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The Girl with the violet.

Nov. 27th, 2008 | 09:52 pm
mood: pessimisticpessimistic


She lay as innocently,

As the violet in her palm,

Crushed with childish excitement.

It’s soft elegant charm.

Bent and distorted,

Like the Child’s lonely heart,

Colder than a dusted bone,

A poor man’s form of art.

Her silent screams were never heard,

Nor her clawing at the door,

Her soul is still and silent now,

For now and evermore.

Perhaps her life was cut too short,

Like the sharp edged knife,

How her beauty could be measured,

If still full of life.

I guess my morals will never change,

As now the child is dead,

I cannot think of a better way,

For this to be discreetly said.

Her thin dry lips are lilac now,

As her ruby droplets spread,

What cruel intentions had I brewed,

Inside my wicked head.

Her Hair was once so beautiful,

A golden wonder dream,

Now Just a dull matted mess,

With no life it does teem.

It’s those eyes that really get me,

Sending shivers down my spine,

Forever open and to never close,

Forever staring into mine.

But at least the child can rest now,

Upstairs in this room,

Never be cursed with cruel age,

Safe inside this tomb.

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Fairytales are for the weak.

Nov. 27th, 2008 | 08:50 pm
mood: discontentdiscontent

Let me polish your armor, dear sir,
For I have fallen victim to your wicked words,
You can be my knight, and I, your maiden.
At dusk we shall ride the trusted stallion,
Into the dull sunset, along the path of dust.
I shall not wince when your hand grazes my face,
I shall not cry when you break your promises,
Time takes its toll in our love,
My loyalty never rewarded.
At midnight you descend from our place,
With no trace of return in your cold mind,
You bear the heart of another on your chest,
I am too fickle to believe.
Time takes few years to pass,
I bear no smile,
But I wear my broken heart.

Fairytales are for the weak,

Real love is for the naïve,

And your heroes are always traitors.

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The End of the World

Nov. 27th, 2008 | 05:43 pm
location: At home..Summer 2007.
mood: contemplativecontemplative

It’s the end of the world.
But I still hear people laughing,
From the other side of the wall,
I feel myself smile,
After being alone for so long,
It’s nice to hear others voices,
I’m too weak to talk back,
And far to weak to move,
So I lie here and hope they find me.
My lungs rattle,
As I struggle to breathe,
My mind is tired of thinking,
My muscles have seazed up,
And my heart is full of dust.

And after inhaling one more time,
I didn’t realise it would be my last,
But as the air gradually escapes my lungs,
I can’t help but feel relieved,
Like a weight has been lifted.

It suddenly all stops,
The pain drains away,
And all my memories,
Come flooding back,
Even the things I’d long forgotten.
The dark room that I’ve been in,
For a long time now,
Suddenly fills with light,
It’s like I’d always imagined,
And a burst of sudden energy greets me,
And I feel light and free,
A warm feeling surrounds my tired heart,
And I feel happy once more.

But I still hear the people,
So I stop and listen,
They can’t be experiencing the same thing,
It’s then that I realise,
That it’s not the end of the world,
But instead,
The end of mine…

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