these days not even ask,"why Gautama doesn't smile?"
sheridan Jan 2015
She battles her demons, day in, day out.
They don’t stay quiet, they scream and shout.
They tell her she’s ugly, they tell her she’s fat.
Her thighs are too big and her stomach’s not flat.
She starves herself but that’s not enough.
This desire to be thin has proven to be tough.
It’s making her miserable, it’s making her sad.
The quicker the weight loss, it won’t be as bad.
But the weight is staying and it won’t disappear.
She’s taking it to the extreme
And she’s making it clear
That she wants to be thin
And thin she will be.
But what you don’t know is that girl is me.
Mahnoor Kamran May 2017
His skin weaved in the golden sand,
Shone under the sun of his motherland.
Hair a tangled meshwork of thread,
Reminiscent of the nets his father spread.

He had no toys but crystals and shells,
that he collected onshore in lonely spells.
His food, the raw salty fish,
Swiftly with skill that he gut and dished.

He goes and lays down in wet sand,
the spirit of which he loves to no end.
He sings to the mermaids and in mud he rolls,
and the sea laughs with him in breaking shoals.

He is made of blood but ocean too,
he knows no music but woosh woosh woosh.
He wishes to marry a girl of the sea,
who'll dwell with him in his fantasy.

He turns his head and closes his ears,
while people run away from the ocean in fear.
Destruction and death loom ahead,
The blue ocean rises violently filling the town with dread.

Like a heavenly curse it fells on the town,
crushes and sweeps like the tragedy bound.
With his holy hand it avenges it's kin,
and his water that was treated as nothing but bin.

It tears every home away from it's root,
just like how the humans did its fish loot.
And squeezes the life out of the fishermen,
that feast on the dead of his homeland.

It starves and suffocates many men,
who made him breathless with oil spills time and again.
Like a storm it rages and plunders.
In minutes, wrecks havoc on the land and rips it asunder.

It gradually descends back to it's nest,
Satisfied with the curse it did impress.
The next day a body lay on the shore.
Like a coffin did it mud wore.

As people looked on it, they could not help but chant;
*The Child of the Ocean lies strangled in its waters,
We feed things love and they destroy us and slaughter.
I

The shepherds went their hasty way,
And found the lowly stable-shed
Where the ******-Mother lay:
And now they checked their eager tread,
For to the Babe, that at her ***** clung,
A Mother’s song the ******-Mother sung.

II

They told her how a glorious light,
Streaming from a heavenly throng.
Around them shone, suspending night!
While sweeter than a mother’s song,
Blest Angels heralded the Savior’s birth,
Glory to God on high! and Peace on Earth.

III

She listened to the tale divine,
And closer still the Babe she pressed:
And while she cried, the Babe is mine!
The milk rushed faster to her breast:
Joy rose within her, like a summer’s morn;
Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born.

IV

Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace,
Poor, simple, and of low estate!
That strife should vanish, battle cease,
O why should this thy soul elate?
Sweet Music’s loudest note, the Poet’s story,
Didst thou ne’er love to hear of fame and glory?

V

And is not War a youthful king,
A stately Hero clad in mail?
Beneath his footsteps laurels spring;
Him Earth’s majestic monarchs hail
Their friends, their playmate! and his bold bright eye
Compels the maiden’s love-confessing sigh.

VI

Tell this in some more courtly scene,
To maids and youths in robes of state!
I am a woman poor and mean,
And wherefore is my soul elate.
War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled,
That from the aged father’s tears his child!

VII

A murderous fiend, by fiends adored,
He kills the sire and starves the son;
The husband kills, and from her board
Steals all his widow’s toil had won;
Plunders God’s world of beauty; rends away
All safety from the night, all comfort from the day.

VIII

Then wisely is my soul elate,
That strife should vanish, battle cease:
I’m poor and of low estate,
The Mother of the Prince of Peace.
Joy rises in me, like a summer’s morn:
Peace, Peace on Earth! The Prince of Peace is born!
Anshika Nov 2014
A child starves
Thin little arms
And they say
Not my problem.

A black man dies
Fear in his eyes
And they say
Not my problem.

A woman is terrified
To walk down the street at night
And they say
Not
my
problem.

I don’t understand it
How blind can you be?
Even though it’s hidden
It’s still a reality.

We have to educate
Only then can we celebrate
The destruction of hate
and the changing of our fate.

