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Cinderella
Waiting for a coach
and four
that never came,
she realized
a ball gown
won't bloom
out of sackloth;
glass slippers
are not dependable
and mice
are best left
to their own devices.
Midnight was never a friend,
and under that suit
he is the same as any other
man.
IcarusSun girl,

the whispering stars
& feathered clouds dance
for you tonight.

Do not let anyone
clip your wings;

you were made for the skies.
Definition of a Writerwrit•er

noun     /rītər/

A writer is a person
Who sees the world differently
From a high perspective of understanding
To an easily balanced imagery

They stand at the edge of the cliff
And run that extra mile
To gain what a normal person cannot see
And to obtain the hope that they wish to cherish

A writer is a person
Who buries their ego and places boulders upon it
They learn the rules, follow the rules, and will break the rules
And make writing their own

They lay upon the dusty old ground of a graveyard
And do an annual ritual to free the inspiration that has been pinned down
They want to show their abnormality to everyone
Red DressDon’t put on your red dress
for he doesn’t know the meaning
he doesn’t want the commitment
he doesn’t care for the color.

The red dress you love to wear
that’s stained from wine and beer
but still carries so much meaning
for who could find a second red dress

Don’t go out on your red dress
for the man who wants nothing more
to screw around and doesn’t understand
the meaning behind a simple red dress.

A red dress for when you dance.
A red dress for when you cry.
A red dress for when you need it.
A red dress for when you care too much.

Don’t put on your red dress for him darling
he doesn&rsqu
i got flowers oncei am lonely.
i received flowers once
and i placed them
in a vase til
the petals all browned
desiccated
and turned to dust
on the glass of my bureau.

i have never gotten flowers since.

i spend my days
with a boy
a man
whom i love far beyond reason
and he holds me in his arms
and holds me together.

i bite my nails
and pull my hair
over the moment when he
inevitably
feels the disenchantment
fall over his body,
all clean lines
and smooth shapes,
and realises that leaving
the worst thing
would be
the best thing.

i am lonely
and even with a hand to hold,
and even with a cloak of security
bunching around my shoulders
and hiding my thighs,
i feel
moonshines in georgiaman on the moon:

giddy with lumps of north georgia seas
greased on the crease of my lips
gravity drips from couch-cavities
when tides belch from below --

burst on the water's edge,
earth's bourbon sailors retch in moonshined ripples
trickled blue murder on their crinkled crimes;
raking water wrinkles like a wayward drunk
stuck on sunken bootleggin' dreams.

it's been a long, long time
since I've drowned your hemisphere
for fishing like a moonraker,
swishing my bait-lines like tobacco's
squished in your shallow gums
before you dare to down my air
breathing in this sincere georgia night.
L.E.S.B.I.A.N.Living on the
Edge of life
Saving myself
Being who
I truly am
As it is all i can be
Never forget that
Blame The ParentsI won't be able to keep a relationship in the future because I'm scared
I'm scared it'll turn out like theirs

I'm a pacifist because I hate watching it
I hate watching them fight

I have PTSD because of their fights
Their fights almost broke up this family

I self harm because they are pushing me over the edge
I was already close to jumping, but they gave me an extra push

I'm always in my room because that's how I run away
I guess that's called "Like father, like daughter"

I only eat one meal a day because he constantly puts me down
Even though he's joking, I can tell he means every bit of what he says

I can't trust anyone because they do
Missing piecesMissing pieces

There are wounds
that never heal; silences
so loud they  thunder - I stopped
breathing years ago, that night
the ice took my chest. Since then
I walk  in pieces, howling
around my heart.

