If I were a dagger,
the murkiness of the moonlight would
reflect,
...
A child's precision
a white paper world, crayon-colored.
Delicate shape, formed by
small, clumsy fingers.
...
Hear the thunder, in cold, dark skies,
temper rising as he curses at nothing and everything.
...
(I)
First note sounds.
flooded silence in this cold, empty city
...
It loomed over them
Menacingly, but also
Temptingly.
Some tried to run
...
In the darkroom
[[filled with fleeting fancies,
desires that you can’t possibly
...
Tentatively, she steps,
Dark blue jeans made darker
by cold, chorine(d) water.
...
Chilled dessert spoon
against cold, sinful sweetness
Vanilla ice-cream,
...
I spent a good three-quarters of my life thinking that I understood poetry when I didn't. To tell the truth, I still don't. But Poetry doesn't always need to be understood. i've changed my penname to the point that no one, no one knows who i am any longer.)
Fakeness
She
The “Angel”
She beckons to you
Her smile is sweet
Like candy floss and caramel
And fluffy purple marshmallows
She flutters
The pure white wings
Hung like a pretty painting
On her back
And the soft breeze
Kisses your cheeks
She beckons again
You rise to your feet
The need to follow her
Is urgent
She smiles again
And vanishes around the corner
Which mysteriously appeared
Out of nowhere
You start to hurry
Fearful of losing her
You trip
Once, Twice, Thrice
But you don’t care
For all you want to do
Is to follow her
You pick yourself up
Ignoring the blood upon your knees
And rush around the corner
There is something around your neck
Something cold
Hard
Biting
A chain
Trapping you
You look up to her
And plead with her to save you
Then only do you notice
That her smile is bitterly fake
And her wings are plastic.
She is holding the chain.