[x]

They say beauty is only skin deep,so hand over that defected scalpel in your bloodless hands
and watch carefully as I peel away this tainted skin
to make way for my blackened and corrupted
insides.
And everyone can finally see
the grotesque monster that lies deep within
this soiled excuse they seem to enjoy calling
a heart.

If beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
then why is it that I can't stand
gazing upon my reflection
every time I pass by a mirror?

Into the PlungeBuild me a sandcastle on the edge of the sea,
where the cliffs are sprayed with the salty tears of the tide,
and sirens cry into the night for the arms of a lover
to whisk them away into a dry night free of brine;
Where we shall dance the sunset's furtive sigh of redemption
on the edge of saline bluffs, and kiss with the gunpowder
of forgotten cannons high on the waves of an abandoned ocean;
Teetering the edge of the world, where the Kraken and Leviathan lay in wait
for lost-lorn victims of broken hearts and brackish undertows
coursing through their veins.

D
r
o

.I stare at the screen, waiting for some burst of inspiration to rain upon me like a meteor shower sent straight from the gods of literature heaven.

Nothing.

A sigh escapes my lips, and I haphazardly bash random buttons of the keyboard, watching as the blank document before me is littered with an incoherent placement of characters. The monotone click-clack seems to just resonate with the narcoleptic beating of my heart, further fueling my senseless crusade.

Where has all my writing gone?

It feels like it was just sucked right out of my soul. Ideas constantly plague my mind, yet all I can do is write them down. When I go to type them out, n

-My mind
just can't
seem to

s h u t u p.

Too many "fuck you's"
that morph into
"I'm sorry's"
drip off this
dagger-tongue
like acid.

Monster.
Grotesque.
Liar.
Erratic.

Try and make it better. Fail. Try again. Break down.

So many faults
that seem to just
turn me into someone
I'm not.

Look into the mirror. See nothing but a clone. Fabrication. No longer me.

I stare and want
to break that glass
so that I can also
b r e a k.

Try and say something. Turns into nothing but rage. Take it out on you.

This shattered heart
only wants to make it
better
and become one again.

"I want to hate you."
"But I can't."
"So I hate me instead."
"But

GlacialJanuary wolves stalk her shivering heart;
bitter ice-fangs sink into feverish skin.
Frost devours slowly, succinctly, shamelessly;
yet the howling tossed chains around her
paper-thin limbs and dragged her down.

Arctic icebound lips quivering,
silver eyelashes fluttering emptily,
alabaster fingertips reaching out;
frenzied yet frozen and fractured.

"Drowning," she whispers in a winter song,
and places her mouth upon snow-dusted fur.
"Blood freezing in these frostbitten veins."

And then the pack of aurorean wolves bolt away,
leaving her smiling in the blizzard of humanity.

Freedom.

Poetry is:Poetry is:

the adhesive to
a fragmented soul;

broken wings that still dream of

F L Y I N G

how snapdragons breathe stardust
and orchids perform ensembles.

when 'imagination' and 'reality' at last discover a
c r o s s r o a d s,
and rush to embrace one another with fervent limbs.

why gravity seems to f
a
l
l, taking the world with it.

what flows through the veins of every pair of [shipwrecked; star-crossed] lovers.

who I am; who I was; and who I want to be.

lost.Wandering,
waiting for your voice to
reach out for mine.
Fingertips of satin,
caressing the confines of my
soul;
whispering a thousand constellations to my waning sanity.
Promises upon promises,
mosaic labyrinths etched into mutilated
flesh.
Trembling lips — July's blasphemous sun
lingering above December's intangible moon,
and these looking-glass limbs scream for your
tongue to shatter me into one million
pieces.
Rose eyelashes; iron thorns and liquid petals
flutter open to the dull luster of our
salt-licked sarcophagus—
and in the end, your nebula fades away
in the disintegrating morning, just like my [heart] broken
heart.

24 Hoursi.
Dreams will slowly fade
as dawn breaks through the windows;
morning’s here again.

ii.
Stomachs growl and groan
as smells from the kitchen waft;
afternoon is here.

iii.
Dusk paints a red sky,
the sun retires for the night;
evening shall bring peace.

iv.
The stars and moon dance,
a waltz of shining passion;
night has come at last.

