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Be Not My Goddess
Let me never say
"I am nothing without you,"
for that would make me nothing altogether,
a hollow creature-
and such a thing can only be a parasite.

Let me never say
"I need you,"
for that is not love.
No man has ever loved opium or heroin,
he despises them even as he craves them.
So I would think of you.

Let me never with shaky countenance and weak bended knee
beg you for anything-
O, let me never grovel!
Let these lips never whisper
"I am not worthy,"
for in saying those words I would make them true.
The Colour Of MidnightShe has a soul the colour of midnight.

Not the midnight you'd expect, not the midnight lit by a golden harvest moon; a midnight the colour of champagne bubbles, of laughter, of comfortable silence. Not a midnight the colour of her hair in the firelight, her soft warmth and the promise of her smile; the colour of sun bleached sepia where memories are tinged by nostalgia, and you can almost see the morning approaching.

Not the black of a hopeless midnight, where you can't see the light. That's the colour of the night where the fog presses in on you, there's claustrophobia in the air and the bitter taste of fear and you feel all alone in the d
SolaceHushed.

Thin air,
A pondering place.

Distant chirping.

A frosted window
Opens its mouth
To welcome in the world.

Hazed-over sky
Nestles in her
Crisply cut
Stratus blankets,
Safe.

Birds preen while they wait
For some child to emerge
From their
Smooth white wombs.

The wooden monoliths
Chip at permafrost with
Their shivering roots;
Branches are undressed.

Low winter sun
And pregnant moon
Share the atmosphere.

Whispering gale.

Mint leaves crawl up
the brick exterior,
Slithering inside through
Cracks in the window panes.
Their spiced wax leaves
Mingle with pages from old poetry books.

There's a loss of blood,
And
I amI am livid and bleeding.

I am seething but you have conveniently deprived me of an outlet.  Instead I dig my nails into the sides of my face as I rock back and forth in poorly suppressed anger and frustration.

My words are impotent and useless.  I want to scream but you have sewn shut my mouth with your arrogance and lack of trust.

I want to strangle you but being that you're already lying in some sterilized bed for attempting to self terminate your own way, I suppose the gesture is moot.

No.  

I changed my mind.  I want to slap you.  Slap you so hard you taste the life in your mouth.
DepressionIn a small room I sit alone
On a chair that's seen better days
No sound but that of my pencil
Looking about at the dreary grey walls
A gloom this desk lamp cannot pierce
Faded pictures from old newspapers and magazines
Enshrining a door that's covered with cobwebs
A fan spins lazily above my head
Blades heavily caked with years of dust
Mirror on the wall staring me down
Reflecting back nothing but that dreary grey
Loneliness fills the room like toxic gas
Permeating the very depths of my soul
I glance back down at the paper
And a question emerges from somewhere within
If I write to make life meaningful
Why do I choose this depr
How to kill a writerInk on a blank sheet, suck dry a body
through the pen sitting between a finger
and an open vein, he won't last longer
than the emptiness written about she.

               Doctor.

Words to enlighten the path leading your
spark to the edge of the world, it's futile
when you're already falling, it's obscure.

               Doctor,
               we're losing him.

Paper to walk on like a white tile
ready to be brok
AbandonedI lay in pieces, scattered across the ground.
I search for help, there is none to be found.
I look to the sky, and let out a great sound.
I scream, I yell, but with no one around,
I lay in pieces, scattered across the ground.
into the sea belowa lock on a door, in a place well-known
the withered-windy-whisper wood, whickered-flickered candlelight
soft illuminations and hints of dazzling-decked, twin-leafed
cardinal vascular canvas.

a musical blend of blue and grey.

--

the lock on a door, in a place well-worn
beneath the melancholy-painted, cerulean-white cliffs
and the tri-pigment, undertone-hued sky
never can meet with its widow-burned key.

singular musical drops unwittingly fly
only to fragment and fall
into the sea below.
Over Three Stories and a Complete DiscordanceThe serious intent of a mirror wakes the world. Of the mirror that makes the world we know very little. Just rumors of an open mouth vibrating up and up to the clouds. So the bright grey cracks the dull grey and something, we'll call it the sun, reaches through and grabs us by the skin.

:::

The members of an invisible happiness swim colors between one another. They cannot tell the difference between windows and mirrors, light coming and light going, places where the light has been. They hold the air with both hands and speak with sounds of trees, their language a lifting flock of hallelujahs.

:::

From beneath tongues, mirrors exhume light
Sick
She laid, a cold sweat over her exposed skin, on a bed she didn't remember making that morning. In fact, the ill girl didn't remember purchasing the bed or painting the walls that soft peach color or putting the linen pillowcases on the pillows she had never laid her head on before.

