synthetic oil penetrates the air, licking my skin with a thick, slick sludge destined to stick for days eternal. the smog doesn't listen to the cries from my chest, the constant clawing up my throat, the taste of a metallic lifesaver coating my tongue. the smiles don't shine in the artificial light but merely numb, chill to a freeze until the next emotion steals the spotlight.
the stray cat starves in the alleyway three blocks down while the shivering beagle is forever lonely on the neglected florist doorstep where the flowers are fake and the hearts made of steel.
remember when you fell on the frozen great state lake, he offered you his gloved hand. but you pulled him right back down, and beneath the light-hearted laughter and lustful newlywed looks, a crack amplifies across the valley in a series of eternal echoes enveloping you with a searing cold embrace, penetrating your pride with a stab to the chest, ripping your throat and mangling your lungs to shreds.
(you never felt so alive.)
when the hair straightener soars across the sea of scattered socks and shirts, there is a shatter of breaking glass, an empty shell, a gaping chasm filled with foreign raindrops bitter to the taste and warm to the touch. shards of glass pierce layers of skin and the blood seeps into stains and streams like a grotesquely voracious portrait of edvard munch enlightenment.
(you only live for one.)
the mouse scatters, always runs, forever fearful for his fate as you chase him blindly, led simply by your hunger for more. down the corridor, around the bend, through the brush-- bang. bang. bang.
silence.
glee.
and there in your fifty-year-old house, where the wallpaper peels and the cigarette smoke lingers, the ghost you once knew is forever leashed and tethered to your truth as a trophy for your greatest masterpiece yet.
When the crowd raged outside my office window, when the protestors jeered as I walked to my chauffeured car, I did not hear a single thing. My ears thwarted their remarks, my mind remained focused on my mission. It is not humility that gives me confidence, that motivates me to achieve greatness. Is it bad to want greatness? I can see my talents, I can recognize my skill, does that make me a demon?
When the headlines aim to dethrone me, call me selfish simply for being rich, for achieving the dreams that they could not, I do not listen. They do not know. I don't want them to know. Ignorance does not aim to understand. But I do. This is my empire which I so rightfully claim as my own and simply wish to make it grow. No one should live in the poverty I once knew. I might have clawed out of the gutter myself-- the dirt still sticks beneath my fingernails-- but I am not done. I will not rest until those very people drink clean water fit for kings, wear clothes better than stitched up rags, read books still bound to their spines. And this is how I will do it. I will not bow to ignorance. I will not let them shake me. I have my mission. I will complete it. I will not let them win. I will not let humility hold me back.
You consider pride a sin? Then I am proud to be a sinner.
It happens in an instant. You're dreading the monotonous work day ahead of you, the hopeless future that you found yourself in, wondering if there's truly nothing more to achieve in life. It takes a single fleeting moment when you least expect it. In the early hours of the morning when the sun is still asleep, the streetlamps illuminate the streets while the surrounding headlights blind you through your mirrors. It only needs a moment. You can see the sleet fall upon your windshield, the salty snow stubbornly sticking beneath your wipers, and your eyes strain so severely as if the daggers digging into your skull will scare it away. It requires but a wink in time. A single ice patch. Your tires lose their grip, your car swerves left spins right, and you arc an entire 180 on the icy highway. It's that split second you realize, as you feel the wall closing in on you, the faces of the ones you love flash across your mind, the dreams you had forgotten over the years, your heart seeming to stop as you face the driver behind you in a direction that wasn't meant to be-- everything distracting you from your toil-- that's when you realize you don't want to die.
You've no idea how much that means to me, Ten. Thank you!
6. Nature's Palette
It was the red cherry lips which beckoned my heart and the tangerine sunset hugging your silhouette as your amber locks flowing, while my desires impart, in the meadow breeze embracing our emerald duet.
When I bend on one knee with your aquamarine and slip it onto your hand of cerulean beads, your indigo-specked eyes sparkle as that of a queen or the lone lavender rose in a sea of bowing weeds.
You twirl in delight and your blush dress swells before you stop to grip my magenta silk tie and kiss me tenderly beneath the golden bells of the silver-laced clouds in the decaying sky.
The midnight stag yearns for his rare ivory doe against nature's pure palette of the radiant rainbow.
I say, consider yourself lucky admiring the unseeable Neptune in perfect opposition through your natural scope on this libra night while I follow the tail of the Ursa Major, the gleaming constellation forever present on my side. Truly, however, consider yourself lucky after uttering "it" at the table, having lost your bets one roll after another and pulling out this unlikely win, that your Russian father is only one international call away. Best hope the lucky gods don't abandon you this libra night, whatever day of the week it is-- pick your favorite-- because your fate is sealed. You will clearly die happy with your winnings for surely the game was worth it to you. Certainly, consider yourself lucky for which is a worse fate? The beheadings listed in the Tower of London, fortunately-few deaths finished quickly, grotesquely, or the cumbersome battle between July and September, a duel neverending in the calendar's civil war. Truly, I tell you, consider yourself lucky if you can successfully escape the unsolvable bridges of Königsberg 'cause as long as the rainbow remains as vivid and the musical scale remains as diverse so shall I find you and seal your fate for despite you cheating me of my winning gamble, I will get my prime prize in the end. Consider myself lucky.
