A sight in the sky
From feathered wings tipped in gold
Fly, and catch the sun
A sight in the sky
From feathered wings tipped in gold
Fly, and catch the sun
My mother wouldn’t look at me no matter how much I tried to catch her. I think a part of her knew. Of course she will pretend other wise, but what else is there to believe. The women who carried me would never be capable of this. At least, that is the story I wish I could believe. My own mother can not bare to look at me. She turns away every chance she gets. Lips tremble as she lies. Eyes glisten as she hides. She can stand to touch my hand. Or rather, what little that is left. I think it scares her. But I wish she could see that it scares me more. I am the one who will never be loved. The one who will always be alone. I can find my beauty in other things. But not if she can not do this simple task. I need my mother to see me. I need her not to grieve whats gone. She can’t bare it though. Despite that fact that it was I who was wronged.
He took his time with me.
I do not remember screaming, but it must have been loud enough to wake what demons had been standing by. For when I opened my eyes next they had been sitting at my side with such pitiful looks. One gently laid his hand on my chest while alone started to cry. When he took away I could see blood from a wound I could no recall ever getting.
Carved into me so deeply
There may have been a moment when I tried to move, but I can not remember. Waking up in a room full of people who could not see. Their eyes sewed shut with broken pieces of red string. I only just begin to notice one sniffing the air when I begin to hear again.
Someone nearby is weeping
Carefully I extend a hand. Grasp for what left. What’s there. I do not think she has noticed me. So committed to her screaming. There are tears I wish I could expend but I fear the meaning would be lost to her. Poor lamb who got caught. Poor lamb who may never get up
Reckless sinner unhand me
speaking words as you bleed
did you not see the lies
or where you to busy averting you eyes
hiding away from gods grace
turning love to shame in his holy name
tactless sinner who dared to grieve
speaking words till you bleed
did you mean to unhand me
or where you to busy down on your knees
begging a god who has left unseen
soaking in such terrible dreams
thoughtless sinner who left me free
drowning in words that surely bleed
you weren’t meant to do these deeds
yet you lie there in a broken heap
revenge for a god who can never be
That’s OK Kiss me kindly
bind me to the page
bring about the rage
that OK just kill me
neatly with no grace
I was made to expend
I was made to defend
Kiss me when the beat drops
Take apart, my heart stops
I was made in demand
I was made with you in hand
destroy my body cause you able
Suspended above the table
My blood is what you crave
So make it last for days
Kill me blindly with no grace
I was made for this disgrace
He has his hand on my thigh
A fistful of regret tightly clenched in each touch
He speaks to me, not wanting me
but desire slickers in blank spaces
Where her face was once seen erases
He doesn’t want me but I am the next best thing
Alone and awake with such sensitive taste
I do not think he has noticed that I feel the same
Slinking desire for a man I can’t see
Holding my thighs together while whispering “forgive me”
So as one can tell I am not good at sticking to plans. I had planned to write about love and ending on writing about self-hatred and love for someone else. This was not my goal but it is were my mind is going. So for my week of poems I will be focused on writing my emotionally draining stuff but will try to pick back up with the original theme in the following weeks. Sorry that I suck so bad.
I am not a fan of writing cliches, acually, I am a huge fan but I am not always tolerant of them.
The basic bad boy who turns his life around thanks to naive little pretty girl who think she is ugly.
Of course they have the techy (or sassy) best friend who is constantly by their side.
They are cliches because they work. We see the princess ready to leave her dull and unappreciative world behind and we wiggle in our seats. We see the handsome warrior who could kill with a single touch bow down to a common women.
“Love is a fickle thing” , we sigh into our drink cups. Clutching our books closer to our face.
There is still a problem with them.
Cliches allow readers to a greater understanding of where the story might be going. Rarely do we get stories that pan out a different way. YAs usually end with the girl getting with the outcast. The only times she ends up with the guy who “socially acceptable” is when the other ends up being a villian or is a tool.
The young boy who is trying to avenge his family will manage to do so but it will always come at a cost. His mentor or a family member will die within the first few books, maybe even the first few chapters. He may end up with a love interest but rarely will they stay together.