Therefore, she could only assume that this was not her room. While usually this would be a problem but there was a fever and, although it had just broken, her mind was still muddled. The fever had probably gone due to the cool, barely dampened cloth on her forehead and, as her head turned to look at the bedside table, the half-drank glass of water, vitamins and l
Jacelyn Who Never SmilesJacelyn who never smiles
Suffers through the endless trials
Of a rotting candyland
Crumbling to collapse like sand.

Jacelyn with skin so pale,
Never slips the slightest wail
As she watches dreams so bright
Mottle, rust, and lose their light.

Jacelyn with eyes so dim,
Who did cause your world to spin?
Who brought down their mighty hand:
A father, mother, or a friend?

Jacelyn who sheds no tears,
Why don't you vocalize your fears?
Anything just to forget
The wailing echo of regret.

Jacelyn with heart so bruised,
It hurts to know that you've been used,
Beaten, thrown upon the floor,
Broken, down into the core.

Jacelyn no soul
tracetrace the lines among the shadows
find the path so quickly lost
shattered glass in tinted windows
icy spikes in early frost

trace the knife of indecision
sliced apart and trapped betwixt
hesitant before incision
picture of the nondescript

see the colors mixed together
blood and water mingled down
tangled bundles crudely severed
threads a pain to single out

see the failure so unsightly
mocking all attempt to heal
neon letters burning brightly
blinded by the shame we feel
A Burning PianistA burning piano,
The keys, aflame, the hammers, white hot
An opera is played
A grand crash
A tender cresendo
A ballet on the right
A battle to the left
Guns are singing
Wives are mourning
An infant cries
A siren blares
A city falls
In a burning piano

Enveloped in the song, the hands dance
But his fingers are melting
As the pianist burns
The tempo slows
The pitch falls
The solo is over
The time is up
But he plays on,
The piano is alight
But he plays on
Fingers, burned
Mind, scarred
Soul, gone
But still, he plays on,
On a burning piano,

The end is nearing
And he feels it
So he plays piano,
To pass the time,
Until
GoneStark, leafless trees,
Their towering forms
cast uncherished shadows
long into the chasm.

'Will be remembered',
'In loving memory',
'Forever in our hearts',
Lies;
For what happens when those
Who deceived us,
Are also damned to hell?

None of us can make a lasting mark on this earth,
For even scars fade
And we are gone;
Forgotten.
With those who promised to remember us
Also cast into the pit.

Dead.

In memory at all?
I think not.
ApologeticI shall be eventually broken,
like my veins that stretch
just like tensed strings:
sperando, ritenuto,
rallentando,
lento,
morendo, for
an arrow, an arco,
a petty scissor's blade.
And you, sadistic fiddler,
played that poignant song
that... shall I remember
my life long?

But there's something
I can't remember now.

(Maybe never you did play any melody.)

---

Time's no good excuse.
In fact,
time is no excuse
for you, forever loose.

Your promise is
about to be broken.
You don't seem to care anymore, but
I don't know
if you ever did.

(Because I, too, was running back and forth, too busy to look back.)

Dunno's are no exc
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More from ~UltimateOutlaw

Terror is TrainedIn belly of peace you linger, languish
While I, shell-shocked, war torn, terror trained
Emptied of empathy and hate ingrained
Am haunted by anger, guns, and anguish,
Vengeance and disdain our common language.
As bombs and bullets, a nightly hailstorm rains
Upon empty streets ‘til anarchy reigns,
And thus what was pride becomes a death wish.

Wounds of this country you pretend to bandage
With puppets in place, forgiveness is feigned,
As oilfields work to your greed’s advantage,
Our blood is on your hands, forever stained.

Lie from TV pulpits, “Their future bright,”
Call each untruth a “simple oversight.
MedusaKraken
Heart and harem
Hands. Slither snakes and stone
Glare. Gorgon,  chthonic monster,
Winged
Woman
Of Athena
Envy and exile. Once
Wickedly defiled by ocean
God Zeus.
Villain
From who’s severed
Head grew gentle winged
Pegasus; and from blood, Red Sea
Coral.
Alas;
A mirror, brought
Her both grace and downfall
When held in Perseus’ hand;
His shield.
In a
Word,  she is a
Mask; appended then left
Severed, her body weeping in
Hades.
October RevolutionYou forgive but you don’t forget.

Leningrad, 8 PM from the
Bridge, bodies tumble into the

Swelling waters of the Niva.

Carycin, November 7
Whole families executed.

Warm bathwater brings sharp sting of
Electricity in the tub.

You forgive but you don’t forget,

The dogs braying the courtyard,
Forty below in the gulag.

“Your children will become orphans
Never even to see your graves”

You forgive but you don’t forget
Living through the end of days.
Errors in JudgementEros draws his bow; his golden arrow flies wide.
While the hunted deer blinks, unsurprisingly doe-eyed.
The indiscretion: such poor form, and quite ill-timed.

