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Cinderella
Waiting for a coach
and four
that never came,
she realized
a ball gown
won't bloom
out of sackloth;
glass slippers
are not dependable
and mice
are best left
to their own devices.
Midnight was never a friend,
and under that suit
he is the same as any other
man.
IcarusSun girl,

the whispering stars
& feathered clouds dance
for you tonight.

Do not let anyone
clip your wings;

you were made for the skies.
Definition of a Writerwrit•er

noun     /rītər/

A writer is a person
Who sees the world differently
From a high perspective of understanding
To an easily balanced imagery

They stand at the edge of the cliff
And run that extra mile
To gain what a normal person cannot see
And to obtain the hope that they wish to cherish

A writer is a person
Who buries their ego and places boulders upon it
They learn the rules, follow the rules, and will break the rules
And make writing their own

They lay upon the dusty old ground of a graveyard
And do an annual ritual to free the inspiration that has been pinned down
They want to show their abnormality to everyone
Red DressDon’t put on your red dress
for he doesn’t know the meaning
he doesn’t want the commitment
he doesn’t care for the color.

The red dress you love to wear
that’s stained from wine and beer
but still carries so much meaning
for who could find a second red dress

Don’t go out on your red dress
for the man who wants nothing more
to screw around and doesn’t understand
the meaning behind a simple red dress.

A red dress for when you dance.
A red dress for when you cry.
A red dress for when you need it.
A red dress for when you care too much.

Don’t put on your red dress for him darling
he doesn&rsqu
For every boy I ever kissedi.

you took my hand 'neath the magnolia
at a christmas dinner party I held.
your mouth was cold. so were my affections.

ii.

you were the first man to listen to me.
i let you listen to my heartbeat; but
when the day fell away, you bruised me deep.

iii.

you were my safe harbour, and i your storm
turning your misery to naught but air
but i squirmed away from your tongue, repulsed.

iv.

you were my cradle, when i couldn't sleep
you would hold me close and pray for something,
anything, to keep me safe. (it was you).

v.

eleven months spent sleeping with my phone,
i still couldn't believe when you kissed me
even after midnight struck us agai
moonshines in georgiaman on the moon:

giddy with lumps of north georgia seas
greased on the crease of my lips
gravity drips from couch-cavities
when tides belch from below --

burst on the water's edge,
earth's bourbon sailors retch in moonshined ripples
trickled blue murder on their crinkled crimes;
raking water wrinkles like a wayward drunk
stuck on sunken bootleggin' dreams.

it's been a long, long time
since I've drowned your hemisphere
for fishing like a moonraker,
swishing my bait-lines like tobacco's
squished in your shallow gums
before you dare to down my air
breathing in this sincere georgia night.
Broken Birds and Stark PhrasesWe slip and slide and fall
down curves and carrow places.
We cursive at the wall
in our undefinéd spaces.

Disjointed limbs extend
to strumpet our arrival,
to warn who are not friends
we will kill to survive all.

Hung upside-down haunters
hug branches in the Forrest.
Merry nightmare monsters,
Cheery snarling chorus,

Arachnic children know;
you can run but you can't hide
from this disparic truth,
darkness waits for you inside.

Although you seek the sun,
as all creaky spinsters might,
the night can't be out done
and it has you in its sight.
L.E.S.B.I.A.N.Living on the
Edge of life
Saving myself
Being who
I truly am
As it is all i can be
Never forget that
Missing piecesMissing pieces

There are wounds
that never heal; silences
so loud they  thunder - I stopped
breathing years ago, that night
the ice took my chest. Since then
I walk  in pieces, howling
around my heart.

-SophieCT, 2012, 2013
field notesi read some poetry
just for the sound--for the words lilting up and down
and the thick, honeysepia
polaroids unmisting in my head.
those are the poems i never understand
and the only conclusion i can draw is:
there is apparently
some supernova poetic awakening that comes
with the loss of virginity
and basically i need to get laid.
Blame The ParentsI won't be able to keep a relationship in the future because I'm scared
I'm scared it'll turn out like theirs

I'm a pacifist because I hate watching it
I hate watching them fight

I have PTSD because of their fights
Their fights almost broke up this family

I self harm because they are pushing me over the edge
I was already close to jumping, but they gave me an extra push

I'm always in my room because that's how I run away
I guess that's called "Like father, like daughter"

I only eat one meal a day because he constantly puts me down
Even though he's joking, I can tell he means every bit of what he says

I can't trust anyone because they do
The PoetFor the work of a Poet to be truly appreciated
he must write it with his own blood and tears for ink
his soul the sharpened quill to nail the words
like so many specimen of unwilling insects upon the paper.