For YouYour heart may bleed diamonds,
but they all they see is dust.
Your soul may run black with ink,
yet they see it as pandemonium.
The miasmas you feel in your mind are not discord,
but a precious, beautiful gift meant solely for you.

The letters care not
however you arrange them;
perfection is perfection
when it comes from your veins.

These worlds exist for you created them—
there is no such thing as
“imaginary”
as long as you know their universes.

Cry and laugh and weep and smile,
for the blossoms you water shall grow
into a microcosm of your own design.

You are a god and a king,
a queen and a demon,
whose words

NecromancyI wanted to see what makes a human heart
beat,
so I took a scimitar and ripped apart your decrepit
flesh,
and inside that primordial ribcage I found nothing but
corruption.

And you merely gave a cruel parody of a
smile,
dug your bloodstained claws into your
chest,
and tore out that infestation you called a
soul.

"Analyze that well, my little necromancer," you
sneered,
fangs dripping with the acid I once begged to
taste,
"Perhaps you'll be as wise as me once you find the
pulse."

I could only watch as you sunk back down into
Hell,
clutching that contaminated Philosopher's Stone
hazardously,
knowing you had replaced my heart with the pois

WhisperI want to create an aromatic sea of jasmines
and stardust mountains of silver and —

No.

Inkblot skeletons with paper mache
hearts, whose bones shall burn with one glance at the
sun; gravestones of blood diamonds and tears of thistles...

Harp strings ringing in grotesque harmony, screaming
for slender fingers to pluck and caress with devotion.

I want to write

gods

and

chaos.

bioluminescence.Your skin is of paper mache and
stardust, so fragile and coruscating
as I reach out desperately to grasp that
supernova you call a heart;
please, don't etiolate in their sunrise
and leave me marooned in life's black abyss...
I can't survive without your—

Her Aesthetic CrusadeShe paints a world of crimson midnight,
and you watch the sanguine colors drip down her skin.
Wilted rose petals stain her wrist scarlet,
and canyons are carved deep in porcelain flesh.
"Battle scars," she tells you simply with a flick of the paintbrush,
meticulous as she resumes her sanguine masterpiece.
"Have you won?" you ask,
though you already know the answer.
She smiles fondly and holds up the tormented easel,
for all to see the newly wrought crevice of flaming burgundy.
"How can one win this war against the burning red, my friend,
when you can barely win the battle against yourself?"

Storybook EndingHer ink-stained lips have kissed too many a forgotten page,

[dragon's blood
and phoenix down]

And her Prince Charming has yet to come,

[glass slippers
shattering like stars]

So all she can do is gaze out her tower window,

[enchanted forests
concealing poisoned apples]

Clutch that corroded and timeworn blade,

[cursed beasts
tearing down castle walls]

Toss her childhood fables to the waltzing of the moon,

A Scholarly MasqueradeSometimes I like to pretend,
I'm like the Mariana Trench with my words.

That my fingers construct such eloquence,
as abyssal and profound as the Grand Canyon.

Yet the truth of the matter is that,
my heart has not been pulverized into dust.

I am about as succint and poignant,
as a rusted bucket.

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AbsenceShe used to lie awake all night
consuming letters with voracity;
it was the utopian lair she created
to slip away from the turbulent world.

Only too soon she learned
that you can't always hide
within parchment crevices.

(reality always finds you)

Even now, when she yearns to fall between printed canyons,
she can't help but curse those passive and lethargic days;

"It's too damn easy to fall in love with words on a page."

Last night,I broke every bone in my body
so I could have a reason to drown
in the isolated ocean inside me.

And then,
when my dilapidated lungs finally caved in,
I swam ashore and crawled across the polluted sand.

Only glass-edged skin
and salt-licked eyelashes
can help me now.

are my words poetic enough for you?maybe not.

because i will never be the fire-hearted girl with remedial stardust lips,
dancing with the astral wolves that hunt beneath her moon-kissed skin,
with the courage to plant wilting lilacs into every crippled soul she finds.

but what if they were?

then i would be the ink blots coating the archives of humankind,
the fractured jewel tucked away in a catastrophic dragon's chest,
and the lyric every mismatched bone engraves into their marrow.

if only.