Our world won’t be successful
‘Til all that’s bad is gone
In the meantime, we’re regretful
No one knows what’s going on.
john walker Feb 2013
Total departure to our needs is the reckless stupidity of how we are becoming our own executioners.When looking down on mother earth from father sky they wonder as to what their siblings are dreaming of as they hurt and maim their own mother.
When will people who justify their greed ,instead of need realise that their greed will not even give them their very  basic requirements for being here!
Humanity,through some strange concept,has set itself up,knowingly,as the controller and destroyer of all that gives them their basic needs,"their mother and father".
Man in his greed has even tainted the rays of light which give us our birthright,LIFE,for without it we would not exist.
By an infinite membrame,or so greed presumes,lying between good and bad,we live or die,but greed has stretched and widened that belief to horrific depths in the name of need.How long before it SNAPS?!
The coolerof our mother and bearer of us is poisened and wasted every moment. The ever overexploiting ****-sapiens will not letgreed stop them,even in their mothers death cries.A huge propergater of everything,mother gries in pain as she starves and with her ,her siblings.
The sun now burns her soft skin and moisture does not stay to cool her as she sweats.How long must or can she endure this torture?
Would we do it to our human mothers?
A family tree of pain is her reward for nurturing us.Her womb dries as the moisture is ****** from her veins and poured on to her belly as she screams.The sun rips it from her no longer cool and loving but hard and fierce like a furnace.
Onwards greed trespasses into herpumping heart,her skin is poisened and erupting like puberty,but still man is unmoving in his attitude to himself.
She speaks to them everyday but they do not hear or sense in any way her agony.Oblivious to everthing greed rumbles on deaf to its very basic needs and requirements.
As she criesfor help,her breath encompases all as she resusitates all with her sibilation.Can you smell you mothers breath?Will this last vain hope of hers go unoticed as greed races against its now foul wind?
"YES" because greed has stunned even your basic senses.Yo do not see,you do not hear,you do not feel,you do not taste ,you do not smell,even your most common sense of all is wasted "SURVIVAL!"

Between the three elements lies another.Without any one of the three the other is non-existant.
Running headlong,greed does not even notice its own reflection,blinded by its own need!Our mother is wek,her milk is drying,her skin is wrinkling,her touch is burning,her sight is blined,her taste is foul,her breath is stifling and her hearing is fading,she is DYING.
Her umbilical cord is strangled as it dries up with the assassination of her soul.  Will her soul be heard after we have  vanished or will we awke from our sleep of arrogance and greed and realise that EVERYTHING is not worth NOTHING.

For when she dies her death throughs will mame and slaughter us even as we count-?

                                                                        

                                                                                  "OUR MONEY"
James Amick Jul 2013
Rubber bracelets adorn her wrists like she just strolled out of a punk concert (like she just strolled out of middle school) , she picks the scabs of playground ostracism till they look as though they were ripped into her self esteem yesterday.

In her mind, they were.

I find her burying her face between her knees during an ice breaker activity.

The quadruple piercings on one her ear portend an imagined mosh pit, but she digs her own as she cradles herself against the wall.

Her arms are bowling alley bumpers, she throws them up around her head to protect them from the familiar miasma that pervades every inch of her whenever she is in a group of more than three.

Gutterball.

She let me in her room last night. She invited me to share in solitude w/ a good book. I brought a tattered poetry anthology. She said I could sit next to her in her bed; I took a seat at the head, she sat coiled in the far back corner against the wall, legs tucked in against her body.

She was an injured rabbit, her burrow of blankets and books only gave her so much shelter.

She eats alone at breakfast amongst the group.

She starves herself. Her blood fills her stomach as the ulcers feed her imploding hunger that half glasses of chocolate milk cannot

She was dared to eat five gummy bears, and I swear by my own scars that she was about to bawl, eyelids pulled back by the judgmental demons she sees every day in the mirror, they chastise her for the chocolate milk, but her desperate hunger wins this battle. Barely.

Her headphones are like sunglasses shielding her eyes from meeting gazes with another.

I’m sorry Sarah, no matter how hard you push your spine against the bricks you will not phase through them, you are stuck with us here for five weeks my dear, and it is only day one.

