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Blood In the AshesHey there little girl
Do you want to hear a story?
Come on, sit on my lap.
I won't bite, I promise.

Do you want to hear about a beautiful princess?

Maybe the horrible Ogre down the lane?

No?

You're right, you hear those all the time, don't you?
But a story has to have a princess.
And an Ogre.

I'm going to tell you a secret,
I'm a princess.
Shh, don't tell anyone,
Promise?
I'll tell you my story if you promise.
What's that?
Yes, I had an Ogre too.

The story?
Of course!

Well, once upon a time -
No, that's a boring start isn't it?
There once was a little girl -
The princess -
Who lived in a beautiful castle
Near a fores

Cheating DeathI was walking, just as any day,
When I swear I saw Death turn my way.

He looked at me and raised a hand
Of bones and rot with a bloody band.

One finger rose to point to me,
and in his eyes I saw agony.

His eyes were red and sunken in,
His skull-like face was sallow and thin.

When he opened his mouth great bugs crawled out
Of a gaping hole and teeth without.

His lips were decayed and falling apart,
His tongue had rotted and was twisted and smart.

His voice rasped like the epitome of fear,
And his words were ones no mortal will hear:

A grueling screech was all he uttered;
The snakes around him hissed and stuttered.

In his eyes s

Blood On Her HandsWhen she opened her eyes
there was blood on her hands,
dirt under her nails,
twigs in her hair.

She didn't remember right away -
it all came back to her
in the agonizing
so-detailed flashes.

First came the pain
all over
when he hit her
and she fell
right into the glass.

Then it was how his voice sounded scared
as he yelled her name
and she closed her eyes
and drifted deeper.

Then it was the fear
as she opened her eyes
and found herself buried
just below the dirt.

She remembered clawing her way out
and seeing him
walking away
dragging his shovel.

She remembered how it all went red
as she yelled
and ran at him
and st

CrazySee that girl?
Yes, that one right over there,
through the window,
The one with the crazy hair?
And the worn down clothes?
Well I hear she's crazy,
gone completely batshit,
screwed up in the head, that one.
Always has some bitchy come back,
she's a little too quick, if you ask me.
A little too fat,
a little too quiet all the time.
I mean, my god,
can't the girl speak?
She's all shut up in her head,
likes to talk to herself, I've heard.
She draws those depressing things,
always has her face in some story with a death.
I hear she's barely making the grade,
I hear she lies to her folks,
and you know what's really weird?
She

TodayToday
I saw
What tomorrow will bring.

Today
It was clear
That nothing is clear.

Today
I found out
I haven't found anything.

Today
I know
That I will never know.

Today
I thought:
I didn't know what to think.

Today
I realized
I'm scared of tomorrow.

The Hypocrisy of ReasonI say we are nothing.
We have no purpose.
We are here because we are.
We live only until we die.

And you object.
You laugh at my theories,
Scoff at my "facts."
You tell me it's impossible, too remote a hypothesis to even consider.

And your reason?

"I believe.
I have faith.
I have been touched in my dreams and I know the truth.
I know I am right because I feel it in my heart."

Well I believe too, in the power of the mind.
I have faith in the future of sense.
I have been touched in consciousness by my own will.
I think I am right because it makes sense in my mind.

And you tell me I cannot see reason.

RunningRunning.

Always, always running.

Running somewhere,
I don't care where,
anywhere
that isn't here.

And I'm running
and running.

Until one day
I stop
and I think
and I realize
I don't remember
what started chasing me.

Butterfly WingsI know why the caged bird sings
Of dandelions and devil rings.

I know why the deaf bird yearns to fly
When it's put to sleep with a lullaby.

"Oh, the wonders now," the blind bird says
As he lifts his head to the morning rays;

"And, oh, the flies!" the clipped bird sighs
As he takes to the dewy morning skies.

The crawling willow fell to smoke
When the branches the blackbird sleeps on broke.

The thrush is small, but hear its call,
It could make the mighty Romans fall.

But shed a rose of its petals and there are but thorns
That take the place of old Devil's horns,

Because the river flows with the stealth of the cat
With the eyes o

Puppet MasterMy dear master,
Pull your strings,
Let them know your words
Don't mean anything.

You gather your toys,
Your collection grows,
Then you cast them aside
And nobody knows.

They're drawn to you:
Those trustworthy eyes,
So your little collection
Keeps growing in size.

But I know you don't feel,
I know you don't think,
I know they won't stay long,
And that you're on the brink.

You're on the brink,
On the edge of the cliff,
And yet still you think
You can jump and just drift.

Your collection is shrinking,
It's so small in size.
Because your puppets are waking.
They're opening their eyes.

