[x]

III. Wild loveWild love

Wild love
Lick the shiver
In your beauty
Lemony bark.
Disturb my senses
Burn my lightning
On your burning flash of lighting
Hurt me in a fury!
Of love on them
Ashes of desire.
Of the excited madness
In the streams of kisses
I drift on your frenzy
Roaring to die from it
It is my body in fury
Which enjoys on your drunkenness
In the corolla of your breast.

VI. PoetryPoetry.

Poetry is the blood
That makes my veins spring
It is the life that escapes
In the big broth of my efforts
It is my way of behaving
To fight the hatred
It is to refuse to undergo
It is my human nature

It is my way to quiver
Words, like some tunes.

It will break its chains
These chains of incoherence
These chains of ignorance
These chains where from freedom
Dance
The emotional
Trances.

Out of our fearful wanderings
The exceptional appears
Fighting mirrors
Flowers of unfaithful rows
Making the immanence spring
Smiling the reality
Far from the artillery which think
Of their subtleties
Impose our pace
Make roar o

V. Poetic hymnPoetic hymn.

While imagination takes shape,
At the bottom of a spirit, creativity,
Sometimes win by its originality,
Or the authenticity of pure feeling,
And touches the poetry of the heart.

With sound words,
About the wealth of the style,
The instinctive hatching of talent,
Made relive the purity of language,
Towards the correctness
where the rhythm harmonizes.

So be free in the expression,
Give to the writing an alchemy,
That touches the silence of a soul.

But under the impulses of moderation,
The shocking dreams are banned,
Such a sepulchre of an illustrious unknown artist,
Where the work dies on

PandoraOnce upon a time
Pandora,
the all-giving goddess,
was denounced and devalued,
reduced to humanity
    a myth invented by
wary, jealous, bitter gods and men
tied to the age of patriarchy.

She is reviled in history
as a hapless harbinger of evil
    for
opening a gift of Zeus,
a prettily painted cursed jar,
(there never was a box)
filled with wickedness.

The strange mysteries the jar contained
swirled and twirled and begged
no longer wishing to be restrained.
Their call was strong,
   her curiosity clear;
she opened the gift from the Olympian.
in a hush heard by eternit

IX. I am a poetI am a poet

    I am a poet
    I do regret,

    Young person without talent,
    Roaming in the wind

    My verses empty
    Themselves of their acid

    My feather sinks
    On a grey ground,

    Earth without ages,
    Roaming in the course of pages.

    I am a poet
    I do regret,

    Young person without talent,
    Roaming in the wind

IV. A wounded birdA wounded bird.

The ocean's sky with long cloudy hair
where October's shadows shiver on him,
Breathes of the North wind,
on an impossible dream
Of a wounded bird who wanted to run away this sad day.

But he is feverish as the light,
he snuggles up
Against a

on rust and hungermarbles roll in my mouth,
gathering lint,
the dryness of disuse.

they clatter behind
my teeth
when I try to speak,
clutter absurdly
when I move my
jaw.

my ribs open,
leaf-like,
along a spine;

I am a creature of hinges and screws.

I am a swell of minerals like hymns.

I am a polite impossibility, a
quiet sacrilege, a
dove's breast from which
delicate, thin lines drip.

RemnantsRemnants

I left my skin into yesterday
For it was weighing me

The salt tenderly licked my nose
As I laid face down in the foam.
I breathed it in, breathed it out
Breathed no more, the tide had gone.
In my mind's world, I wore its scent
Behind my ears, between my breasts;
Its briny smell trailed behind me,
Followed me into my night.

I left my skin into yesterday
For it was weighing me

SophieCT, March 2012
revised 6 March 2013
Day .064.

Simply Beautiful"Mine is a simple life," she told me.
She said it as if stating a fact,
like the sky was blue or the price of milk was too much.
It nearly broke my heart.
Long ago, she'd dreamed of dancing in high heels at the Queen's Ball.
But life had not been so kind.
A real woman in a real world leaving no room for fantasies or dreams of yesteryear,
she worked an everyday job, wore sensible shoes and had calloused on her hands.
She bought candies and the daily from the corner store and roses off the street vender.
She thought she was terribly simple.
I thought she was beautiful.

Catch Me Before I FallCatch me before I fall
But it's too late
For I have already fallen
Hit so hard my body cracked
My heart shattered within
Shutting myself down
Closing up to others
My silence forever kept
Catch me before I fall
But it's too late
My horrors now revealed
You're gone forever
And I'm standing here alone
Lost and foresaken
Catch me before I fall
But it's too late
My visions now hazed
Coldness seeping in
Freezing my internal organs
Lost in time and space
Frozen expressions of sadness
No longer do I exist
Catch me before I fall
But it's too late
For I have already fallen
Hit so hard I died in an instant

MelodyBread and butter pudding rests,
Upon a tattered album,
Memories lay cast aside,
Like lifeless broken limbs.

A world of desecrated harmless dreams,
Has fallen into nightmare,
All violent, hateful, turgid thoughts,
Reveal the scars once bared.

Yell! For none will hear your words,
With what will you destroy,
The darkness massing in your soul,
What method do you employ?

Guarded stalactites of sorrow,
Distractions mask the pain,
An anaesthetic claiming heart,
And with it stealing brain.