I’m sorry that all I know of you is that your name is Sarah and that your last name begins with an R, I think. I haven’t had the guts to look back at the group text message our counselors sent out to check your last name because that would be closer to stalking than I feel comfortable going.

I’m sorry that I notice how your wrists and ears contradict the smile you stitch across your face just before you hide it behind your hair, and that I notice the absolute terror in your eyes as you stare at the mass of your peers before you.

I’m sorry that noticing makes me believe that I know you at all.

I’m sorry for how they all gawk at how adorable you are when more than three people give you their attention. I can only imagine how flush your cheeks become.

But I would think that you stopped blushing years ago. The permanent outflow of blood from your aorta to your face coagulated long ago, leaving your face with a perpetual hue of dull purple. Your body doesn’t know what to do with all the excess embarrassment.

I think you compensate by blood letting.

The only bracelet you wear that suits you is of the Deathly Hallows. A tiny silver stencil on a blue piece of twine. It’s blue like the four A.M. sky.

I think it gives you strength.

Sarah, your arms are not an invisibility cloak. While your hair may hide your face and your bracelets your scars, the world will see you.

It’s ironic that the very things you use to protect yourself bear your self-loathing like a family crest.

Class time. She darts to the back corner desk like a painted swordtail to a coral shoal, she curses her opaque scarlet hue, she thinks it ugly but the reef can still see her beauty behind the jagged outcroppings of her fragmented self-esteem. It shines through and refracts off the water, viscous like teenage judgment, and we see the spectrum of her beauty.

She’s a cognitive science major. She looks for a road map through her own thoughts in the curriculum, turn left at her fear of eating in front of others, bear right at her boyfriend of four months. She tries to make herself two dimensional at the lunch table, arms strapped to her sides like a straight jacket.

She jokingly told me to stop whistling about dreamt dreams and the French Revolution, she said it would make her cry. So I stopped.

I’ve never read Les Miserables, but I’ve sung enough about dreamt dreams to know that Life can fill your lungs like a zeppelin and can resonate through your mouth like Notre Dame just before Sunday mass if you only let it.

Let Life build a cathedral inside of you Sarah. The bricks are yours for the taking, and we are all standing here beside you with mortar at the ready.
Breanna Stockham Jan 2011
A man stands on the side of the road,
a cardboard sign, alone.
A woman starves to feed her son,
who's there to help? No one.

A broken world so full of pain,
you close your windows and the shades,
so you don't see, but you hope for
someone to find them all before,
it is too late to save their lives.
With some help, they can survive.

But why not now? What's stopping you?
'Cause if you don't, who's going to?

A man stands on the side of the road,
you gave some change, but he's still alone.
A woman starves to feed her son,
you gave her food, but only once.

A broken world so full of pain,
you close your windows, and the shades.
Sometimes you peek, and hope that more,
people help them all before,
it is too late to save their lives.
Just like you did, so they'll survive.

Why not give more? What's stopping you?
'Cause if you don't, who's going to?

A man stands, no longer alone,
money in his wallet, he's home.
A woman's fed, so is her boy,
three meals each day, she's now employed.

A broken world so full of pain,
you open your windows and the shades,
so you can see, and now you are
the one that helped them all before,
it was too late to save their lives.
Because of you, they will survive.

Reach out to more, what's stopping you?
'Cause if you don't, who's going to?
Sav Bean Nov 2013
Nobody knows the real me,
The girl who starves herself everyday,
The girl who cries herself to sleep,
The girl who thinks she does everything the wrong way.

The girl who thinks she’s ugly,
No matter how many people say she’s not,
The girl who’s always depressed,
And hating non stop.

Nobody knows I’m anorexic,
Nobody knows I’m suicidal,
Everyone looks up to me,
And tells me I’m their idol.

