A poetic journey through my mind

Posts tagged “dark

Paper Girl

Once there was a little girl who was made out of paper. On the inside she was all empty and missing and gone, but on the outside people had stuck pictures and stories and questions and lies and truths and more stories about how they thought she was and what they thought she was like and they just kept putting more and more on until she had a nice paper shell on, all made out of what everyone else thought and felt and said about her. And she lived all alone, and she kept out of storms, because all the loud noises and yelling and words could tear pieces right out of her paper shell and just let it go it flying off into the wind and she’d never get it back, even if it was a part she really liked. And she stayed away from people in charge, which was hard, cause everyone was in charge, cause they could say things and do things and tear things off of her that they didn’t like, or didn’t agree with, or just because they felt like being mean that day, and she couldn’t do anything about it because there wasn’t any her inside to do anything so she just had to stand there and watch, with her paper eyes, as the pieces tore off (and it hurt, when they tore off) and flew away. And then one day one of the people she loved, one of the people who were closest to her, was sad and mad and scared and got really upset at something the girl did, and so she gave her to the really-in-charge people, and they took her away and locked her up in the dark and the cold and the wind kept blowing all the while they looked at her and she could feel the pages and pieces blowing off and off and off like a storm of her. And then they let her go, but she was so fragile then, her shell was so gone, that bits and pieces of the hole inside shone through, and scared the people around her, so she tried to put things back on, but they kept falling off, cause she didn’t know how to make them stick. Only other people could do that, but everyone didn’t know how many pieces she was missing, so they didn’t know to help fill in the gaps. And so she kept moving and going, cause what else was there to do, and the people-in-charge kept tearing and ripping at her, like dogs with a newspaper, and when she tried to tell them that they were hurting her, they just got angry and tore more, and told her that if she didn’t stop they would lock her up in the dark again and she knew that if they did that, that all her pieces would just fall off, and she’d dissappear forever, so she just kept trying and trying to hold things together, but pieces were falling off and she didn’t know what to do. She tried using lots and lots of glue to hold things on, but it made her sick, and sleepy, and didn’t really help, it just made things take longer to do and still the pieces fell off. She tried to ask other people to stick things back on, but it just confused them, and they got frustrated with her asking and asking and didn’t want to be around her anymore. She even went to the people who made the glue, and asked them what to do, but they said she had to learn to do it herself, and they couldn’t help, unless she felt like she was going to start tearing pieces off, herself, and then they’d lock her up and use lots of glue to stick new/old pieces back on, but she knew that that kind of glue only worked for a little while before it cracked and made things worse than before. And they kept telling her that she had to hold herself together, and keep doing what they said, or they’d lock her up in the dark again, and no matter what she said or did or didn’t say or didn’t do, they just kept tearing and tearing until she was so weak all she could do was lie in a pile and listen to the sound of pages fluttering off into the distance, more and more and then less and less until all that was left was one piece of paper and it had this story on it…and pretty soon now, that one will go too, and that will be the end.


Wired

crossed wires bind around my throat, beneath my skin, within my mind.
wires down which angels float, and all the hells unwind.
words are lost within the screams of countless teeming hordes,
instead of lullabies I hear the clash of fiendish swords.
rush of blood inside my veins, the whir of ancient clockwork,
the soundtrack to my failing life, by some demonic store-clerk.
blood red tears, cliche at best, are pouring down my cheeks,
evidence of grinding gears, subconsequential leaks.
slipping chains and clashing cogs and wires tangled always,
I hear the whine of bodys end, down all the future pathways.


Sky, falling

I remember the scratch of the wall at my back and my cheek when I woke up. The cool soft of its solid made me smile.

Sky bits decorated my warm paper cloak, melding faces and words, facts and lies, all into one soft shell that hugged me tight.

The sky fell and fell and fell, a tympani of pain in jungle green and neon blue. I looked for her, and the grin crawled onto my face with spider toes.

She crouched over the pond that feet had made on the step, squeezing tiny fish from the colors in her hair.

Each little brightness grew as it fell toward the pond, and landed with a splish of color and sound, before sprouting teeny fragile wings and flying away into the falling sky.

She wasn’t smiling. She never smiled. But her two-tone blue and green eyes twinkled like jewels as she followed each of her creations up and up and up.

She glanced at me, and nodded, as her dirty fingers worked another once-bright neon rainbow plait of hair, releasing another spark of color to its journey.

“They’re only going back…” She said. “Soon you will too.” She looked away, but a crooked smile twitched her lips, for just a moment.

Her voice knife rasped through my brain, and I shivered, and coughed. “Oh.” I said, and watched until the last scrap of color faded into sky.


How Many Miles to Bedlam

how many miles to bethlehem
three-score years and ten,
you can get there by candle-light
but you’ll never come home again.

the walls are mirror covered,
in the room inside my head,
sprinkled with manic laughter
and eyes of glowing red.

the eyes are the window of the soul,
or so the proverbs say,
mine open on a burning hell
of discord and decay.

chaos is my normal,
normal is a curse,
sanity is stifling,
and boredom ten times worse.

my laughter smells of lightning,
and color-coded shame,
my face a demons beauty,
my heart an angels game.

look deep into my eyes and see
the mirror crazed within,
razor sharp glass shards that swirl
and swell beneath my skin.


