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Dark of NightDressed up in her Sunday best
The little girl leads in her guest
Shielded by the dark of night
She grasps the knife with fingers tight
Hidden in her heart so pure
A wicked force without a cure
She watches as her parents sleep
If they knew they could only weep
It doesn't take long, simply a flash
Her vigour increases with every slash
Not a sound had passed their lips
Before they board death’s eternal ships
Her body stained with crimson red
She leaves behind the ruined bed
One last stop before her end
Not a moment more has she to spend
The beloved child of only four
He’ll never see a summer more
The girl lurks in without a sound
Looks right into his eyes so round
Around his neck she’s placed the noose
Checks to see it isn't loose
He then begins to speak her name
Believing that it’s just a game
She hangs the rope above her head
Waits until the boy is dead
Finally, her strength is lost
She knows just what her deed has cost
With the bodies she creates a pyre
MoonlightThe moonlight drips silver onto her white and crimson body. Her still soft skin brushes my own rough arm, as I hold her lifeless form. The blood pools and stains the purity of her platinum locks, while her midnight dress soaks in even more as though it could restore her to former light and life. The only thing worse than the sorrow that wracked my entire being, was the knowledge that none of this was real.
It all started with the shadow. That mockery of an absence, a nothingness so intense I could feel its presence even when it was not in sight, even as I slept it watched me from the corner of the room. I believed it to be just my imagination, a paranoid spectacle that resulted from my overworked mind. You see, I recently went through a tragedy so deep, not one could feel my pain. The girl of my dreams, my reason for life and all that has ever been good, left me one night.
My entire life died under the starlit sky.
She fell with grace to her knees, so like an angel, with the knife stil
Winter KissMany solemn years ago
In midst of frost and powdered snow
Down curving path he walks his lonesome
In this chaste and still December
Deep within the shaded grove
Each singing bird a treasure trove
Behind a tree of elder years
Like faerie dust, a dainty whisper
Moves like summer, sings like rain
Maiden fair of midnight mane
Spinning 'round in blissful union
Upon his lips a winter kiss
Evergreen needles brush porcelain skin
Losing himself in her delicious sin
The shrieking wind then takes her leave
His lionheart skips beat to empty
Gentle crunch of fallen leaf
Hangs his head to hide his grief
Seasoned mind and homeward bound
In this chaste and still December
Sarah Smiles"When I was younger, I had a friend. She called herself Sarah, and we were as close as any two girls could be. We were never apart, bonded together as tightly as the ribbons that held up our hair. One of our favourite things to do was to dress up and make-over our Barbie dolls. There's something soothing about brushing that long, blonde hair with a plastic brush no longer than your fingernail. We usually used markers as make-up, but occasionally some of my mother's lipstick and nail polish made it's way into our tiny hands, much to her annoyance. My Barbie always ended with over rosy cheeks and pink highlights. Sarah, however, liked to paint hers a little differently. Nearly all the hair would be cut off, what was left of it would be coloured black. The lipstick always smeared and the eyes, those eyes would always be shadowed and dark, as though this poor doll had never known sleep. I still remember when we finished, Sarah would say to me, "You see, her eyes hold so much pain, so much
Cry To The NightThrough tears he says, "Goodbye, my love, I'll be alright."
This memory burns strong as she cries to the night.
Golden MorningAnd in this darkness, never fleeting, always with me
You bear a flame, drawing nearer
To spirit away these lonely tears
Love so dear and tender, gentle warmth
Scare away the fighting demons
Before the dawn, dark and vile
Stay, my love, always near me
Cross all borders, fences shattered
Don't leave, walk into the evanescence
Of the sighing, swirling mist of morning
Oh, gentle love, formed of sun's golden light
Take us far above the sorrows of this sad night
Inkless PenTonight, fly home
On the wind, through clouds
Fashioned into my past
Dark, it storms
Rain mixed with tears
Which flow from merciless eyes
Past flies a dove
Failing wings, battered dreams
Spiraling down, I carry on
Held high by eternal stars
Yet when I arrive
To where joy and comfort lives (lived?)
I find you gone
Missing like the last piece to a puzzle
And I realize
Love is an inkless pen
Hopeless as the words of a dying man
I leave for the last time
On rolling waves that breathe in time
With my own unbeating heart
My Thoughts Are A StormThe scars you bear I wish I could
Die for, only the best do I want
For you, to be happy, the fault is
Mine own which tore us apart
Some days I was screaming inside
Yet I found complete happiness
With you, when you told me my
Apology was not accepted, it was
Like hearing news of an intimate
Suicide, your hate filled mind
Killed me inside, my thoughts
Are a storm, raging memories
Of every fight, every flaw fighting
For attention, yet the savage longing
To fall once more into you comforting
Arms, but who would I be if I
Allowed myself to go back?