For those of you who think I’m perfect,
You haven't taken the time to get to know the real me,
But I guarantee if you did,
You wouldn’t like what you see.
Savio Apr 2013
A mother whispers into the fire of Night
I hold a match
I hold Yarn
I Am Wool
Shrinking to the formation
The intricate designs of your rib cage
of your brother's belly
of your Grandfather's waist
Am I simply a fool?
And Who
Doth I ask This question too?
A Torn book
A tattered sonnet of Man's sore feet
blistered eyes that are Green
That are Brown
That are Blue
I Lay with myself Tonight
I am Awake
I am Loud
In your Night
I Am the Janitor beneath the hardwood floors
of your Dream
I am the
Poorly Waged Electrician
With Shoes that resemble an old dog
I Light Your Highway
Your Street
Your Morning coffee
your
cigarette
Am I The Child?
I fall in love with women I see on the streets
Their Wavy hair
like a French sea
Her pale complexion
the Brown Glimmer in her eyes
And I paint on her on Tombstones
On Coffee Mugs and on carpets rolled up for the Dumpster
At Nights
I prefer to dream awake
and sit with a BathTub of words
of stories that melt like cheese
that stiffen like Ginsberg ****
that Shriek and Strum like Tom Waits stomach when he starves on backroad streets
And when I cannot
reproduce
I make love to a woman
And a poem is made
and I kiss her
and my lips say 5 am
and I wish her not to go
But the Dog
is waken by Robins
by the Pigeons
by the digestion of night to day
by the Greek Gods and Goddess' Light
That Falls down
like long hair of woman you have so longed for
and you kiss her chest
And there is no Death
There is no Sleep
or ****** addicts or gasoline or paved roads or shaved faces or mothers or Dostoevsky or Beethoven
There is just her
and you run your fingers across her skin
through her hair
She is the bottom of the Ocean
You are a homeless crab
a Shellless Clam
falling down
down
down
to the bed of the great ocean
and there she lays
With a reflection of Youth and Beauty
And her complex simplicity makes me think of
me as a boy
running behind brick collapsed business buildings
Kissing a girl behind church
Buying Icecream with Josh in Winter

That's what a woman does
She erases Death
from the palms of your hands
and your thoughts
and you sink
to the bottom
and you watch the Coral
The other fish
swimming along
and you laugh
Because you do not know Death
And Death does not know you.
Classified Nov 2014
Attention
Affection

These are the things She strives for

Perfection to get attention to gain affection

But what is perfection?
She starves so She can be skinny, even when She's told She has a **** body
She cuts to punish Herself for eating, yet sees Her scars as imperfections
She puts on make up so She can be pretty, even though She is told She is beautiful
She straightens Her hair to look perfect, even though She is told She looks pretty anyway.

When will She be perfect?

She dresses up,
dumbes it down,
changes Herself
but is let down.

When will She be perfect?

She tries to capture the attention of men and and gain their affection,
But shys away from affection, emotion and the human touch.

When will She be perfect?*

Maybe She will be perfect when she changes Her definition of 'perfection'
It doesn't bother me that I'm told I'm perfect.
It bothers me that I am not my definition of perfect.
Josh Otto Dec 2011
A leaf spirals downward,
Over covered heads and uncovered cars,
Children sleeping in grass
Drool dripping from their gums,
A football field seeing practice
Where someone's leg
Was recently snapped in half,
Overflowing sewer grates,
Dilapidated septic tanks,
Wastewater disposal facilities
With a runoff into
A river filled with needles and rocks
And bodies,
And it hits the ground with a silent explosion,
Until the wind sends it off and sets it somewhere out of sight.
Like when a glass bottle
Shatters on a bar top and
Sends shards soaring
Into the eyes
Of onlookers,
Everybody knows what's next.
Did you hear?
Fall is here.

The boy who starves so that he may be warm
And the girl who freezes so she may not starve
Have a chance encounter
And bask in mutual despondency.
They share their warmth,
And they share their food,
And neither has enough of either.

