The door creaks on its own, a breath to push it closed. A whisper through the phone, much like yours I suppose, tells me of horrors far beyond, the world we want to see, and those horrors reside deep, inside of the mind,
Midas’s greedy eyes wished for gold. They settles on a blank canvas and wished for glittering gold. He wished so badly to drip with finery, drenched to the hollow bone.
When he finally got it, his touch spread the riches as if it were a disease, some beautifully cruel virus. Enthralled, he overlooked his losses, discarded the original value to revel in his newfound fortune.
In the end, he sat alone atop his gold throne, cursed to be a solitaire king. He drowned in his greed and he suffered.
I think I made a wrong wish too many times, for my name has fallen from your lips and I sit alone in bed waiting to reach out and touch one last time.
On Gull Pond I look out and see a mama duck and ducklings I decide to name them Sam, Suzy, Hudson, etc Everyday they would go by bigger and bigger First baby feathers, then sleek glossy feathers, till one day thick shiny adult feathers As they enter the reeds they peck away at the leaves Chirping the songs of Spring
I can hear the choir, crying in the night, shouting inaudibly, barely kept in harmony. And though their voices ring, like chiming bells, and their shrieks, shatter my heart, I cover my ears, and duck my head, for the raven squawks, high in the forked tree. I mustn't listen. I mustn't see. I mustn't hear, the song of Thana, for I am afraid. The shadows which, beseech me to follow, are but a trick of the light. I have lost my mind, yet my soul is intact, and they have come, to rip it from me.
O, I have fathomed my grave! My mind is buried, and my bones ache.
Come sweet, come bitter. Come warm, come cold. Come cheery, come weary.
“Hate is such a strong word," No wonder Hate makes me weak, Lying down I watch my belly sink into nothingness, It's a cavity that has gotten worse over the years, The erosion of my energy and eating away of my sanity. . There are cliffs between my rib cage, I fell between, When I stepped onto that unsteady scale, An ever-lasting reflection in my mind’s eye, Of this thing that will never be enough! How could I have fallen? There is more than plenty to hold onto! The Hate on my hips, Hate on my thighs, Hate on my stomach, I’m so tired of this weight, The strain leaves stains of insecurities under my eyes, Desperately I clutch onto this brittle rock, Don’t let go, don’t let go, just a little less or a little more,
Today it rained again, For the third time this week. "Isn't it strange that it's been raining a lot?" my mom asks. I don't respond. I watch the rain hit the window, Drops coalescing and rolling down so effortlessly. I would go outside and stand away from the trees, Letting it mess up my already unkempt hair But it’s salty. It stings my skin a little. So I watch as it fills up the bucket I’ve left outside yesterday. Soon it’s overflowing as the rain comes down stronger Beating on the grass, weeds, flowers, shrubs Sweeping away the debris into the sewers. Water gushes out over the brim of the bucket on all sides In a way, it’s cathartic. Some hate the rain, but I would rather wait. "Take your time," I say. We're only separated by a pane of glass. I look out as high as I can, Past the tall trees in the distance towards the clouds, sitting in their usual spots.
When you walk in to the forest just listen Trees are whisperers A sweet maple coos to a sapling "It's okay it'll be okay" The little ash sapling speaks thoroughly and calmly "How much more time do I have the bug will peel off my bark and then where will I go?" A gruff old pine the towns grump harshly speaks back "You listen to me not long. The west wind blows problems." The maple speaks once more "All problems have solutions you know."
She put daisies in her hair, little things, that made her beauty, even more beautiful. Her chocolate eyes that, with love, swirled and shined, gave my life a light. Hands full of fresh flowers, held tightly, in those tiny hands, that held my heart. And that stolen little heart, beating alive, that she held softly, broke apart over, and over, when it no longer felt, those careful, beautiful, hands.
Who could defend us, when we were hanged, burned at the stake, and shunned by those, who believed that we, the people who walk, amongst ourselves, singing "Blessed Be!" were sipping from, the devil's hand? Who would believe, that many women, and many children, old and oh so young, were taken away by those, who could only believe, in one god, and only one? And who would think, that after many years, the days when we, those who sing "Blessed Be!" and who walk, the same rythm, but in a different tune, were hushed, and denounced, by people afraid of something, that has been misunderstood, for hundreds of years, is not yet over? The Goddess smiles, in the form of the pearlescent moon, and I shall too.
Her body jerked in sudden, abrupt, movements. Her hair was dark and long, thin, strands. The eyes of someone lost, gone, dead, glared with their hard white, shells, open. Her dress was shredded, stained, worn, and the scent of a corpse, living, walking, bled into her deadly aura. Teeth, gritting. A once so delightful grin, cold, rotted.