This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.Throb, throb, throb,With the weight of liquid lead oceansThumping against theLeague-thick wallsOf iron and stone whereCaverns of viscous bloodSeeps and pumps intoEmpty sockets of spikey stitchingAnd all I know isPain,Pain,PainAnd the sweltering molten hot ice ofAgonising ache.Throb, throb, throb,With the weight of the planetsIn...
I catch my gazeIn silvered glassWatching who I seeI tilt my headFrom side to sideMaking sure it’s meIs there beauty?Hard to sayI know the face so wellReach my handTo one outstretchedFlesh meets solid coolOlive skinDark curly hairToned figure, real hipsEyes of chocolate brownDark browsFurther down, full lipsSeeing (my own?) image thereBoth blessed and lately cursedWanting to believe And yetDon’t mirrors show reverse?
Hey, you. Yeah, you. What are you just Standing around for? Going to work you say. Well that certainly is boring. Now isn't it. What do you want To do instead? Start a band? Oh, and open a business? Wow, you have Goals Then go do them. Why can't you? Because you're afraid? So, who cares? They are not you Do what you want Don't do what they always tell you to do. Alright then. So, you're going then? Ok, goodbye for now....
Light hitting her face on the glass, This little mirror showing one lass. The ugly duckling not near a swan. Nothing you would lay hands on. What she views she hates, For she is the one cursed with this face. If you were to see, to cast an eye, would you mutter bye before saying hi. For in this mirror I look, looking at the tattered cover of my book. Not interesting, a bit of a bore, pages ripped out and thrown on t...
Your face like broken smiles Keep me awake. I search All the hidden mirrors For your immaculate torso. Smells in the kitchen-gardenResolve into memories,Water-spouts here and thereWork out a romantic alphabet..