But even at their demise,
The sun still goes up and down
On the horizon,
Painting a scene of ignorance
Or apathy,
And lying.
The heat will dissipate soon,
What with Winter coming,
But it does not matter:
Everything is already frozen.
Ember Evanescent Nov 2014
All the once upon a time stories that end in happily ever after have the flawless handsome Prince charming who meets the sweetest princess or young maiden who becomes a princess after they marry (typically approximately 12 to 18 hours or so after they meet usually because the sweet young lady was rescued by the Prince because she was singing randomly and dancing around with woodland animals who do her laundry and she fell off of a tower or was attacked by some lady who literally has no job but spends her entire life just being evil for the sake of being evil and yet never starves to death despite the fact that her evil plots never actually allow her to aquire money or food of any sort.)
The girl is always polite
Everyone loves her
She usually has a waistline tinier than a flowerstem
And she sees the good in everyone
She is also gorgeous 100% of the time
Well I am NOT that girl
I can't alwaye be polite and perfect
I can't even be pretty
There are more people that hate me than there are people who can even tolerate me
I'm not the likable easy going type
I don't have a three inch waist (mainly because that is completely insane)
I can't find a way to like every person
I'm the jealous ugly stepsister Anastasia in Cinderella
I'm the wicked witch in the wizard of Oz
I'm the wolf in the three little pigs
I'm the hag in snow white and the seven dwarves
I'm not the princess in the story
But fortunately, I don't need to be because life is not a fairytale
And you don't need to be prince charming
Hell, you don't even need to be anything like the lists I make about what my dream guy should be like
Because really, since when do I know what I actually want?
I certainly am always wrong about what I need
So here's the deal
You love me for me, be loyal, care about me because of my soul first and my looks having nothing to do with it, you give me eternity,
And I promise you the same.
I don't need you to catch me when I fall off a tower
That doesn't really happen much
I need you to catch the little pieces of me when I fall apart because the emotions were all too much
I don't need a happily ever after
And you don't need to be prince charming
Because I am not a princess

Repost if you are not a princess either
Please comment I love to read interpretations of my work and really any other thoughts you may have! :)
Repost if you are not a princess either
Please comment I love to read interpretations of my work and really any other thoughts you may have! :)
Profanity is a ******* Tool.
Profanity is Subjective.
Profanity doesn't necessarily show intellectual or moral paucity.
Profanity is a form of emphasis; a form of ******* catharsis, an aspect of humour.
******* humour:
A goldmine rooted in Shadow,
  excavated by Logic
and which seems,
for the most part,
wasted on the irrefutably
illogical, or at least bi-polar
(if not higher-multi-polar)
masses.

"Anyone who relies on any one given tool is a fool, as
anyone who denounces a given tool for how it has been used by others is outright stupid."


A carpenter who can only use a hammer is quite restricted,
A musician who can only play alone is no good in a band,
A poet who only writes can't show the world how it's meant to be read (if at all),
A comedian who only swears has little else to offer,
A person who only speaks but doesn't act on it is a liar.

A carpenter who won't use a hammer is self-sabotaging.
A musician who can only play with others has no personal skill.
A poet who refuses to write starves oneself of potential.
A comedian who won't swear better have a good point.
A person who only acts but reuses to speak had better be a monk or mime!
(The last two were perhaps failed, even vein attempts at humour..
I shall leave that up to you to decide!)


Profanity is a Tool:*
I believe that no matter the profanity, a message can still be well received
by those who care enough to receive it.
Better still are those who can interpret the profanity
as humourous accentuation, emphasis, catharsis
and not necessarily as overly-abrasive and immature.

That said, some people are just totally ******* immature about it.
If you can't stand the profanity, get the ******* the internet. 4srs.
Better yet, shut yourself away from the world
lest you ever deal with that which you find unsettling.
So ist das Leben.
Telle est la vie.
Así es la vida.
Such is life.
R May 2013
I know an infant
who came into this world
with a smile on her face
on the eleventh hour
of the eleventh day
of the eleventh month
bringing joy and happiness
to a day of sadness
and there were no tears
no screaming or confusion
just silence
and a look of wonder could be seen in her eyes
she was ready to start this wonderful world.

I know a child
who was the class clown
always ready to crack a new joke
or turn someone's frown upside down
she wished her baby fat would soon go away
but shrugged it off
'cause she knew it would some day
tears were only shed over scraped knees
and mom's soothing words
would set her at ease
no insecurities, no worries
she had her whole life ahead of her.

I know a teenager
who was no longer the class clown
but instead a shy girl
with very few friends still hanging around
she thought she was fat
(even though she was at average weight)
and felt different from the others
still laughing, still smiling
and the tears didn't fall
'til she was alone in her bedroom
but she stayed strong through it all
hoping that life would soon be better.

I know a young adult
who sits alone in class
stressed about choosing a career
for a future that she doesn't want to be a part of
she starves because she's fat
(even though she's below average weight)
wearing long sleeved shirts to hide the scars
that trail up and down her arms
friends mistake her fake smiles as happiness
oblivious to the desperation in her laugh
the façade wears off when she gets home
and her broken heart splits in half
while she wishes that her life would end.

But the thing is...

