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DreamersUs ne'er do wells find nothing
In oblique, obsidian towers.
But once there was a world
We were meant to create.
Dream of it to pass the hours.
I. i dream of nightingales, I.
i dream of nightingales,
soft whispers on the wind
ready to crescendo,
to fall and maybe rise up again.
my dreams are nightingales.
She liked nightingales, and,
my sister remembers Her alone,
my dreams are nightingales
and i am not yet ready to leave them.
they used to be robins
with their soft red bellies;
too dark to be rust,
too light to be blood.
He used to be red,
cotton armor clanking, sword raised
to the cobalt blue sky, ready
to strike like a hawk to its prey.
a crow to its nest.
there used to be a girl
that would weave poppies
and roses and lilies, carnations and azaleas
into a tangled braid.
She did not like nightingales.
still my flighty, flickering
dreams are nightingales.
i want to take their hands,
boy of blood and girls of song.
i would rise again, laugh again
to be with them and be happy.
we wanted to win, to play
a game we were meant to lose and revive.
to retrieve and reconquer.
and when i saw Them, when we were
together i laughed, and
Petrified ICrimhildianas of the Niedlan house always hated Record Days. Record Days were days spent inside and behind a desk, reading through the journals written by the dead in order to cleanse themselves of sins. But Crimhildianas couldn't stand that part of her usually fantastic job. She was practically raised outside and under the sky, fighting monsters and darker mejik users before she could even spell her own name. Admittedly, it was a name quite difficult to spell, but all her family's names were of the sort. They were created to intimidate enemies, even though the sharp, bloody spears and the multitude of scars adorning their showing skin usually accomplished that goal. Her house, the Niedlans, were a group of nomadic mercenaries and hunters. She was one of their only women warriors, at least until the day she was captured by her enemies, decapitated, and then disemboweled in a ceremony for their gods.
Crim, as she was called only by her most trusted people, shifted against the hard chair
HolesEach little lie, or hidden ambition
Hides in a hole, as is tradition
Riddled with dreams, and fearful obsessions
That once were loved, in someone's possession
All the broad smiles, each a facade
With monstrous trinkets: knit, torn, and odd
Still broken treasures can easily lie
To thoughts so forced they can't seem to cry
Though cloudy with tears, and false memories
Keeping a hope that fades to the breeze
As such locks can try, but still cannot
Forget what was already hastily forgot
By those that are troubled by labourous pasts
As thinkers attempt to help them at last
Claiming their tales and lies to be so
But what do imaginary people know?
PetrifiedIn its grandeur, a petrified heart can be beautiful.
You say it's not so, as its blackness covers all features,
Shading over each crevice and vessel
Normally colored in vibrant blues and reds.
But can wrongdoings be acceptable?
Most say no, though it may be in human nature
To follow tempting thoughts to a false freedom.
Still, are sins not condemnable?
Especially if unknowingly committed?
For who can say how. Say why.
But is there true sense in darkness measured
By actions and never thoughts?
Yet the idea of petrification could be fascinating
In due time, and over a perfect mastery.
Because it truly is a deceptively sweet smile
Masking devilishly sweet thoughts
That can make up a perfectly deformed human.
Yes, they make up each twisted and shaded heart,
But are such hidden hearts truly dark
Or is it just from perspective?
And who knows just who has their heart petrified?
Dragon's StandCan you remember dragons slain
Over your meek, petty gain?
Do you remember birds caged
From a war silently waged?
And can one inspire change
Over a vast, twisted range?
Still yet, to be simply felt
As kings forced upon one knelt!
Called to battle, arms kept raised
Waiting justly to be saved!
Yet freedom rings, through the night
Without care to those that fight.
Natural states can be achieved,
Through remembrance just to brave
The fire of those believed...
The Princess and the God 02Dearest Carmine,
You write of darkness
At such a moments occasion
As a first letter!
A time of new beginnings and cycles
Before life takes its toll.
I have tried to write
As well, but I find it so, so
What is inspiration?
I ask myself this everyday.
But I find myself recalling your words,
And I smile.
Am I but a princess,
And you a God in this time?
I must agree, though, with your mind to stars
As they are wonderful bursts of light
Do they not waltz hand in hand?
I wish to hear the music, if they do so dance...
I'm so, so regretful I could not reply
At a sooner occasion.
It has been a suitable amount of time...
With fluttering thoughts,
New Note, New TabNew note,
It taunts me.
An empty page.
It stays, plaguing my mind so riddled with writer's block.
I wish to write just what I feel;
If only I could take up my pen or keys
And simply record everything.
My ideas seem to push words forward,
Yet language holds all that I wish to convey far, far away.
If only I could reach up and pull the words I need
From nothing at all except an over-active mind.
Still, I am bound to what I know
And have yet to experience.
Please fill with words and phrases
Intertwining and possibly rhyming.
If only it was simple to write...
Lady of ViennaO Lady of Vienna, why do you cross your smiles and lock away your gowns of lace and silk from times you would prefer to forget?