And once he has bled out
becoming the cause of his own demise
the reader is left behind to digest his soul
so plainly trapped within a cage of words
his requiem written as a love song to his Muse.
MorningA black cat sleeps in a ray of sun
My coffee is lousy
Another cardboard morning
The day isn't a blank canvas
Waiting to be painted
Its already scrawled with
Yesterday's mad crayon drawings

Smoke drifts up and out of the window
I drink the coffee
van houten must be godi. you know how in embroidered cloth,
from the bottom under the design,
all you see are knots? her honey-like,
crying
voice lulls me to sleep,
that's what we see of God's plan.
just the knots. when in reality,
it's the design on top;
beautiful and flawless that He
has in store for us.
bullshit.
i learnt that word
when i was three
but every time i said it,
my face hurt and mom's hand fell.
God will put you
in hell.
do you want that?
i knew better than to say it again.
ii. you're an estimated
fallacy, the perfect
misconception.
you don't need to exist
for people to believe.
they make you real with
dancing tongues behind
a crowd
of murmuring lips of
god's will.
iii. of the rain,
i sang songs, whispering
prayers only you
could hear.
if you truly are
what they say for you to be,
then there are no secrets
between you and me.
mother still sings
the same songs
in the rain, hoping
you'll hear her the way
i thought you would.
but she doesn't know you died long ago
with chiv
thieves of nocturne skiesPaper lanterns                                                                                            are midnight requiems
            That tell me                                                                            to look beyond the
                   light and have    &
Browse More Like This

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Ceasar's Angel Picture this my love. The white concrete rises up to meet your hightop black converse as you sprint down the sidewalk in the snow. The bitter wind blows the hair back from your face. Your heart is beating so hard in your throat that you feel it might explode. You pass alley after alley, until you finally find one that is particularly dark and threatening. You stop, standing at the entrance contemplating the wisdom, wrestling with your better judgement. You hear a cry somewhere back and do not wait to see what it is, but dive into the alley, skidding to a stop behind a dumpster. Your wrists burn as you trace your fingers down the thin red str
Brain Freeze Picture this my Love. You are in a dirty street, alone. There are no people, no cars. It is snowing, and the cold is devouring your exposed hands and nose.The sky is plagued with a massive sea of small white flakes. There is no moon on this night. It is dark, so dark in this street. You can no longer bear the cold as in sneaks into your stomach and forces itself into every muscle, every bone, every capillary in your skeletal body. A light is turned on across the street and you cross to see it. There you stand, in the small box of yellow light that pours onto the dirty, gray snow from the closed window before you. You press closer to the glas
BloodlustPicture this my love. A black room, not for pictures, but a room of entirely black.  It is poorly lit, by a golden chandelier. There is a dark wood table in the middle to the left of you. Straight in front of you is a red chase lounge with a dark wood base that matches the table. On the lounge lies a young woman. She is not beautiful, she is beauty. She is wearing skinny jeans and a black shirt, and this with her hightop black converse makes her seem out of place in the elegant room. There is something off about her, that makes her enticing and frightening at the same time. You begin to think it is her eyes, and the way they seem to coax out

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My Monument

:icontwistedscript:

I am staring at a wall.
A blank, empty, barren wall.
There are cracks in it.
The white paint is chipping.
The spray can in my hand is cool,
and it cry's rebellion.
I hold my breath and stare at this,
this wall,
and wonder what to write on its
frayed
beaten
surface.
Truth?
No. As soon as the word is written it becomes a lie.
Love?
No, to etch it on yet another lifeless surface would only furthur mar it's meaning.
Forever?
No. For then the wall would be sure to crumble with time.
Remember?
No. I need to forget it all.
I stare at this wall.
This
Blank
Wall.
But it's not really blank, is it?
The chipped pait that leaves the
unblemished stone visible
bleeds truth.
The tiny, hopeless flower
that struggles to peak through the cracks
shouts "love."
The violent
whirring-honking-twistin-blinking-flashin storm
that crashes against this wall
every
single
day
Moans out "forever."
and the spiderweb cracks
that sprawl across the lonely walls face
humbly challenge, "remember."
I am staring at a wall.
A blank, barren, empty wall.
The spray can in my hand is cold.
As the subway shakes the forgotten monument,
I turn
and walk away.
My work is done.
My mark has been made.
On that wall,
If you look
very closely,
you will notice,
in tiny, black letters,
my single word.

122

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:icontwistedscript:

My Monumentby ~twistedscript

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©2011-2013 ~twistedscript
Category: Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

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August 17, 2011
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