I know that infant
as if she was born yesterday
and I know that child
as if I saw her on the street an hour ago
and I know that teenager
as if I passed her in the halls today
and I know that young adult
as if she is someone I'll meet tomorrow

They are my past
my present
and my future
they are the person I was
the person I am
and the person I will be

*That girl is me and always will be
unless I find the strength to change reality.
Brandon Conway Nov 2018
A gravekeeper by trade
burying the dead to stay alive
with a green thumb and *****
the unused earth oh how it strives!

Fat tubers and roots
green leaves with red veins
small vines sprouting fruits
even a small section for grains

The gravekeeper never goes hungry
his family never starves
he loves living in the country
and his plot of earth that he carves

One day two fresh dead
and a rat, maybe two scampered by
soon a sickness to be widespread
day by day how that multiplied!

More bodies into the earth
how did his garden shrink
he was crying and crying
this gravekeeper didn't know what to think!

Should he be happy for business
should he be sad for the loss
is he crying for his vegetables
or is he crying for the bodies that are tossed

Little by little did the green become stone
his loved ones feast on a diet of worms
now he, a lonely gardener of bones
sits and watches as his world burns
my soul thirsts
for your words un-sung
my heart starves
for your touch un-done

i await . . .

for my words  
to dissolve upon your lips
for my hands
to descend upon your hips

i await . . .
Luna Montez Apr 2015
Im looking in the mirror.
An unknown person stare back at me.
She looks sad.
Nobody says she is pretty.
They all judge, but no one will listen and understand.
She is not good enough.
Not skinny enough, so she starves her self.
Not pretty enough so she drown her face in makeup till her face looks like a mask.
It's not good enough to be herself.
So she looks in the mirror, and see the tears come. But she keeps it on the inside.

Because she has at least to pretend to be happy enough.
Poppy Aug 2015
Who could've known
the same little girl
who pranced along the sidewalk
not a care in this world,
would wither away
in Nylon magazines
frail fingers skimming
from page through p a g e
of beautiful
skinny
bodies
bodies she'd never have
but maybe, just maybe
she could
only if she starves herself.
so hey guys!
Its been a while...
Okay, more than a while.
A LONG time.
Sorry about that...
Thanks for not all abandoning me in the meantime, you guys are the best. :)
midnight prague Aug 2011
all black is the calmest gesture
alluring - inviting, kindly asking to stay away
the streets were filled with chest's that explode with art
a woman walks by with her ex-lover
she looks at him when he does not pay attention
she wishes he would rest in peace
upon leaves that fell from the tree they grew together

I stare at my fingers stained with red wine
I stare at lips stained with red wine
I do not want to kiss them

we walked into one gallery, filled with color
lingering too explosive for me at the moment
I wanted something slow
that creeps through the blood like injecting a needle
something subtle, infused with a hiding passion
penetrating and brutal
instilling hope
regaining fear
grieved by reality
stolen by the ethereal

I wanted to experience something that stirred in my chest
moving around my arms and back hungrily
looking for something that was lost, or perhaps never there
wild emotion in the shape of a snake infusing me
with a poison that is too sweet to ******
and too bitter to live through

I walked these streets, passed by these galleries
in a desperate attempt to seek this inspiration
this rage
this entity
this sadness
this satisfaction
this sensitivity
this coldness
this shame
this pride

I left with the feeling of being hallow
and realized perhaps that which I seek
perhaps cannot be found in a painting
or a photograph
cannot be mastered in physical form

that foreign sensation  that starves
that foreign sensation that fills you like a glass of wine
is sleeping in the eyes of another person
g Oct 2014
you laugh at her
you poke her
you mock her
you make fun of her

she cries
she lies
she cuts
she starves

but yet when it is revealed
the horrifying things she has done
not to anyone else, but to herself
you gasp and act so innocent

the day you made her cry
the day you made her cut
is the day you killed her
not physically, but mentally

so for all of eternity
i hope you carry the guilt
of being a ******
that killed the soul of a girl.
Valsa George Mar 2018
A bush lark in the Greenwood forest sings.
She sings all day long near the mountain springs.
Is she trilling in notes so plaintive of her missing mate?
Unleashing her heart of its doleful weight?

Or easing the pangs of a heart that starves
For a soulmate yet to come for whom she craves?
Or sending a missive through the aerial route
Sounding in every ear a low melancholy note?