So I always know what story I am getting when I start to read. I know how it will end even if I do not know all the details that will lead to that point.
As I said before, cliche are considered such because they are overused but because they also work. There are only so many ways a story can go and patterns are really hard to deviate from. Yet, many readers and publishing companies expect writers to always be original no matter what. If they are not then there is a good chance their book will not be accepted.
Should we celebrate that fact?
I do not think so.
I despise cliches but I also love them. I am comforted by the fact that I can see the ending a mile away. Because I live for the journey. I live for those moments where the author gives me something I was not expecting. Like a book in which the sick person truly does die at the end.
Or a story where the boy was not able to avenge his family.
A story where the couple breaks up at the end
Or maybe one where, dispite the odds stacked against them, the villian is the one who wins.
I love those moments of uncertainty and I love those moments of clarity.
I guess it is the weirdo in me.
I am struggling.
For reasons I can not control I find myself thinking of you.
And no matter how much I fight it I find that I do not have the ability to stop.
Who used to feed me tasteless lies upon a platter
Who used to bruise my body and scream “What’s the matter”???
As if my bleeding lips And busted up tongue
Could convey sweet words when I had none.
I should have seen it from the swastika on your chest.
Who hold yourself above the rest as if You
Are a God among men
But I am lacking in faith and reasons
Once I begin to feel again I begin
Who tore my dress because you said it was ugly
Who blamed me for every cigarette burn and broken knobs on doors
Who always swore it was my fault as you ripped my body apart.
You ripped my ravaged body apart…
And for reasons I can not control I find myself
Who on our wedding day who made my legs a pretty shade of purple and blue.
Who called my job and told them I lied about the money that went missing that one night
The fact that I was not even there
Do you care?
As I struggle to find air around listless tress
Doctors and officers telling me that all will be ok
But it isn’t
It never will
Because you broke me
And made me feel a love so twisted and vicious that I become so fucking addicted
God am I so addicted
But it doesn’t matter anymore
Because I am now crawling in the floor begging for someone
Knowing full well that it is you that I want
AND I FUCKING HATE IT!
I HATE me
But this lack of control gives me something to believe in
Because as I sit thinking of you
Who nearly succeded in making me your wonton whore
I scream a little
While wishing for more.
Soo this is a rough draft. I do not like it at all but I forgot today was C so yea. Will post it anyways.
As a child I read a lot of books that were probably really bad for me. Romance novels, mystery novels, novels where someone important died at end and I was to little to realize that crying over fictional characters would get me laughed at as I aged. I am totally over that though, no hard feelings towards people who made fun of my…well.. my feelings. I am going on a tangent here…
See, back in my day romance had a different flavor. I was to little to understand how authors battled each other for the spotlight. To me they wrote for the fun of it and weren’t oppressed by societies expectations. They did not feel the same pain us lowly untalented plebs went through. It was until I was older that I learned any differently but still I drowned myself in the worlds of others. Teaching myself to see through their eyes with a greater understanding then my peers. I wanted to witness love from places reality could not touch.
So is it any wonder that I feel in love with R.L Stine‘s Fear Street Series.
Yes, I know what you are thinking “R.L Stine isn’t a romance writer”. In this you would be correct but the thing is romance written for children and young adults do not look the same for romances for adults. We get things like Hunger Games, Twilight, Looking For Alaska, Remember me, and Green Angel. Books that may have some romantic elements but cover a wide range of other genres. These are our introductions into the world of romance. As adults we will get to read books that are actually centered about the idea of love but until then we are traumatized into thinking that the dude with the murder boner for innocent people is our fated mate.
So yea, I got my twisted ideas of romance on the lap of the dude who gave us Goosebumps.
Back in my day bad boys ruled the world. The badder the better. I feel in love with the maniac murderer because he was the only one to treat the protagonist with any sort of kindness. I mean sure, he shot some dude in the face but true love concurs all. OK yea, he was stalkish and creepy, but did you hear him describe the way she looked as he watched her while she was sleeping.