Bereft of feeling, hollowed - blank,
Will numbness guide your journey,
Or can you find the strength to fight,
Before you're on the gurney?

Se

chasedo you believe
in stockholm syndrome?
come here
& let me love you-

i'll show you how
it can hurt
to feel so good,

how the dark
greedy hours
turn violence to passion.

come here
& i will turn your eyes
a fledgling green,

show you that
pleasure and pain
are two chambers

of the same heart,
two hearts
of the same being.

do you believe
in capture-bonding?
by the end of the night,
my dear, you will.

Browse More Like This

Download File
HTML, 1.4 KB more ▶

More from ~SerenePoet

XXXVIII. Vivre sans deborder.Vivre sans déborder.

Je suis le souffle du vent

Cela fait plus de vingt ans que je ne respire pas. Que je ne respire plus. Pas un souffle dans ma poitrine, pas une expiration sur les bords de mes lèvres. Pas un son. Pas un mot. Suis-je morte sans le savoir tandis que je traverse la vie ? Quelqu'un s'en est-il aperçu ? Je garde le secret. Je marche au milieu de mes comparses et c'est comme garder un trésor entier, mais nul n'est spectateur, nul ne recherche mon île et les dangers que recèlent mon cœur. Je ne porte pas le vent sacré du premier jour, je ne sauverai pas le noyé au bord de l'eau et je

XXXVII. Variation sur la Lorelei de HEINE.Variation sur la Lorelei de Heinrich Heine

Je ne sais pas ce que veut dire
ce qui m'attriste désormais ;
un conte, un simple souvenir
m'éveille alors que je dormais

L'air est frais, la nuit descend
tandis que coule le vieux Rhin
le sommet d'un mont miroitant
dans le reflet de mon chagrin

La plus belle des jeunes filles
est assise à son sommet
ses cheveux or-merveille brillent
elle les coiffe et vient border

D'une chanson douce sereine
mélodie étrange élégie
qui habite sa voix de sirène
et souffle son vent de magie

Il s'en prend au batelier
qui dirige son esquif
pauvre amour est fou &#

XXXVI. La folie d'une grenouille trepasseeLa folie d'une grenouille trépassée

un bras de vigne flottant
sur l'univers
un essaim de feu
et mille merveilles
aux âmes
galopantes
nervées
une boue
de
soie
brode
les sens
les pannes de vie

l'histoire
ascensionnelle
sur mille voies de vent
mêle le certain
et l'imaginaire
le socle d'une terre endormie
sûre des transports
qui l'uniront
aux songes
des vendanges
flottantes
à l'univers
de feu

chez l'humain
le caractère
ploie souvent
lorsque le fermoir
de son caractère
s'ouvre brûlant
de désir
de contacts
de sève
où l'on se poserait
pour y confi

View Gallery · View Prints

Featured in Groups:

#LooseLacesPoetry
Poetry Feeds Our Souls

#Storytelling-Arts
Let arts tell u a story

#The-Poetry-Cafe
Poetry and Writers Welcome!

#Written-Emotion
All of your emotions in writing

#LuminousVisions

#SimplyGoodPoetry
Poetry is Key

Details

Submitted: November 15, 2011
File Size: 1.4 KB

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 5
Favourites: 18 [who?]
Views: 162 (0 today)
Downloads: 2 (0 today)

[x]

VII. Without daring to say a word.

by ~SerenePoet, Nov 15, 2011, 1:21:45 AM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

Without daring to say a word.

There are fragile words
Which form outlines
Of a vulnerable life.

In the autumn colors
Disturbed by the noise
Of the rain on windows.

At the end of the day, the somber
Reality becomes a burden.

This woman is invaded by anxiety
Her tired spirit, on the alarming
Silence of the language, is slowly
Dying on this kiss of the other one.

He, who believes with his smile
To understand  everything
               by watching at her crying.

He, with his stupid words, he hammers
The commonness with his unsightly facies,
His absent glance in front of her who doubts
In the gust of feelings.

Quiet, he falls asleep,
                      she stares at him
Silently with sadness,
                      without daring to say a word...

VII. Without daring to say a word.by ~SerenePoet

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

Dare.

Chapter 7.

love 4 4

~~joy 0 0~~

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~heavenlytouch Mar 14, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I love this one !

*benjamin-charles Nov 17, 2011 Professional Photographer

As the beautiful woman of the sky faded from a pale blue - she lost her every shimmering sparkle and gave each star to a glinting grain of sand on the rocky shore. Each wave stalking my feet like cascading sheets of beige with fingertips of rose.

In transition she gave her life to the earth, with the eye of the moon watching over her. Her beauty so full that her new body could only rebel with a burning horizon of orange fire.

In this she played, as a child would, drawing diagrams and expressions of the flow of the universe with the orange colored flame and clouds of silk.

This day, with the eye of the moon as whitness, I was given as a gift.

~SerenePoet Nov 22, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

[link]

Inspiration... musings...

More from ~SerenePoet

Featured in Groups:

Details

Statistics

VII. Without daring to say a word.

VII. Without daring to say a word.by ~SerenePoet

The Journal Portal

Polls

What is your preferred drawing software?

deviantART [dee·vee·un'nt·ART]

Keep in Touch!

Deviousness

Add Media

Style