Writes from the heart

I haven't written poetry that rhymes in so long....so I don't really know where this cam from xD

Walls have ears
but they not need speak
To share the words
that creep, that creep,
and weave through staircases
slither down halls
"Come listen! Come listen!
Away!! They call!!"

They think I lie
They think can't hear
How can they know me
as I disappear
From the sight and sound
that they've 'banished' me from
It tough, I know
but it's what she's become.

xx

New Year's Resolution - A poem a week =) At least!!

She'd cast her wave to the sea
It was dark, but the end of the chapter
was caught by the moon
And melted through into the
emerald phosphorescence of the tide....

But like the tide
deep black pages of a written past
floated
back to the forefront of reversed sight.

Gravity turned the moon
and withdrew its light.

She didn't want to read again
She knew the ending,
of how salt of the wound
hurts
as her music box heart is healed by the ocean.

The tide came closer until
it adorned the shore with the paper-
thin leaves of the written heart.
Jealous for the heat of the sand over
sand with its shell so calm.
So protected.
So beautiful.
(It was bound to want what it cannot have -
you loose what you are unable to hold onto)

A reminder? A regret? Does the writer wish for a different ending?
(Only one to blame for that - She's sure)

She runs, though sad,
the final chapter was meant to be.
It was right.
Against her wishes, curiosity turns to the moon....

Who questions....
What am I to think?

Once again, it is effaced from her mind.

Until fate has the tide crawl in again.



xxxx

As the spider casts it's charm
across the window
of streams, adorned with dew drops
delicately, deliciously positioned
across a sheet of crystalline glass
transforming into that of iced clouds
that snap. Bitter,
in all four corners.

She looks on.

The next, folded, fading faces.
An army of painted curves
tip, unbalanced and fall.
Their cries echo in the colour
of terror,
muds of autumn traced the ground.
But they cling on.

And she looks on.

A solitary stand.
Mirror of me, it reaches
in all direction, yet
the same direction.
I know,
christened with the fairy's dust
a few hopeful thoughts
and I will fly.
Fly on.

She looks on.

xx

And the scarlet rose asked
Why did it hurt?
When my strings were pulled
to choke?
My stem not pulled,
but twisted?
and why (I cry)
do I heal - for now -
to make a choice,
a battle with the brain
(if I only had a brain)
I didn't call
(we're not living in a fairy tale after all)
I can't speak
(just listen....listen to the sound of the wind)
nor feel - not really -
A toy a most.

Bye bye Petals.

Yes....
No....
Yes....

No.



xx

Sorry it's been so long, coursework and all =(

Shine of a coin
Passes from the ‘gentleman’ to the other
For her.

Red flush
As dainty as the petals he promises
For her.

The smile
And a whispered word to bring bubbled delight
For her.

That look
And the knowledge of truth
Is all for her.

xx

Heyheyhey :) Here is one I wrote –rather last minute – for a mass in school. I thought it was rather neutral, not necessarily religious, soooo why not post :)

The truth will set you free,
And a confession to seek forgiveness
For everything –
For every time we have ever closed our eyes – will set us free,
So we can grow,
And prepare to remember the sacrifice,
Which made the simple divine,
And the possibility of our forgiveness
Possible.

We will remember you.

x

Apologises, my fault. I've just had a lot on my plate recently and haven't been able to blog. Not that excuses matter. Anyway - here is a recent poem. I had a bit of a Sylvia Plath moment when I was reading it aloud, and thought it sounded quite good =D I like it sooo..anyway. Here it is, I'll begin to dance across these eggshells...


Dare to dance across the
corners, the points and curves
of the eggs
Lined in perfect rows.
Each polished to the perfection of a dream
of my dream.
I’ll stay asleep, not to wake the giant,
and close the lid to protect myself from the harm
Of disorder.
Moving forward,
with the grace which is as clearly nonexistent
as the future.
Most unfortunate indeed.
I crawl and crawl,
to balance and perfect
No danger, (just the fear of what in truth is not really there)
So I spread my weight, to be sure, down I fall,
until the shell breaks
piece, by piece,
Until all that is left, is the sting and remains
Of those perfected lines.
In each fragment, a memory of the picture before
which I find
I am embedded in every piece
Which shattered across the silver of that cloud
Hung, in the midst of everything
On the balance of what was meant to be.


x

I thought I'd better post, considering that I have at all so far this year. I guess I was just waiting for the right poem to come on by...well there's enough...fun going on to supply inspiration so here it is...

My week was made
you tied the red strings wrapping my world
back with normality.

It's holding, just about,
but it's still so delicate
after the 'mistake' you made.

Now the strings are straining
but not because you wrapped it too tight.
The threads which make you are against you.
and I don't think you know what's going on.

This thread is different, the black amongst the red.
It's making its way out, into ribbon with the best intentions
but another motive? as much denied?

Or is that just what I hope?
The only lie I ever hope to be true.
Something just doesn't feel right.

I hope it's all wrong. I hope I can
s-n-i-p away at this ribbon until it's only the thread thats left
so it can all go back to normal
and I wont flood this gift away.

A single red string is enough, it's all I need

I think I was hoping a little more than even I knew.