by Naeryn » Fri May 20, 2005 8:24 am
of COURSE I believe you, Rose. You had to ask for more, didn't you?
[hr]
[Untitled 1]
Silver whispers burn my ears, I see their mocking grins
Staring at me through my cobwebs and lies
Each step taken on this broken path
Will I be granted peace?
Will my life be naught but blood and water?
The salt of her tongue, stinging the wounds in my soul
Does no one see the drowning girl?
Does no one hear the truth behind her silence?
From the knife that cuts my throat to the ropes that bind my hands and feet
Faces, many faces, blinded to my bondage
The endless fear that floods my mind when I hear their laughter
A door slams on my broken form
The tired, listless wraith; my shell; my armour
Mirage of happiness caging me in hell
Built for my protection, become my entrapment
Stitching closed my screaming mouth
…Can I bleed for you, my love?
Or would you cast away even that gift?
Broken dreams, all that’s left to me
Overshadowed by their malice, choking me with pretty lies
And I will let them take me…
[Untitled 2]
I look at the laughter surrounding me
Each gasp like a blade against my skin
Do they see past my mask?
Do they look beyond my colour to the blackened heart beneath?
I hope they can’t see me, I know they can’t see me –
For if they could they’d run away in fear
Why must they kill me this way?
With whips and chains and so much blood
Poison, spreading through my mind
Threads of deadened, blackened ash, the roots of which their stinging words
Bleeding wounds that never heal, cut so deep
Cut to my soul, a new breed of Stigmata
All that’s left of the fire that once lit my heart
And shone through my once cheerful eyes
So now I lie in this open coffin, bruises ‘neath my dress
An empty hall, dead drooping flowers all that mourn for me
Then their burning laughter fills my ears again
And I close my eyes, pull on the mask again
And run to join the happy ones…
And here are some bits of prose that I tend to write in my fits of depressingful angst:
[Broken]
I sit brokenly, in a pool of death. Blood pours forth, deep cuts in my legs hold my gaze. I cannot pull myself away from the pain, all I have left. And it's all I will ever have. It is all I could hope to be worth, wretched vessel of malice. I am a sore, a boil, oozing black hatred. Leaking darkness, only to be washed away by purity, by light. I breathe destruction. An innocent soul, broken by claws and terror, abundant in death. For pain is pure, whole and unblemished agony. A simpering wraith, bursting with fire and fear. What is it to be unafraid? To love life, not to fill all waking moments with longing for release from the fleshly cage? I know not the happiness that is the absence of fear, of brokenness. All I love must be found in such, I feel naught else in the dark recesses of my calloused mind. My eyes still stare, into the space past the blood, pouring still in thick crimson streams. Warm heating my frozen soul. Forcing me to linger in this wartorn plane, never to move. Never to move on. I must remain in the moment of ecstasy, of absolute brokenness.
[Stare]
I sit and stare at blood red skies, wondering if the light will come for me. Wondering if anyone will see me, broken on the floor, my soul spinning up and away. Will anyone cry as I am lowered into the Earth's cold embrace? I hide my pain, keep it, hold it between my teeth and tongue, swallowing my tears. My sallow skin is stained with blood, my blood, my life, spilling out onto the dirty linoleum kitchen floor. I am always dying, never dead. My emptiness consumes me, I am drowning in my thirst. Thirst burning in my throat, thirst for love, for someone to see that body, broken, bleeding... always bleeding. Each drop, each painful release, terrorizes my soul. It cries within my shriveled heart, black, charred to naught but the ashes that fill my mouth when I eat, the dust I will become. Still I stare at the skies, burning out my cursed eyes that spew forth crystal tears of longing. What am I longing for? Release. The word fills my head, making it ache with each throbbing beat of it. Release. And yet I am trapped in this hellish state, held by shackles of false love and broken, shattered dreams. A single candle, struggling to burn within an enclosed glass, fighting to live surrounded by death. Failure is inevitable.
[Blood]
Lower the knife to the flesh and watch it pull apart, falling away from itself so easily, so delicately. A tiny drop of blood appears, filling my vision as it grows. The colour, so rich, so red, the shade of love, the shade of pain. Blood, blood is life, it's what makes you warm, makes you other than dead. The drop falls, breaking the vision of ultimate truth. Blood is everything, and it is nothing. It runs along swollen veins, rushing to the exit, so long awaited. A beautiful release, blood, matching every colour. It is in the sunset, a blaze of war in the heavens. It lives in the thunderstorm, making the weapons of the gods meet in furious rage. The drop, shattered on the floor where I am on the ceiling, looking down at my fallen body, knife in hand, bleeding from the wrist. Spiralling away into those wartorn heavens, the vision of truth staying in my mind. The simple drop of blood on dirty, stained linoleum.
[Cheap Motel]
I sit here in a cheap motel, angry music pounding in my ears. The bible on the table mocking me. The noise outside is breaking me, the chaos, swirling madness to match the pain in my head. I can feel the darkness closing in, little crawly things behind my eyes. Skittering through my head like cockroaches, infesting the trash-strewn corners of this little room. Disgusting things that eat the carpet itching my back. I'm laughing at that stupid bible, it couldn't save me. Not from myself, myself and the cockroaches. Theyr'e moving in now, I'm their next feast. Now they've this lump of garbage to foul even more. But I am gone, and the cockroaches have what is left of me.
[Words]
They dance around me in a silver curtain. Smooth whispers, soft promises, and the ever-present lies painting pictures of loathing in my mind. They speak to me in masked riddles, hiding their knives, blunting their swords with the hard curtain of words. Once so soft, so pure... can only I see the tarnished edges? The torn and ragged corners of their waterfall words? I see the way the people speak, a battle of broken tales and stories twisted into a dark, malignant beauty. The war of the weak, dirty not your hands with your enemy's blood. Is it a gift? Some great talent to be envied, to bring forth tears with one of those clawed words? To call one's tongue forked is an insult to the serpent, he could not be so coldly malicious. And when the bloodshed is made real, who is to blame? The one who lifted the blade, the one who spoke the cursed words - or the words themselves? Could the very nature of our language be to form our pretty lies? To maim, to kill? Even now the words dance around me, and I wonder... wonder... wonder... who will fall next to the jagged blade.
Don't you sit upon the shoreline and say you're satisfied, choose to chance the rapids, and dare to dance the tides - Garth Brooks, "the River"
I love these two poems, very angsty, very dark, yet sad, and thats why I loved them! I hope you write more, and soon!!! "sits and waits" 
And hey! Didnt i say you should write more?! "looks around impatiently" Im waiting!
