Awex joined. o.o That hobo!!! lol Well, that's okay. The only problem is that he thinks I can actually write good poetry. O.o That will get you killed one day, my son. XD Okay, well, here's some old poetry... Hopefully I'll eventually get all the old ones on here. And naturally I'll write new ones when the mood strikes me! XP
Three Words Never Spoken~
A radiant beauty, with russet-red hair,
soft, gentle curves, innocent and bare.
She sits in her window, unnoticed,
watching the world move by,
a silent film, for this lady so fair.
A single silver tear slides down her lovely cheek.
A maiden so strong and yet so weak.
Her supple breasts heave with a sigh.
Oh how she wishes to join crowd,
goddess quiet and sad and meek.
A silken hand on the icey pane.
Her soul is bound, her heart in chains.
She wants to escape but she can't get free
from this prison in which she is kept.
All attempts seem in vain.
A pair of vibrant green eyes
she sees, she knows, she sighs.
They seem for a minute to fall upon her,
to see her truely for the first time.
But they are gone again, a heap of lies.
He is gone again, her heart's in tatters.
Her hope is dying, her spirit shatters.
Will he ever catch her violet eye?
She doesn't want to be alone and forgotten.
She wants to be, more than anything, someone who matters.
She slumps to the floor, rejected and broken,
the memory of his eyes her only token.
Wondering why she's been cursed as such,
for she had never been anything but kind,
yet she sits there weeping for the three words never spoken.
sweet satin lips
kiss gently the hem
of the white silk gown
tears flow from glittering eyes
in sweet, sorrowful goodbyes
Goodbye, My Everything
whistle of a train
calling you from my arms
you are torn away
leaving, not looking back
my everything is gone
One Blank Page
In a small town in Scotland, they sell books with one blank page.
If you ask the storekeeper about it, he’ll smile
and tell you that this is the story of your life.
With every step you take, your story is written.
All your decisions, all your mistakes, are recorded
and scrawled out across the pages.
“You cannot change the past,” the old man will say,
“But the ending of your story is left up to you.”
So take a book and leave him a pound.
Read the book and read it thoroughly,
taking note of what you’ve done and said.
Then, in neat penmanship, write out the end
with love and care and compassion.
For when you are dead, they will find your book
and all that you write will be known
and it will all break from those pages.
We Did It In Front Of A Mirror
We did it in front of a mirror,
mascara steaming down our faces.
She held my hand as we lifted the poison
up to our trembling red lips.
It went down easily, painlessly,
like crystal drinking water.
We held our breath, we held each other,
and waited patiently for the end.
From her lips I heard a tiny gasp
and then a small song, a little smile
and then nothing.