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Literature Text
In seeking shadows from a scorching sun,
Whose artificial blazing light
Failed to penetrate the darkness in my heart,
I lay on decomposing, murdered wood.
Hours past upon that bench
Words danced; distorted ballerinas
Colliding in a confused mind.
I saw then behind eyelids closed
The ghost writer of my most beautiful dreams
Who spoke to me between the lines
Of music scores and dusty books;
That spectre adoring none but death.
A phantom that loved with vampiric depth
Immortal though longing for nothingness...
I knew in those stolen moments
-Far from my world of blood stained pages
And endless historic deceptions-
That I would never find him again.
Whose artificial blazing light
Failed to penetrate the darkness in my heart,
I lay on decomposing, murdered wood.
Hours past upon that bench
Words danced; distorted ballerinas
Colliding in a confused mind.
I saw then behind eyelids closed
The ghost writer of my most beautiful dreams
Who spoke to me between the lines
Of music scores and dusty books;
That spectre adoring none but death.
A phantom that loved with vampiric depth
Immortal though longing for nothingness...
I knew in those stolen moments
-Far from my world of blood stained pages
And endless historic deceptions-
That I would never find him again.
Literature
Gothic Wonderland
Gothic Wonderland
(Inspired by The Rasmus and Alice in Wonderland)
Alice worked as a maid servant for a really rich couple
They lived in a grand Victorian mansion
They often had grand balls and dinner parties
Alice would serve the food and drinks
The mansion was full of tall mirrors
Alice was fascinated by them
She sensed there was another world there somewhere
She thought she could see figures moving on the opposite side of the mirror
So she stretched out her hand
And someone grabbed her arm and pulled her through the glass mirror
She was in a dance hall full of people
They were all dressed in black and watching the band on stag
Literature
why i'm scared of ghosts
dear ghost of christmas past,
it's christmastime. christmas eve, to be exact. i can't look outside without seeing the shimmer of the snow, like tiny fireflies etched into each flake. glistening strands of colorful bulbs christen the neighborhood, like they're declaring us worthy of a little light.
i'm shivering like i got caught in a snow bank, and i'm blinking like i'm hoping my eyelashes will tangle together and pull my lids closed.
i was wondering; if dreams are so pretty, why do they shatter like sherry glasses against tile as soon as we open our eyes? maybe they aren'
Literature
Misplaced Nostalgia
She was the kind of girl who always felt that she had a great deal to say, could never quite find the words to say it. Grand, vague ideas and hypnotically hazy sentiments glimmered in the dark, bumping and crashing and blurring together at the edges until they left her hopeless, drained and exhausted from an age-old attempt to etch the stars behind her eyelids into letters to no one.
I was the kind of boy who was effortlessly, horrifically adept at the art of the soapbox. I felt, at the age of thirteen, that after a long and horrifically complex journey I knew what I wanted to be: liked. Talent didn't factor into it, ability wasn't important
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Comments21
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This poem has been featured by ~PoetryToTheMasses after it was suggested by ~blood-red-ribbons.
P2TM is designed to encourage more people to read and write poetry, including song lyrics, through a weekly feature: one main poem, with information about the poem and the poet, and links to two further poems. All these poems are suggested to me by deviants.
Please visit the page and support P2TM by watching, suggesting poems and lyrics, donating and/or spreading the word.
Keep writing!
~PoetryToTheMasses
P2TM is designed to encourage more people to read and write poetry, including song lyrics, through a weekly feature: one main poem, with information about the poem and the poet, and links to two further poems. All these poems are suggested to me by deviants.
Please visit the page and support P2TM by watching, suggesting poems and lyrics, donating and/or spreading the word.
Keep writing!
~PoetryToTheMasses