Monday, September 21, 2009
Monday : You are a canvas, and he decorates you
with grotesque shades of fresh magnolia red and prussian blue.
Tuesday : One look at the always-honest mirror to see there are
vomited bruises all over your reflection. It never lies.
Wednesday : Someone took your rosy coloured glasses and now you have your own rainbow
black blue black blue black red purple.
Thursday : "I didn't mean it. I'll never do it again. I love you,"
his lips are talking.
"I love beating you. I love possessing you,"
his white knuckles are whispering.
Friday : True beauty is real pain: true pain is real beauty.
(by these standards, you are truly gorgeous)
Saturday : A is for abrasion, B is bump, C is for contusion
The A-b-c of how he loves you.
Sunday : Body Shop, paint job, red rouge.
When exceptional plastic features look ordinary.
The artists canvas be fresh for the next week.
Monday, September 07, 2009
Flowing off a tongue, words seeped in soul contemplation
a thought stored in heart, voiced in constemation;
for meaning, greater than a hollowness in a mute enounce
wrought through by doubt, of why they should so resound.
Spoken in that twisted language known for it's unknowing
captures whispering word, of another's thoughts bestowing
it upon a limited and descriptive, burst in quite verse
there lays a beauty, in truth shyly locked away in time.
For all who may doubt, the winds of thought so brought
despair in one's seeeking for more than sould thought words
a clarity is that said, which comes from heart not head
truth, quiet shouted nouns or verbs, so completely read.
To waste away and forget on one moment's truth and shame
is to face, one more daring and fear filled day to come
for a word to become as closed, within an unspoken soul
is to languish in a void, as one's true thoughts unfold.