Then you're all alone,
All friends

PorcelainMy dearest Mother: I'm leaving you now,
You never loved me, you never knew how.

You've never seen what you needed to see:
That I'll never be who you want me to be.

I'll never sit on the shelf on the wall
As your perfect little porcelain doll.

And so I leave you one last note,
Just a little something these hands wrote.

So keep your perfect little princess
In your mind, every recess,

But remember me - a ghost, a whisper,
Your little girl who wasn't yours, always such a drifter,

The little crow being raised like a dove
Who cracked under the pressure of your nurture and love.

This is a poemThis is a poem about life.

This is a poem about love,
About happiness,
About sunshine,
About hope.

This is a poem about life.

This is a poem about hate,
About sorrow,
About dying,
About forgetting.

This is a poem about dreams
And how they are lost.
About wishes
And how they die.
About death
And how it begins.

This is a poem about life.
This is a poem about nothing

Just ImagineImagine
you're in a house.

This house
has been your home
your whole life through.
You were a child in it,
you grew up in it,
it's where you buried beloved pets,
where you hid your head in a storm,
where you took your first steps,
when you hugged your first stuffed bear.

But your house is falling apart,
it always has been;
the foundation was laid wrong,
but you stay
because there is nowhere else you can go.

You can't fix it,
you don't have the means yet,
and it's still standing -
no immediate threat -
so you leave it as is,
and go on with your life
in your house.

And then,
one day,
a storm rocks your world -
the beams

Of Blood and Monsters in the DarkNightmares don't come
As apparitions
Out of pitch darkness.

Your worst fears
Won't manifest themselves
As corporeal beings,
Slowly turning the latch of your closet,
Preparing to engulf you
In shadowy blackness
When the lights turn off.

We fear the dark,
Because that which lives inside of it
Is unknowable.
We cannot see the beings lurking behind the closed door,
So imagination takes hold,
And fear becomes synonymous
With darkness.

But your worst nightmare
Will never come in the form of
Shadows and night.

True darkness takes shape only inside
That which we can see.
Light casts the only shadow
We need ever to fear.

The co

The Evil WhiteFirst comes the creak,
when the snowy jaws of the beast unhinge
to release the foul Furies,
descending over me with their deathly white wings,
ready to tear me from my shadowy heaven
as my last hour of imprisonment prepares to begin anew
with the prick
of their jaws and razor talons piercing my skin,
searching mercilessly for the vessel
through which my body and mind will belong to them
when they finally conquer my beating fists
and through me spreads the numb,
that all-encompassing feeling of selflessness
as my detached hand falls to the ground
and the Furies prod my lifeless skin,
never content with a simple victory over fles

HopeI told her once,
long ago,
that I would love her
until the last petal
fell
from the last rose
ever to bloom.

Two years ago,
a plague
fell on the world
and took the
beauty
of life
from us all.

The species lies in ruins,
beauty died,
and love only beats
its wings in the
memories
of before
The Fall.

But I still love her.

So somewhere,
somehow,
a rose must be clutching
to its final
petal,
bringing hope to all
who see it,
being
the saving light
to lift the darkness.

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Submitted: July 2, 2011
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Mirror, Mirror

by ~rockerbabe95, Jul 2, 2011, 11:30:38 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Traditional Fixed Forms

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
Who is the strangest of them all?
I think I'm the one; I was made all wrong:
My eyes drip when I'm sad, my skin's not too strong.

Mirror, mirror, above my bed,
Is it true normal people don't fall on their head?
Is true that if they stutter when they speak
It's simply a setback and not called weak?

Mirror, mirror, my insides aren't right,
My bone broke in two, my eyes hurt in the light,
My lip burst apart when I bit it too hard,
My arm started bleeding when I fell on a shard.

Mirror, mirror, so what do I do?
I bleed when I'm cut, is that normal to do?
Am I some strange breed whose bones can break?
Was I made this way or am I a mistake?

Oh, mirror, mirror, my eyes leaked today,
Someone hit me and I felt the sting stay.
Is something in me broken? Did I move something wrong?
If I leak any more does it mean I'm not strong?

Mirror, mirror, I want to be strong,
One tear escaped after being dry so long.
I had almost made it, I thought they were gone,
But I guess I'll never be quite that strong.

Mirror, mirror, there's nothing I can do,
I mean, I can't even talk to anyone but you.
I'm not at all cut out for this life,
My walls always break with the smallest bit of strife.

Mirror, mirror, Mama saw me draw red,
I swear I didn't mean it, I thought she was in bed.
I think I could have stayed good if no one was there,
But now I think I feel the walls seeping out of my hair.