From the covert of dark leaves, her song percolates.
Through the sinews of my heart it permeates,
Striking a cord between two souls equally deprived,
Stirring in me an inarticulate ache, never once divulged.
Rebel Angel Aug 2014
She was walking alone in the rain.
All of life was just so full of pain.
She smiles throughout the day.
No one asks, so there is nothing to say.
That's the funny thing, about walking in the rain..
No one can see the tears falling endlessly down your cheeks, no one can see the pain.

She wakes up and she starves herself, trying to be perfect in someones eyes.
No one notices all the pain, or how often she cries.
Depression overtaking her mind.
All she feels is pain, never love; nothing kind.
There is a secret she buries deep within..
And if anyone knew, they would say suicide is a sin..

She is going to let the smile fall, she is going to succumb to the pain.
Nothing more to say as she walks through the rain.
She walks to the place she will say goodbye..
Somewhere beautiful so no one will cry.
She smiles as the blade slides across her wrist.
Darkness has tainted her soul, demons kissed.

She lays down, looking up at the skies.
The most beautiful thing in her eyes.
She starts to close her eyes, the blood flowing free.
She whispers, im coming home, to fly with the angels, can't you see?
Soon her vision fades to black.
She knows, it's to late no going back..

In the rain, she lay there dying.
Everyone thinking she was happy, never seeing her crying..
She hid it well, but you should have seen.
How could you not hear, the nightmare, it made her scream..
You ignored the signs, they were all clearly there..
So, she knew, no one would care.

She took her life, and you sit and wonder why..?
You have no right, because she was begging you every time she would cry.
You ignored her pain, because you were scared..
You showed her, no one cared..
She was a broken heart in a shattered world, she would spend hours in the rain, crying..
When inside, she was already dying..

Famous last words, Im fine, and out came that smile.
When in reality she was begging, look, please save me, go the extra mile..
But you took her word, and that sealed her fate.
She was living in a dying state..
Her eyes could not lie.
So why did you listen, when the tears were always there, about to cry..

You will never know the reasons why.
So don't torture yourself with the questions, because no matter what she was gonna die..
You could have looked and seen, always going for a walk in the rain.
The only time she could clearly express her pain.
She will live in our hearts, a memory..
But what she needed was you to see...
jeffrey robin Dec 2013
"Please

I die"
-----
Night

Screams

The baby starves to death

Politicians are glad

••

Amid the hippy love songs & the LSD

----•----

Did you know that if you sincerely meditate for ONE NANO-SECOND

The whole world would ABSOLUTELY change?

••

Now that you know ------ will you?

••

Love?

The absence of love?

-----

Is there a difference?

Do you care?

••
"Please

I die"

••

{pretty neat title for a song}
Kash Nov 2013
She slouched against the smoke stained wall
Her skeleton hands both trembled
She sighed heavily with effort
Then emptied another stiff drink

This was not the place to mention
But she revealed her affliction
Then shooed away further questions
Acting startled and offended

She knows I am familiar
With obsession and starvation
And the resolve to self-destruct
For never being good enough

But I witnessed devastation
Then I resolved to keep living
Or at least to keep on trying
A death’s not worth its weight in grief

Now I can't just shake this from her
Reorganize her scrambled mind
Retract my own comradery
And convince her she will be fine

So dangles her mortality
In faces of those surrounding
Watching us plead desperately
While she starves something worth feeding
TheSaneSaloon Sep 2018
Sitting and waiting for words to come.
Impatience my Gatekeeper
Nothing leaves, nothing comes through.
Gaurded so well,
the kingdom withers within.
Words reject force.
Truth has no manipulator, its master is none.
It darts and evades,
like the most precious of prey.
As the predator starves for its ****.
truth death words

During the nightfall of a sensual bliss,
an inner desire starves for a long kiss;
thoughts  comes in , as it is very often;
Arrives in and go out, like an orphan.
Love has become an icon of infinity;
It wipes out all good sense of eternity;
Destroying superb images of a beginning;
All dreadful fears of a dead-end; signaling;
Once you took hold of my heart, so boldly;
I knew no one could have touched me mildly;
Love conquers all its corners and territories;
Let us surrender to life, death; its obituaries
*
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
williamsji@yahoo.com
www.williamsji.com
www.williamsmaveli­.com
www.williamsgeorge.com
From MICROTHEMES, a collection of short poems, written by WILLIAMSJI MAVELI

— The End —