Howling For TreacheryI wish I could live
on nothing but air;
killing the hunger
to consume every
improvised lie.

(Maybe all along,
I've been the wolf in
sheep's clothing.)

Why is it that when
I exercise my own
feeble infallibility,
these fangs just
continue to hone
on fraudulence?

(It's too painful
to continue howling
at this contorted reflection.)

Yet every time
I take an ax to
exterminate the
counterfeit beast,
its claws just leave
another patch of
scars on the inside
of my skin to remind
me just what I am.

(The girl who cried wolf

catch me if you cani'd like to smear ashes
over bloody heathen lips
and twist burnt corsages
around the maypole.

this rotten witch's heart
would love to curse you all.

disease has never looked so
lovely, i do declare, crawling
up your blistering limbs.

in case you are not aware—
love kills slowly, but revenge tastes so sweet,
so i'll just tip-toe off of this cliff
and embrace the beast awaiting for me below.

phoenix rising,
sunlight fading;

we
all
fall
down.

Loneliness:a limbless spider entangled in
its own web,
writhing and awaiting to
break free—

only to be devoured by the fly.

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Hellfire

by *PrussianPersephone, Feb 6, 2013, 8:25:52 AM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

You see her nonsensical whims and think to yourself,
"nothing but a simpler state of mind."

Yet —

She hides behind an ivory mask,

skeleton smiles 
and torpid mirth;

Radioactive sulfuric masses of artificial
crystalline lips upturned in an adamant curve.

Laughter echoing throughout hollow bones, concave and
just as empty as the cartilage ensnaring the vacant
smirk.

You can't fathom the netherworld tucked deep in her translucent limbs;
nor comprehend the frenzied howls from the fangs of a decaying Cerberus.

For when you will at last board Charon's ferry and float down the conflagrant waters of
Styx, regarding her perched upon a throne sewn from the blistering skin of her enemies and
wearing a crown of brambles and tears and seeds born of pandemonium—

kindle

`Hellfire.`

Hellfireby *PrussianPersephone

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

Something that is actually me venting about certain things, but I guess the way I wrote it will conceal exactly what that is.

I'm still on a writing hiatus; however, this needed to be written before it was lost in the jungles of my mind. Plus, my personal laptop is still being checked out to see what went wrong. I'm using my school laptop at the moment. Also, I am sick. Therefore I needed something to do since I'm staying home, and rather than write something more productive, I come up with this crap.

Please continue to be patient with my fickleness.

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~HeyLuna Feb 14, 2013

The thing that I love the most in your writing is that you manage to turn emotions into words, and those words are ART. I wished that I studied this poetry in school! XD

~Mauvaiseloup Feb 7, 2013 Student General Artist

*PrussianPersephone Feb 8, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

~Saphira12702 Feb 7, 2013

This is beautifully sad..and ur not fickle

*PrussianPersephone Feb 8, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Haha, thanks.

~Saphira12702 Feb 8, 2013

ur not! ^^

*GermanyXItaly1000 Feb 6, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

...

Like fire, hellfire, this fire in my skin
This burning desire
Is turning me to
SIN

~~I'msosorryIjusthadtodothatDisneyreference~~

But this is really great. I really just marvel at your ability to write out all your thoughts like this... This is not crap at all. This is great stuff, something that will end up in an anthology of amazing works someday.

I assure you.

And I hope you (and your laptop) get better!

*PrussianPersephone Feb 7, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

I've never seen Hunchback, actually. It always freaked me out. I just like the songs.

But thank you very much. I hope to one day be featured in some sort of anthology.

Yeah.

I hope we get better too. *been sick for three days, bro, and it SUCKS ASS*

~CrazyCharlette1415 Feb 6, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

I don't mind your fickleness. Do whatever enters your mind.

*PrussianPersephone Feb 7, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Aha, thanks.

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Hellfire

`Hellfire.`

Hellfireby *PrussianPersephone

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