Posted January 13, 2013 (edited) I fancy myself a half-decent poet, though lately I haven't written a ton due to happiness when my usual muse is pain. Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated. Let us begin with three, as three is a magical number after all. c; Something Old: Murder,Murder The long grass bristles Chuckling as the breeze Tickles over it The old, old tree Is a sentry Watching over the long grass Watching the old dirt road Watching the dilapidated house This house is a broken home And she sits all alone The girl sits all alone In the broken home With the door open Staring at the drive At the place where he Left her So alone At the rusty old pickup truck (Hers) that ran so loud Thunk kathunk thump Chipped blue paint peeling in the weather Here she is not alone There's someone else here To break this already broken girl The grass whispers Murder, murder The old silent tree a sentry For a sinner But the sinner's long gone, long gone The girl's blood dissolves so slowly Into the ground And the tree's long Willow branches Comfort the soil Comfort the grass Comfort the solitary black rose That grows, thornless, From the broken grave of a pale broken girl And the grass whispers Murder, murder Something New: October 16, 2012 Ink running down her parchment flesh, blending into the permanence of her colors. The hues affected by the anger that the wind blows upon her. Papercuts leaving bloodstains against her edges as tiny tears leave holes gaping to her within. Tears streak, blotting the lines scrawled above her cheekbones. Labels they have drawn upon her parchment, inscribed within her flesh. Silver tears carrying away drops of ink, of darkened color. Silver healing hurt. Sometimes contemplating a match, she blows away in the wind, losing her way. Losing her place. Caught in the branches somewhere along the way, catching and tearing. Inescapable pull of wind, a wish for a match. Ink scrawled along her stomach, thighs, throat; rips and ugly ugly ugly. Ink rolling down rips. Eyes open void, consuming and revealing. Illuminating their words along her parchment. Ugly ugly not-good-enough stupid kill-yourself ugly fat boring die die diediediediediediediediedieDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIE. Inscribed, she believed in them. With a match, she burned them away as she burned away her parchment. Burned away to ashes and the silver wind carried her home. And Something Else: November 7, 2011 The birds on the wires, Big black notes A symphony falling by her eyes Like pretty little stars Tensions growing higher, Heated summers in a coat All these worries that consume Put on a rocketship to Mars Secret little wishes, From her skull they've fled Hiding in the junkyards Locked away in cars Apathy and hatred Threaten to take flight Stories of control lost Written in her scars Thank you for your time and consideration. Edited January 13, 2013 by Doomy Da Carrot Share this post Link to post
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