Corpse BrideGirl so sweet, only seventeen
A prettier sight you'd never seen
Long raven hair, soft pale skin
A heart every man wanted to win
Clear blue eyes, deep as the sea
As gentle a soul as there could ever be
Then one quiet winter's day
She ventured to where she used to play
A forest so thick, not bothered by light
But not too far in she was given a fright
For before her stood a man so strong
His piercing eyes watched her far too long
She turned, a sparrow in flight, too late
He held her fast, told her to wait
He meant no harm, he looked so sweet
And so they agreed from then on they'd meet
Every day they were together in secret
She felt happy to bursting every time they met
A few weeks later, he loved her he said
So with this, alas, they agreed to wed
She wore her mother's antique wedding dress
They were to meet late at night, under moonlight's caress
Poor thing, she waited what seemed like forever
But her love would soon complete his wicked endeavour
She sees only a shadow before it all goes
Change this lifeHiding in the shadows
Resisting in secrecy
Trying to find a way
To change this life of misery
The future is unknown
The past is to forget
The present is dull and boring
Is this what life has to offer?
I want to change
And I keep trying
Only to fail miserabily
Every single time
eight ways you've made me small1. I wish
this was for you.
2. my journal pages - the
brown one with all our monologues -
were jarred with hollow vows of
last poems of
letting you slip into a coma
of bad memories, watching you
fall to your death off
a cascading cliff of disease
and dis ease.
it was never
easy for me
3. there's a reason I ask
whether you're grey
(dark white, elusively black, in between)
or blue (behind the clouds, under wave-foam,
whateverthefuck runs through the back of my
palms); I'd rather have
than the arms
that once held you half-
heartedly. you had always been
my harmony and I
would have killed
to have been yours.
4. it could never have been just me, the way
it could never have been just
5. disasters are not beautiful,
but how is it that you
managed to make my inner linings
converge into bows
and explode into wings the very
night you decided to rebuild your walls
to a lower height?
6. I wish
Whenever I hurt myselfI have a feeling
Someone is watching
So I look around
But there's no one to be found
on bradbury and table dancingYou are not a wordsmith
whatever you might like to think. ('Smith'
indicates precision and coldness and fire:
words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.)
It's a difficult road to follow, and not many
make it past the fork. Choose a path,
Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders:
I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming
rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery.
Notebooks scattered across the landscape
of a child's room, to be stumbled across,
read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night.
When the bough breaks
a hanged man laughs. He carries typewriters
in his pockets, and cigarettes in the soles of his shoes.
I will never be a word mistress,
whoring myself to the speech of people I do not know and will never know me.
The oven is set to Fahrenheit 452, but the words were already aflame
before they ever took shape under your tongue.
You love everything they've ever written, and carry
unabashed loathing for every syllabl
ExpirationWith you I always feel like I’m
to break in the wrong size of shoes.
Sometimes I sit and stew
over how you’re seventeen and
you think I’m a princess
the trapped-in-a-tower kind
and how you wear suits and talk about politics
and think you know the world.
My throat interrupts with an affronted gurgling sound
sometimes when I think about you,
you deal out advice where it just isn’t called for
you quote science-fiction to justify war
and you’re seventeen years old and you think I’m a princess
and you just have no blooming idea.
Darling, one of these days I will tell you my mind
But until then we’ll never fit
I’m afraid –
that even after that day
you’ll still be trimmed hedges and
The Most Selfish Poem I've Ever WrittenPlease be
Just half as broken
Please just once
Have a problem so big
All you can do
Is cry it into my chest
Please let me
Stroke your hair
Til you’re calm
Like every single time
You’ve stroked mine
Please can you
Just be so hurt
That you need me
Death to the LoversHe screamed,
He tore his hair from his scalp;
But it didn't bring her back.
The beautiful girl
With the gorgeous smile
And witty remarks
Would always lay six feet under.
She would lie in her death bed,
Her arms folded on her chest
And her face full of peace
Known only to the dead.
He would be the first to rot.
First his health,
Then his sanity.
She would forever feed on his emotions
Like a pretty little leech,
Sapping his well being
And happiness from her underground world.
And he would let her,
For a fool like him
Who allowed himself to love,
A Dying BreedI am--
Not an artist.
A writer, a mediocre one at that.
Not an artist.
I don't know what to do.
I'm a writer.
On an artist website.
It took years to get my niche.
And that niche is still small.
I don't belong, do I?
Another day of second guessing myself.
Another day of not measuring up to standards.
Empty the gallery.
Empty my mind.
Keep what's recent.
It'll be trashed just the same.
Nothing measures up.
A waste of space.
No one reads anymore, anyway.
A dying practice.
A dying... art.
I'm a writer.
Not an artist.
I paint with words.
Not with a brush.
No one reads anymore.
They look at pretty things.
Let others craft their imagination for them.
I am a writer.
A dying breed.
Life on a Television ScreenLife on a television screen
Eyes watch every quivering move
Thousands of eyes, flies on the wall
Dissected under the limelight
Ants under a magnifying glass
Held by the hand of a tainted child
Sun kissed skin, mermaid hair
Praise seeps through every pore, false modesty
Falling in and out of lust
With every evening past, drinking to hide from what's been done
City lights, darkless nights
Until the mo(u)rning, sun so bright
Crying from this tired heart
This tragic life begins once more
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More