You used to waltz with pride as you seemed to enrich the entirety of the ballroom and its candlelight with your glimmering smile, tantalizing others with a glance as well as in your partner's strong arms and nearly calloused palms that have never thought of holding another, but he is all you knew and still continue to know.
So why choose to throw away untold riches accumulated over thousands of years, treasures that your people willingly created for you alone, with honest and true intentions gracing their thoughts and generous gifts that matched in an adorable fashion, a sort of simple elegance you were never able to master nor grant to anybody, especially him with his foolish, light gestures you always and easily misunderstand?
Take up your arms so distantly locked away, O Forgotten Lady that wanders through the folds of an untaught history that was never rec
the truth about growing up
1. It's easier when you don't think.
1. It starts early,
on a cloudy day when you recall
the 'childhood memories' of
two summers ago,
that's when you start your backslide into
2. On the bright side
you won't notice this until you're
good and ripe in age,
so maybe it doesn't matter
3. That tightness in your chest?
The feeling that you're not ready
to take on the rest of your life; it
4. It stews in the pit of your stomach
makes you doubt,
but there will be days when you look back
on the mountains you climbed -
the raging rivers you crossed -
and you'll have a sneaking suspicion you were
more prepared than you thought.
5. There's nothing like your own bed.
6. Laundry will never smell right
without mom's sweat and tears.
But you still have to separate lights from darks,
keep the zippers pulled tight
and the buttons unhooked.
7. There is comfort in your parents' presence.
8. Things change
the future gnaws and rips
Stranger's funeralUnder the clouds
Under the rain
Staring at the coffin
At a stranger's funeral
We're all alone
Feeling the storm
But not the pain
For he's but a stranger
And the graves around us
Are just there
Keeping us company
During this empty moment
LullabyHush, my baby,
Be still, don't cry.
Lay with me
A little while.
Close your eyes,
Slow your breath.
Hear your heart
Inside your chest?
Your heart is strong,
It guides you well.
Be sure to listen
To what it tells.
I hear him now,
Outside the room.
It won't be long,
He'll find us soon.
Now close your eyes,
Slow your breath,
And rest your head
Upon my chest.
CarolineYou loved the fire
of rogues -
imperfect men who shot up
the endings of the day
and drank down
too much beauty.
And like one of them,
you bellied with rebellion,
felt his tense seed
toil where women
and craved his notoriety.
Poor girl -
his verses won the day
and the call of words
was too fickle a lover
for any constant star.
Don't blame yourself -
are more attractive
and all poets are
things to tell you before i leave for collegeto mrs hatcher:
i promise that one day i will write that poem you asked me for
(the only thing you ever asked me for)
and i will finally tell you that you deserve
so much more.
to mr. walker:
i promise that i will not pity you.
i promise that i will not envy you.
i promise that you will always be part of my forget-me-nots and marigolds.
i promise to always be grateful.
i promise to be careful.
i promise to be crazy.
i promise that i will remember what it feels like to be needed
and what it feels like to let someone who needs you down.
i promise that i will never resent you for asking for help
and that i will always be there when you do.
i promise that even sixty years from now,
i will not be surprised to find a letter from you in my mailbox.
i promise to always remember what it felt like to be young and crazy with you,
how scared and lonely we were.
i will remember that we both survived it,
and that we'll survive this, too.
To the Boy Who Likes PoetryHe was a maze of metaphors
but she didn't mind
getting lost in him
raising a warrior never was an easy jobi.
when i was a child i would
sit on the porch in the rocking chair and watch
the sky fall and the ground flood -
safe on my wooden throne, i'd call out
amid the thunder that
it would never pull me to the sky, away from
the home i'd always known; when the storm
would cease i'd stand triumphant
over fallen soldiers, lying
like stained glass and shimmering, rippling --
when i was older
i stood in kitchen and watched you
bake, fingers drumming to the beat of a
war-drum you never could hear -
and you'd tell me stories of sleeping beauties
while i read about the knights
who risked their lives, got angry at the girl --
you taught me how to be
a lioness when you realized this girl would
never be a queen. i was made to rule, but not in
robes, made to claw my way
out instead of sit and watch the fight -
my throat ached to sing
a shout of victory, my skin itched to dance
in a triumphant haze as charcoal painted
the night alive --
and now when thunder shakes
the ground i count its be
i made the universe in a teapoti made the universe in a teapot.
galaxies frothed into the mug,
stars bubbling up through the sepia beauty.
nothing was left outside, everything at the bronze brim,
the sun's edge in ceramics.
i drank the quickcopper gracefully.
my mind was a biscuit,
the milk as time,
lacing throughout the boiling hot space in that second
of pouring creation.
(alpha and omega at once as steam.)
VisitingThere is a place
I will never go
But I seem
I close my eyes
It is a place
Where I can
Never ever go
But I always
Can create it
Because it lives
My open mind
Will you join
In this place
Where I can
Still not visit
I wish to see
You standing there
Next to me
Keep in Touch!