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VioletsRaping the violets my eyes they bled,
Pain deep within a flowery bed.
Story books told of how it should go,
Of all the things one ought to know,
It comes and goes just as quickly, Don't fret.
Fleeting like the spider's net
Hope and sorrow live together,
Blooming in all kinds of weather.
Women sporting false white veils,
Painting blood under the fingernails.
They came and had their time.
Long before and long after mine.
Violets they were once but no longer,
But not a rosy soul bothered to ponder.
Daffodils weak and yellow.
Sad unable to woo their fellow,
Roses cold, plain and harsh,
All the weeds drowned in the marsh.
Daffodils remain untouched.
And all the roses cost too much.
Weeds are a pain to pull,
But a darling violet, easy to fool.
Shy blue faces, a little rain.
Doesn't take much to carry pain.
Willingly blossom for the asking,
Our captors in the sun, basking.
Raped violets no longer wanted,
Empty husks, lonely, haunted.
Forced to give more, but it's
FatherDo not mourn for me father,
I am far better off.
Laying in the grave alone,
Where the hands of the living cannot reach.
Forgive me father,
I do not know what I did.
But I am far better off,
Six feet under, sealed in a vault.
Where not a soul may grab your precious daughter.
Do not cry father,
I am no longer in the garden of Gethsemane.
I have been embalmed,
I am forever free from blame.
Sleep peacefully tonight father,
Your girl will always be close by.
Beneathe a bed of roses,
The body lies,
Though I am not inside.
Live on without me father,
I really will not mind.
Do not cease to live your life,
Simpy because I have ended mine.
UntitledThe lovely sweet sound of a dying man's lament,
And in the cold, black pit of old things,
I had never heard a sound so beautiful.
Inviting and mournful,
Such a low pathetic noise,
It shattered my soul into a thousand pieces.
The scarlet fluid of Devil's tears,
Falling and resting on spider's web.
Dew drops of pain.
A blessed rain to this man,
Whose soul has been lost,
And burned away into the night,
From whence he came from.
His cries sing to me a harmony,
None like I have ever heard in my life.
Striving slow and quiet to end the torture of his own being,
He lays upon the slime of his own misfortunes.
Proceeding to weep silently,
In hushed tones like piano music,
Or softest harpsichord song.
The notes float through my ears,
Gentle pleasing breezes,
But fall silent upon those who turn deafened ears.
Broken bones and skin ,
Grind into the shattered glass of the mind,
That has fallen upon the ground.
For he weeps over that which he has lost.
Such a fragile thing,
Full of color and w
" Maybe "Maybe I would be beautiful,
If I were white and paper thin.
If my lips were red and swollen,
And my face stuck with pins.
Or maybe I would be pretty,
If I went under the knife,
And had my soul removed,
At only half the price.
Maybe I would be lovely,
If my hair was brackish and brown,
And tanned and scabbed all over.
Never mind the skin falling down.
Maybe I would be gorgeous,
If I put lenses in my eyes,
But they are two sizes too small,
And green's not my color.
But to be in pain is better than to be ostracized.
And maybe he would call me,
If my hair was bleached and bright.
And I had plastic in my body,
Never mind not looking quite right.
Maybe I would be beautiful,
If I were anything but me.
Because no one loves a doll's face,
Or golden hair ,or the paler race.
Maybe I would be beautiful,
If I accidentally broke my glasses,
No one loves that four eyed girl,
She sticks out from the masses.
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