It doesn't take long to get there. Only five minutes or so. Just go down the road about 2.3 miles, take a left at the Pure Passion Shop, and continue another five. About two minutes more you'll take a right at the Devotion Cafe on Little Love Lane. There's a church wedding on your left but don't worry about that because there in front of you will be the dreaded Destiny Roundabout. Your brain is crammed with calculus computations as you calculate your journey forward, but once you make your daring leap into the circle, take a right-- your other right-- on Four Minute Street to Desire City Museum. But don't stop there, as lovely as the picture may be, for the traffic light before it will direct you to the left. Go on further for another seven minutes more, you'll come to a sign-- an arrow pointing one way-- to the rushing cars on highway 41. Only 12 minutes more at top speed and take exit 62 to My Lover's Heart, merge onto Heaven's Way and trek forward a bit more. In 3.2 miles, check the tiny felt box in your jacket 'cause your destination will be on the left.
we meet again, dear sister, for another round of fate. your rook charges straight ahead, your pawns move one step at a time-- but where do your troops head?
there's a scheme unfolding in that blonde head of yours, your flyaways more manic than before, yet i see it in your eyes-- those cunning gray-blue eyes-- that this is our final game. you will finally kill the king after so many admirable attempts.
you even used a bishop, with his evasive clerical skills, and took out my knight in a flash of holy fire. but I find this funny-- an ironic twist of fate, for you hate knights. i have won more games with a single knight than any other unit, but you finally took my lover down.
there's a strategy clearly visible to me through every move you make, so don't be surprised when you fail to quiet this queen in a fatal attempt to check and your king is assassinated with a forgotten pawn lying dormant behind your borders. our final round of fate, dear sister. checkmate.
**Rated: For minor language. I think I need to do this? I don't know.
10. Sing Me the Lullaby of My Enemies
Sing me the lullaby of my enemies, what helps them sleep at night. Perhaps it can help me too-- quiet my raging mind and twitchy trigger fingers. They laugh so gayly over the roaring raucous, cling their wine glasses several times over, lounge on their loveseats with a calming Sinatra track, while they watch from their balcony the city skyline burn.
Flickering embers fly from the fumes, the smoke coils into the silent smog sky, as the echoing cries of agonizing fear bid their loved ones a last goodbye.
Dance the waltz of my frivolous foes, what prevents the blisters on their feet. Maybe there's a secret-- soothe the searing skin, and my clicking tempered tongue. They feast so much on meat and cheese, talk shit about their wives and kids, but never did they expect the torturous ticking countdown while they bang on locked doors as their empires burn.
Flickering embers fly from the fumes, the smoke coils into the screaming sky, as the agonizing cries of their echoing fear rot away in the fire of my eye.
I like all of these - like Ten said, you've got excellently vivid imagery. I think the metaphor in Exit 62 to My Lover's Heart is particularly creative and fun!
"The fact is, I don't know where my ideas come from. Nor does any writer. The only real answer is to drink way too much coffee and buy yourself a desk that doesn't collapse when you beat your head against it." --Douglas Adams
Thanks, Cadi!! <3 It means so much to me. It is noticeable, though, how much of a crutch imagery is for me. That particular poem was definitely just fun to write. I don't think anything more could have come out of that idea, but it was a blast!
12. The Tale of Sparklebutt and Newt
There once was a unicorn named Newt whose mane matched his colorful lute. He sang us a song, and we went along, though we wished that his noises were mute.
Nearby lounged a midnight pegasus mare with demon-flame eyes and manic coarse hair. Though outcast she was from the party abuzz, dear Sparklebutt sang along with no care.
'Cross the gold meadow did her pleasant voice carry and tickled our ears like the dust of a fairy. Enchanted, in love, she sang like a dove and captured Newt's heart in a flurry.
Newt chased the sweet tune with a swift rainbow dash, his lute on his back and food in his stash. We followed him too over Butterhill Blue and through Wine River Red with a splash.
As we approached the edge of the meadow, where the scariest things live banished in shadow, we stopped in our tracks like domino smacks while dumb Newt kept on running aglow.
Through darkest night and past critters abound, dear Newt found the sweet source of the sound. A beauty in sight with fire eyes alight, Newt begged the demon horse to come 'round.
Honored was she that he'd risk his life here and not shy away or laugh or, worse, jeer. Accompany, did she, with a certain fearful glee, back home with a flaming sparkle tear.
Together they sang with the rest of us too, a family bond repaired like it's new. Despite what they say, you're special in some way. Stay strong, and your light will shine through.
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