Forsaking the Song by Thorin-and-Company, literature
Literature
Forsaking the Song
The visage of a love abandoned materializes from the ethereal,
A shimmering veneer of remorse.
Detaching left a wound that no time could heal.
Insurmountable strife preceded this course,
But I embarked selflessly.
The desire to stay, an unrelenting force.
Against the necessity, I dissented helplessly.
Longing, a malignant autophage.
You always left me completed, however breathlessly.
The craving to return to you cannot be gauged,
To once more bequeath my heart and soul; my true love, the stage.
Stygian Efflorescence by Thorin-and-Company, literature
Literature
Stygian Efflorescence
The seed is planted, amongst the ash it lies,
The soil begs for rain.
Quixotic ideal cascades from the skies.
What blooms is no flower, but a haunting mirror of pain.
It flickers with life like fire.
From the core it erupts like hungry flame.
Tendrils break ground, seeping malevolent ire.
Hissing miasma unwinds.
Upon ardor and
requiem it builds its pyre.
To the amaranthine perdition it tethers, fetters, and binds.
The fuel it seeks, proclivity.
The catalyst, ambivalence within the mind.
A spark is lit, growing to undying enmity,
Blazing black with plight.
Fulminant is the sibylline sanity.
The blooming animus transmogrifies day to ni
Forsaking the Song by Thorin-and-Company, literature
Literature
Forsaking the Song
The visage of a love abandoned materializes from the ethereal,
A shimmering veneer of remorse.
Detaching left a wound that no time could heal.
Insurmountable strife preceded this course,
But I embarked selflessly.
The desire to stay, an unrelenting force.
Against the necessity, I dissented helplessly.
Longing, a malignant autophage.
You always left me completed, however breathlessly.
The craving to return to you cannot be gauged,
To once more bequeath my heart and soul; my true love, the stage.
Stygian Efflorescence by Thorin-and-Company, literature
Literature
Stygian Efflorescence
The seed is planted, amongst the ash it lies,
The soil begs for rain.
Quixotic ideal cascades from the skies.
What blooms is no flower, but a haunting mirror of pain.
It flickers with life like fire.
From the core it erupts like hungry flame.
Tendrils break ground, seeping malevolent ire.
Hissing miasma unwinds.
Upon ardor and
requiem it builds its pyre.
To the amaranthine perdition it tethers, fetters, and binds.
The fuel it seeks, proclivity.
The catalyst, ambivalence within the mind.
A spark is lit, growing to undying enmity,
Blazing black with plight.
Fulminant is the sibylline sanity.
The blooming animus transmogrifies day to ni
Pain
You have many deeply, scarring pains
chains
You're trapped, emotionally unavailable
unassailable
Your thoughts of body uglification
salvation
You're too hurt to love or be loved
crushed
Wanting to be needed
pleaded
Outside you cry
dry
Inside your screaming
demeaning
The world seems dark and cold
twofold
Lost in your own abyss
risks
Nowhere to hide from the voices
choices
You just want it all to stop
drop
Alone always you fear
sneer
You believe there is nothing to gain
Pain
on roses and related thorns by toxic--sunrise, literature
Literature
on roses and related thorns
i'm sorry, i'm really not
but it's nice to lie-
trying to pronounce words
you shouldn't even know,
it's lead on the tongue,
trying to work the vowels right
and no, oh no, honey,
you're tripping and trapped
this isn't the best place for you,
we're going two very separate ways
perhaps you should just wait here,
for the next bus to go through,
for someone else to pick up your battered,
broken pieces and try to make something pretty
like stained glass mosaics
from broken beer bottles,
one day you'll be pretty
but not today.)
I’m trying not to let it consume me,
but
it’s 4:05 am, and I’m staring at the ceiling.
Bitterness wets me tongue,
and I lick my parched lips.
Nothing is heard throughout the house except for the soft
hum
of the water heater, doing work nobody sees.
Somewhere in the distance, there’s a car driving down the road,
although I can’t imagine
who in their right mind would be driving at this time.
It’s 4:06 am, now, and I can feel the
beginnings
of a migraine developing on the left side of
my face.
Maybe count backwards from 100?
But it’s too late now – my brain is already running.
I