It will not be the last mistake made, of this kind.

Icarus raises wings of wax in the art of flight
All this youthful folly, underpinnings of his plight,
Arrogance thus ending in his tragic birthright.

It was not the first mistake made, of this kind.

Blame the crooked shaft, or the light of the sun,
And though tragedy results in catharsis for some,
There are errors in judgement that can’t ever be undone.

Mistakes have always been made, since the beginning of time.
The First Poem I Ever WroteImagination

The wind who cries
So loud and clear
Yet whispers softly
Into my ear
Tells me of a place
Not far from here
Where I can go
To quench my fears.
Its not very big
Nor tall nor wide
But inside this place
There’s no reason to hide.
A warm summer mist
Lingers sweetly in the air
For inside this place
All is calm, all is fair.
This place beyond
Your wildest creation
Can only be found
In your imagination.
This Fairytale Ended HereYou are taking out the garbage and I am trying to fetch my cat down out of a tree and we are communicating secretly through gestures.

When I wave hello from across the street it really means that I am watching you and I love the way the rain is playing with your hair and my fingers are quite jealous because they’d love to hover there like those raindrops do.

It means that I am ready to be your damsel and you are indeed my prince of stormy skies and trees climbed to rescue kittens and once-upon-a-times when we kissed on my back porch when I was 12 and you were 16.

We never told anyone about it and it was my first time so maybe that exp

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December 30, 2009
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Winter

:iconultimateoutlaw:

Her cold hands trace the lands spreading pallor;
In their wake, antique lace of crystal ice-
Scrimshaw tracery of pale frost flowers;
Tears a fickle flurry from fragile skies-

But bitter is her wintered breath the wind,
And ghostly the sound of its satin sighs;
Blue-veined deep the frozen lake of her skin;
Her voice a swansong of icicle lies-

Skeletal spine studded with evergreen-
The sheen of her shimmering white-wove veil
Crowned with holly bush and poinsettia leaf;
Her eyes drowning blue, her skin ghostly pale.
:iconultimateoutlaw:
:iconthewrittenrevolution: If this poem could talk it would say:

Sonnets be damned.

I have no need for that last rhyming couplet, thank you very much.

I am perfect exactly the way I am.

But I, personally, wonder... Do I need that last couplet?
Is it less legit without it? Every couplet I try to stick there winds up making the whole piece seem cliched, but I feel like a cheater without it.

And is the imagery overdone?
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:iconleyghan:
*leyghan Dec 15, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Lovely this! wholly and completely from the first line to the last.
Reply
:iconlombregrise:
*lombregrise Dec 13, 2012  Professional Writer
invité ici /feat here : [link] :sun:
Reply
:iconlantern-rose:
*lantern-rose Dec 11, 2012  Professional Writer
Oh this is beautiful! I love how it shifts, "But bitter is her wintered breath the wind, And ghostly the sound of its satin sighs;" Lovely work! :heart:
Reply
:icondailylitdeviations:
=DailyLitDeviations Dec 11, 2012
Your wonderful literary work has been chosen to be featured by =DailyLitDeviations in a news article that can be found here: [link]

Be sure to check out the other artists featured and show your support by :+fav:ing the News Article. Keep writing and keep creating.
Reply
:iconlombregrise:
*lombregrise Dec 11, 2012  Professional Writer
bravo :)
Reply
:iconladyofgaerdon:
=LadyofGaerdon Dec 11, 2012  Professional Writer
This is gorgeous. If you could find a closing couplet I think it would improve it, but it's lovely as is.
Reply
:iconazizriandaoxrak:
=AzizrianDaoXrak Dec 6, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
This is just a friendly note to let you know this lovely piece has been FEATURED! [link]

I'd appreciate it if you stopped by to take a peek at the other pieces and faved the article to support the other artists!
Reply
:iconjamberry-song:
*jamberry-song Jan 21, 2010  Professional General Artist
Quite lovely. Some beautiful imagery and alliteration here.

There are some spelling, punctuation, and grammatical errors that could be cleaned up pretty quickly to get this all perfect and polished. Would you like me to help you with them?
Reply
:iconlacydrawers:
~LACYDRAWERS Jan 20, 2010  Professional Writer
Ahhhh dear Kate...
We are our own harshest critics.
Your sonnet is filled to the brim with imagery and each snippet in its perfect place to make this a sonnet worth reading...:iconhrtplz:
Reply
:iconindigoskyes:
~IndigoSkyes Jan 20, 2010  Hobbyist Writer
:iconthewrittenrevolution:

I loved all the alliteration! And the word "scrimshaw" is awesome. :D
The whole thing reminds me of that fairy tale about the Ice Queen.
Sorry I don't have any better feedback...
Reply
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