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[x]
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.
-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
HellfireYou 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 thro
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
                 
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
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.
.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
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.
Passionate SovereigntyI'm so tired of writing love stories;
when I've not had one of my own.
I'm so weary of pretending I'm beautiful;
when my looks could turn a man to stone.

I'm so fatigued waiting for my prince;
when I'm not even a princess.
I'm so sick of pretending to be a siren;
when I could barely pass for an enchantress.

I'll tear down this repulsive prison of a
castle
they call the mind,
brick by hideous brick;
and write my own fairytale at last.
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—
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.
Remedial OppositionCease with making promises that you cannot ever keep—
can you not see this loathing becoming even more deep?
Halt in your useless words of comfort, telling me everything will be okay—
how can you say such things so simply, when you are never here day by day?
Refrain from acting as if you can turn my world from bleak to bright—
when was the last time you truly changed every wrong thing to right?

It was such a simple pleasure, back in those days;
just one word from you made gold from the grays.
A luxury it was, I now see that more clear than glass;
for those times are done and gone, having long since passed.
Indulgence was my
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,

     
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[x]

They say beauty is only skin deep,

:iconprussianpersephone:

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?
:iconprussianpersephone:
I seem to be venting/ranting a lot in my poetry lately.

Can you blame me? I've got a surprisingly large dose of good ol' teenage angst in me, after all.

This will probably be the last upload for awhile. I just needed to get a few things out that my writer's block didn't seem to affect.
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:iconhetalia-spain:
~Hetalia-Spain Feb 27, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
((This makes me think differently about the saying you're beautiful on the inside. It gives it a whole other meaning to it. So whenever somebody denies their beauty, this is what I shall say; You are beautiful in you're own unique way, no matter what you may think, no matter what others may say.))
Reply
:iconsvitavotara:
~Svitavotara Feb 13, 2013
But...but...you are beautiful!
Reply
:iconprussianpersephone:
*PrussianPersephone Feb 14, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Aha, thanks...
Reply
:iconsvitavotara:
~Svitavotara Feb 14, 2013
:hug:
Reply
:iconthalana:
Mood: Affection *Thalana Feb 11, 2013
What is Beauty?

It is not the image you would see nor the song you would hear,
But rather an image you see though you close your eyes and a song you hear though you shut your ears.
It is not the sap within the furrowed bark, nor a wing attached to a claw,
But rather a garden for ever in bloom and a flock of angels for ever in flight.

- -- beauty is life when life unveils her holy face.
But you are life and you are the veil.
Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror.
But you are eternity and you are the mirror.
-From Khalil Gibran- .

My dear - Beauty is You.
The next time you gaze in your mirror, close your eyes - maybe you can see more.
I know there is darkness in us all, it does not mean we are not beautiful.
But of course I have looked in the same mirror as you have.
Reply
:iconprussianpersephone:
*PrussianPersephone Feb 11, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
...well damn.

This comment is brilliant.
Reply
:iconthalana:
Mood: Affection *Thalana Feb 11, 2013
I love poetry - And yours is wonderful :)
Reply
:iconmarmodre:
~Marmodre Feb 11, 2013
AAh. I see the teenager in this one indeed. If you'd be reading this I'd like to ask one thing, though: is this you now, or past?
From a teenager to another, I guess.
Reply
:iconprussianpersephone:
*PrussianPersephone Feb 11, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
It's me now.
Reply
:iconmarmodre:
~Marmodre Feb 11, 2013
Shall I try to be realistic and blunt or simply say that you shouldn't need to feel it that way (or another kind of sweet-words(doubt-it-work)-stuff? Or I could simply shut up...
Reply
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