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Poet
I am a poet so this is where I'll post most of my sh*t...enjoy...
Sunday Best
Two small little puddles of blue stare at a little girl
Looking in the Sunday mirror
Diamonds fall from those sad eyes
Rubies trickle down her wrist

The shatter resonates as silence envelops her cries
Little reflective bits fall to the floor ripping her Sunday best
The short white dress tears and the little black loafers crunch
She stares empty eyed at the now blank door

Delicate lips pink and rosy grin in a twisted manner
Rubies fall from her fingers as wrist raises to her lips
Dead eyes brought to life as a soft tongue is stained with crimson
Insane laughter fills her head and drips from her tainted smile

Her best Sunday dress is ripped and stained her loafers worn and torn
Still she smiled the same twisted grin as the scars mask the cuts from your eyes
Soon the diamonds hide behind hands of grace, hiding emotion from your stare
Dress is torn from small pale body replaced with cloths of black and neon

Long hair flowing and soft is hacked away with blade and saw
Puddles so blue color her eyes as her form grows strong
Her mind grows sharp, humor perverse and sick
Her lips and hips are those of a heretic and of the insane

She opens the door wide and is greeted by the chilled night
One steel clad boot steps through followed by its pair
The air is crisp and sharp as needles, she walks deeper into the unknown
Turning to the light one last time she sees the small girl in her Sunday best

She sees the bright smile on the girls face, she sees the mask
The white dress kept so clean and nice, she sees how God has left her
Her small frame so fragile and pretty, her face is cracked and mind is sullied
Small pale hands clasped lady like in front of her, she died long ago

The door closes and the dark takes her fully giving her a new name
She laughs once more, insanely and joyous
Closing her eyes she feels herself reborn as something she wants to become
Opening her eyes she sees a mirror with a new reflection and opens the door

She tells her grandmother she doesn't want to go to church
She tells God to make her believe because she refuses to be blind
She is the heretic reborn to her perfect world



This remarkable sometimes incoherent transcript illustrates a phantasmagoria of fear, terror, grief, exaltation and finally breakdown...On voyage 34 I finally met myself coming down an up-staircase, and the encounter was crushing...



 
 
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