A Rose; From the Black Petal Man’s Garden Ho, now, thru and true, I stop thee, fair maid, on whateverthoust may descend upon thee that would have you rushing at this late hour; and thru my fields no less. Pray not thee warrant a fear, for what else could fields be made for if not for trampling about. … Pardon me, your Grace, but it would seem upon fair look of thee I recant my previous abrasion and see now to give you the proper respect you deserve. So fine a Lass could only flee in such tumultuous haste and fury if she were being pursued by foul wickedness of Ideals or the corruption that spawns in all our Kind. Pray that we not see corruptions sludge on one of the Kindred, for we may have to slay both an ideology and a friend. Nevertheless, my dear lady these moments are but common concern to our kind, as I recognize thee as a thing of beauty, regardless your haste. Pray, let me offer you refuge in my hidden home, it would be of most taking to a Lady of your stature, I assure
Shackled to a song Not even a Symphony Watching my mind soak in the notes Which I drown in fermented beverage For how else can I choke this verse Of all the plagues it has unleashed It is not done so that I can sing But to show that another song can be sung Yet if I must Sing I shall rise to the pulpit and conduct A hymn of pure silence Until I am inspired by my audience Waiting for this inspiration I shall hold my nations flag And let the cold winds of a Country bear down And grant mute audience to my Harmony Had us a laudable purpose I would have already been singing But as majesty would prevail I find myself enjoying the Darkness And watching all the trash Crumble away Like Kidney stones none of us need.
So there upon the precipice A forlorn shadow Bereft of natural warmth Yet kindled with a fire unnatural To them that the story knoweth Can but piece the fragments of an epoch. Yet they who dare to grasp within their palm sure knowledge Find themselves strangling thorns. The wayward flock that has been led by malice Can do naught but flail about the truly present madness. Made only so by the Dead architect, Who neither knowing Design or Purpose, Cast the entirety of our species into Darkness, For no better reason than to possess coin and rod. Truly, a man can fault not the desires of our forefathers. To instill order, so that hope blooms. To propose purpose, so that civilizations may prosper. To invoke the yolk, so that progress can be relished. These are worthy goals. Yet how flawed in their execution. For none have, until now, risen to steer the reins to newly fashioned demise; None have dared to cry out: “Look out ahead!” We took our favor in giving thanks to our guiding
How can we admire a clipped Rose? It is not that she is removed from the earth of her birth, Or from her sisters and mothers that cultivated her. But rather that, in an abrasive gesture, we admire her without her thorns. What are we teaching our Daughters? That we live in a world where submission is held in the regard of womanhood? And that as natural creatures, they should be culled of their natural design? And be kept in manners that would illicit their silence? Just as ours has been evoked by absence of testimony to this regard. I would not have our Roses clipped. I would have them bear their thorns. For I believe they have them, So that each Rose can grow separate and apart among the bush. And so that each Rose, in this fashion, grows unique and pleasing. And in consequence the entire bush is reaped of singular sights. With each stem growing so as not to harm its sisters. And each stem being insured in this regard that it will receive its full batch of luminous Sun. And be
And there upon the bow of a battered ship, A crest of ancient man, silent, immutable. Bearing all who gaze into its eyes to a shore of a forgotten world. A Land reap with treasure for scholar and warrior alike. The first who made landfall, an ascended shadow of themselves. Wracked with horror at the simplicity of Natures course, They now find Her as terrifying as the stoic Universe, Who could now only be said to be crafted by an Artisan. A device of resplendent precision, that echoes from itself the speech of but a mirror. Placed in the blackest of Abyss, Yet in that darkness, born a light, That reverberates a Hymn that is only heard once the choir is assembled. And here, today, breeching the Hallowed Halls of the internal Mind, Was loosed upon the world a discovery so foul. Yet only made so by the sheer blindness of our race. That should our tension be our only condemnation, we are fortunate. For here before this verdant void, we afford us an opportunity. To meet the challenge of
Memories of Freedom (Poetry) by ChelseaStawicki, literature
Literature
Memories of Freedom (Poetry)
Across the winter sky it became from blue to gray, As the snowflakes has fallen down you beg to stay, The air feels cold against your skin when you pray, A sense of peace when you close your eyes and wander astray. At least tell me if I can be like a cloud, To create art in the sky and away from the crowd, Not that I am screaming out loud. We dream about flying and waited so long to find our wings, Each star in space is like a dream in a diamond ring, I am not looking for a king, At least I want to sing. When you open your eyes do they gleam or sparkle? Dancing above the ocean waves spinning around in a circle, Do you ask yourself if you ever wanted to be mortal? What are the problems of being a human when they don’t have their own wings? Do they bring? Or do they cling? No one knows how hard it is to be a simple angel on earth, Even when we give it our worth, There is something deeper than the soul to find how much it is known to be a hearth. Every human goes dark, To lose that
As a child I thought the monster was under my bed Only coming up in my nightmares as I fall asleep Waking up, feeling safe, after all I wasn’t dead Monsters weren’t real, no need to weep As a teen I thought the monster was me I was taught to bottle everything, don’t feel That’s just the way we were, everyone would agree Teens are bad and brood, adults just can’t deal As an adult I learned that monsters are everywhere They are all around us but put on a fake face They make you doubt yourself, “it wasn’t me, I swear” They make you feel so small so they can keep you in place
We’ve traveled so much together Made our way We’ve explored the world together I miss my hand in yours How long? How long did you hide a match? How long? Behind my back? The sturdiest of bridges We would always be together One match One match was all it took You dropped it quickly And the bridge began to burn I wanted to scream You ran away I wanted to cry You ran away I wanted to leave Yet I stayed on the burning bridge Soon falling into the dark waters below I want the rolling waves to take me I can’t fight the current To tired to even try Yet I survive Wash ashore Weak and weary I slowly try to make it back The bridge is burned But not fully gone I see you on the other side You have regrets I don’t care You outstretch your hand What do you want? There’s no going back It’s my turn to walk away Burn what’s left
You are the garden incarnate Every rose an extension of your beauty Every thorn a expression of your cruelty Above the surface you are warm and inviting Above the surface you All of you Under the surface me All of me Under the surface I’m dying the death of a thousand cuts
Like a machine They just come out Looking you dead in the eyes On repeat, on repeat My mind a computer Built for deception Tongue tied, the lies comes out Do I even know the truth? Like a machine They just come out On repeat, on repeat Automated answering machine Spilling false promises Tongue tied, the lies come out Scared of the reaction I will get You don’t deserve this, I know You’ll accept me, I know But the words come out before my mind catches up Why do I even try they always come out You wont forgive, I know You’ll hate me, I know Like a machine They just come out On repeat, always on repeat A stamping machine Punching holes into my integrity Tongue tied, the lies come out Tongue tied, the lies come out Like a machine Built for the death of truth