Reply

Little sister, small and fair,
why ask for knowledge you will rue?
But, for the Oaths that we did swear,
three times three I’ll answer you.

One for Crow boys, tall and dear,
perched atop a garden wall,
I heard them laughing and crept near,
I heard his lies…I heard it all.

Little sister, small and fair,
why ask for knowledge you will rue?
But, for the Oaths that we did swear,
three times three I’ll answer you.

Second for the power that glows
within a tattered crow-black skin,
the skin our faithless crow boy chose
to keep his crow-shape safe within.

Little sister, small and fair,
why ask for knowledge you will rue?
But, for the Oaths that we did swear,
three times three I’ll answer you.

I’ve clipped his wings, no more he’ll fly,
the power mine now, strong and new,
and from my hand he will not die…
but only for our Oaths so true.

Little sister, small and fair,
why ask for knowledge you will rue?
But, for the Oaths that we did swear,
three times three I’ll answer you.


The Question

pooka girl, changeling girl,
foxes eyes, red mane acurl,
tell me, tell me, tell me true,
three times three I ask of you.

First is for the love we share,
his midnight eyes and crow-black hair,
his handsome face so fine and fair,
where have you taken him, fox-girl, where?

pooka girl, changeling girl,
foxes eyes, red mane acurl,
tell me, tell me, tell me true,
three times three I ask of you.

The second is for magic, deep,
that through our veins does rise and leap,
a power bought with price so steep
I feel it cry out, in my sleep.

pooka girl, changeling girl,
foxes eyes, red mane acurl,
tell me, tell me, tell me true,
three times three I ask of you.

The third time is for loyalty,
for oaths by moon and star and tree,
oaths of blood I shed for thee,
I ask you, sister, three times three.


Dearing, my Dearing

(This was written for a lady I met who had the unfortunate luck of being named Dearing.  While I love the name, this poem almost immediately sprung into my creatively sick mind, and I hope you like it.  Half Poe and half Edward Gorey…enjoy!)

Oh Dearling, my Dearling, let’s run away,
Sampling the ephemeral bright Springtime day
Drinking Spring wine,
“Forever!” we’ll say.
Oh Dearling, my Dearling, let’s run away.

Dearing, my darling, let’s run away,
You with your bright skin,
Me with my grey,
And sample the goodness of each summers day,
Oh, Dearing, my darling, let’s run away.

Oh, my darling Dearing, let’s run away,
Through the bright crispness of each Autumn day,
Smell of campfire,
And pumpkin decay,
Oh, my darling Dearing, let’s run away.

Oh, Darling, my Darling, I’ll lock you away,
Deep in the ice, and with carved letters, say…
This is my Dearing,
She once ran away.
Oh, Darling, my Darling, forever you’ll stay,
Deep in the ice of a cold Winters day.

 


Falling

the walls are filled with pretty things,
bleeding hearts and diamond rings,
tables floating in the air,
and no tea pouring everywhere,
and marmosets with crumpet heads,
and queens that grow in flower beds,
pictures of the world I pass,
reflections of my looking glass,
a single chair rocks all alone,
and still I fall, a tumbling stone,
polished surface clean and slick,
so nothing thrown can ever stick,
and no one holds me as I fall,
I slip away, I hear them call,
and yet the walls grow longer still,
why does it take so long until
I fall onto the ground below,
to watch the tables shrink and grow,
and see the doors that come to play,
and laugh at me and fade away,
as the floor fades into mist,
I spit at them and shake my fist,
but still I fall into the hole
that seems to have no final goal,
except to fall and fall and fall,
and never reach the end at all,
the walls are filled with pretty things,
bleeding hearts and diamond rings,
tables floating in the air,
and no tea pouring everywhere,
and marmosets with crumpet heads,
and queens that grow in flower beds…

 


The Prisoner

the dark is all she ever knew, or all that she remembers,
no shining sun or moonlit night or fires warming embers.
the dark, impenetrable and cold, her carefully measured home,
every inch and scrap of straw a single well-read tome.
the decades and the centuries have passed in endless ebony,
the creaks and shifts of stone and earth a single lonely symphony.
beneath the stone, beneath the ground, beneath the weight of time,
she wonders who and what and where, how horrible the crime,
and whose the hand that placed the seal, and whose eternal enmity,
condemned her to this sea of black, alone with neither lock nor key.


Little Girl Lost

Little girl lost, I fell through a hole,
my sanity serving to pay the toll,
my name they took to serve as well,
and all that’s left is an empty shell.
They call me “girl” and stroke my hair,
they strip my soul and body bare,
they feed me lies and pretty words,
and filter past in nightmare herds,
the faces blurring in my head,
mourners for the not-quite-dead.
my casket is as soft as silk,
my skin they keep as white as milk,
they brush my hair and whisper lies,
they turn their heads, avoid my eyes,
they pose the body carefully,
the pieces that are left of me
perform throughout the endless night,
and then lie still at mornings light,
a battered doll with broken strings,
a bird with torn and shackled wings.