From atop the tower, a dove falls

Its outline lost to fervent eye

Passersby, unable to perceive the doomed

And so, without a sound, it dies

White feathers sullied by life’s blood

Seeping from its broken wings

Though on the ground, plain to sight

No man gives thought to such things

For value is not found, you see

In a bird that cannot soar

They’ll curse their lives and their bad luck

And claim that life’s a chore

That bird would beg to differ, though

If only it could breath

But none will notice this wretched dove

With lucid thought lost to great greed

Gold lust makes a fine sentiment

But comes with a heavy fee

For this broken innocent upon the ground

That none will chose to see

This can be read as a suggestion that allowing passionate and rash romantic love to overpower calmer brotherly love can be dangerous and that brotherly love is more valuable and peaceful than romantic love. This reading fits along with biblical texts, as well (there aren’t exactly an abundance of stories about King David seeing his trusted brother that he just “liked as a friend” bathing on the roof and having their wife killed in battle or of Samson just really wanting to play truth or dare at that slumber party with his best guy friends and accidentally spilling the beans about the secret of his strength) and suggests that perhaps this brotherly and familial love is better checked than romantic love and better trusted—similar to how Chaucer depicts Dido’s sister as warning her against her “rash” and disastrous love with Aeneas

I fancied up one of my poems. 

When he spoke of her she was his “woman”

and when she met his eyes, she thought, “My captor.”

She had loved him once,

Irrationally.

Passionately.

In that reckless way

that naivety

flings its glass body

at an immobile stone wall

thinking it can be moved.

But there was no fairy tale concealed inside him.

No tenderness.

Only lust,

consuming, burning, lust

and a desire to possess Control

over a weaker, softer, human.

So she wept when he was out

pumping his “love” into other women.

And she grew to hate the spoon-fed “rules” of her youth

even more than she hated the man.

And the more she hated,

the more it burned her

when his hands roved over her body,

prodding and probing,

and searching for that

sign of life

outside of earth.

And when, at last,

she caught fire

and went up in a blaze of flame

and smoke,

she took one step.

then two

then three

four

five

six

and continued onward.

And eventually,

when she looked back

and she looked forward,

she saw only trees.

Her prison of a house

with its white-washed fence

and flowerbox windows

and  manicured lawn

was Nowhere.

Her husband,

her Master,

her Captor,

was Nowhere.

And, at last,

she laid on hard rock

and rotted leaves

and slept

in peace

and Freedom.

The light was bright.

My back was cold.

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I will not flinch

I will not scream

Of spider webs and stone I dream

Of tombs so chilled and death so dear

A scream from me, you’ll never hear

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I knew this morning would be my last,

the day when my eyes turned to glass

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Inevitable
Regrettable
Who knew my heart was edible?

These scientists
Sick egotists
Who made me their experiment ?
I did not exist
To be this
Plaything

I’m not.

Their.

Plaything.

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There was a slight tremor

in my hands

when I picked up the book

and saw

what you had done.

When I saw

what pages were missing

and what had been glued back in their places,

And I froze

for this was not my History

it was yours

So utterly yours.

And when time began to tick again,

it was as if the book was fire

and I dropped it

and began to run

and retrace my steps

and go Backwards

Backwards

Backwards

Backwards

to find where I’d begun.

But my path wound and wound and wound

until I thought it would snap

(until I thought I would snap)

and I knew there was no going back to find the entrance.

My only hope to escape,

was to finish what I’d started.

I couldn’t exit through the entrance

but I could exit through the exit.

I couldn’t be unborn

But I could die.

I cannot be unborn.

But I can die.

Before we get into this, let me just state that I don’t have any kind of eating disorder but I believe I understand how people get to that state. I’ve been thinking a lot about society and the messages it sends to women and then this poem happened. So yeah. 

Fly

Sometimes, I pretend I have wings,

And I don’t eat because I’ll be weighted down.

Rooted to the ground,

It’s not because I think it makes me pretty.

I look sick.

But sickness is beautiful, isn’t it?

When you see the bones in my gaunt face

And my cheeks are hollow

Hollow like a bird’s bones

Those birds can fly.

So I’ll starve,

Until I soar.

Sore,

And unaware of my surroundings.

I’ll starve so I’ll have wings.

And dream of the day

When the scale tells me I’m light enough to fly.

When I won’t have to swing to pretend,

The parents and their children

Won’t ask me why I’m on their playground

Because I’ll fly on my own.

Bones

And Skin

And hollowness.

My hunger will be satiated by satisfaction.

When I look in the mirror,

And I’m gaunt enough to fly. 

The sun only just peered over the hilltop, as Iris trekked his way, dutifully, to his destination. The man had been wandering about for two days now, visiting homes as his father had ordered.  He was seventeen now, and it was high time he learned just what kind of work a nobleman was expected to perform.

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(Here’s a little something I wrote. :] )

A stumble, a trip and her delicate body was broken. Her mentality, already frail was shattered into one million irretrievable pieces.  It wasn’t as if nothing mattered, but it wasn’t as if anything did. Their filthy hands and downcast eyes were not what she desired, but they were what she received. Filthy hands touching her shoulders, a crumbling sense of comfort that was not comfort at all. 

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“It was art!”
they cried!
But I knew their words were false,
And I’d never see they day,
When they havoc they had wreaked,
Would be beautiful.
“Art and beauty are not one!”
they cried.
Art and cruelty, aren’t mutually exclusive!
“They lie!” I shout.
And feel a horror,
Like I have never felt before,
course through my veins.
They’ve injected a poison under my skin.
And I feel it burn beneath the layers of flesh,
as it flows to a place
No Man,
Alone,
Could ever Reach. 
But perhaps ten, or twenty,
With efforts combined,
Could sear their way through my hide
And grasp the core, I never thought
a Mortal Soul would touch.
This plight makes me all too cynical.
And their “art,”
Has drained the last essence of vitality from my soul,
My heart,
My mind, 
And most concrete of all,
My body. 
I do not believe in beauty any longer.
It does not lie in my path of sight.
And most of all,
I no longer believe in art.

Electricity coursed through my veins

And burned me from the inside out

Within my skin, I felt its pain

And so I took a numbing route

And kept myself from the sea

Away from water and ill thoughts

Then climbed my way up wicked rock

To a place the lightening couldn’t shock

So high up, where I could mock

Thoughts I’d once kept under lock.

So, it’s funny now, when I look back

From beneath the shade of tall tall trees

It’s funny for the sky is black

And about me roars a storm, you see?

It’s amusing for my safe haven,

If you can call it that,

Has put me in harm’s way again,

And I can only laugh.

It’s amusing for my sweet safety,

Is Hazard reincarnate

Yes, I laugh because it’s dangerous

I’m danger’s little harlot

What I once feared

I now embrace

I move with haste

To a place the lightening

May just strike…

I find it right

To breath it’s light

Into every pour.

My very essence.

I find it right

To feel the bite,

Of this entity.

I could not

Fight.