-SophieCT, 2012, 2013
field notesi read some poetry
just for the sound--for the words lilting up and down
and the thick, honeysepia
polaroids unmisting in my head.
those are the poems i never understand
and the only conclusion i can draw is:
there is apparently
some supernova poetic awakening that comes
with the loss of virginity
and basically i need to get laid.
MorningA black cat sleeps in a ray of sun
My coffee is lousy
Another cardboard morning
The day isn't a blank canvas
Waiting to be painted
Its already scrawled with
Yesterday's mad crayon drawings

Smoke drifts up and out of the window
I drink the coffee
van houten must be godi. you know how in embroidered cloth,
from the bottom under the design,
all you see are knots? her honey-like,
crying
voice lulls me to sleep,
that's what we see of God's plan.
just the knots. when in reality,
it's the design on top;
beautiful and flawless that He
has in store for us.
bullshit.
i learnt that word
when i was three
but every time i said it,
my face hurt and mom's hand fell.
God will put you
in hell.
do you want that?
i knew better than to say it again.
ii. you're an estimated
fallacy, the perfect
misconception.
you don't need to exist
for people to believe.
they make you real with
dancing tongues behind
a crowd
of murmuring lips of
god's will.
iii. of the rain,
i sang songs, whispering
prayers only you
could hear.
if you truly are
what they say for you to be,
then there are no secrets
between you and me.
mother still sings
the same songs
in the rain, hoping
you'll hear her the way
i thought you would.
but she doesn't know you died long ago
with chiv
blood-red wine and skeleton jazz i.
the day you left,
your cobweb dress clung to you in ways
that i would dream about for years,
in hot, fevered nights
when the moon thought it might burst
in the sky,
and even the wind wailed your name.

ii.
i remember how you called make-up war paint,
and you drew it across your face like a message
i could never decipher;
i remember how i got goosebumps when i heard
your heels clicking across the floor at 3am
when you finally got home and slipped into bed;
i remember longing for you with every fiber of my being,
feeling separate from you even when our clothes lay on the floor
and your fingernails dug into my shoulders
and your toes curled
thieves of nocturne skiesPaper lanterns                                                                                            are midnight requiems
            That tell me                                                                            to look beyond the
                   light and have    &
The PoetFor the work of a Poet to be truly appreciated
he must write it with his own blood and tears for ink
his soul the sharpened quill to nail the words
like so many specimen of unwilling insects upon the paper.

And once he has bled out
becoming the cause of his own demise
the reader is left behind to digest his soul
so plainly trapped within a cage of words
his requiem written as a love song to his Muse.
Browse More Like This

More from ~eleventh-wound

TruthI lay upon the bed of drifting thought
I find myself  long gone and lost
Lost in your memory
I have tried to find another remedy
A remedy for being alone
I only find that comfort upon a phone
I hear you, and all is better for that fleeting time
I listen to you as I write in a book of hidden rhyme
I understand that I have found true love in thee
You know this with the symbol of being on a knee
I still have a long way to get to my goal
It’s a adventure that has been long and slow
But I know when I get there its wont be in vain
I still owe you a kiss in the pouring rain
You are the soul reason theses lyrics pour from
Losing itPlease hold on to what you cherish, dont lose hope
If you let go you will hang yourself from a nylon rope
As you drown within your mind
I worry about which bodybag you are in for me to find
As you cry alone in bed with lies misleading
I am trying to stop the proverbal bleeding
Missing the sanity within you
As the words appear on the paper, you know its true
You have been kicked and lied to too many times
Seems like there are no relief from theses crimes
agianist you, so hold on to thoses true friends
that are here, they will love you and be there till the end
The RoofOne with the silent hello
He cry in a pillow
The first sign is a blood drop
Turning white to red of a flower crop
He bids all a farewell
Like a prisoner escaping from his cell
He cries for the pain he has caused
To his parents he should have been perfect but was flawed
Striving for greater was his downfall
All were to busy to hear the his pleading call
Except for one but its to late
For he has chosen his fate
He is already dead before he could of made a sound
With one step off the roof he hit’s the ground

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Muse suffocating

:iconeleventh-wound:

She sits alone, head spinning so fast
Smashing the future with the past
She wants to stop pain that hurts so much
Original paper drawings not making a good crunch
In her head she has things banging around
She cant focus with so much sound
She feels to stop her masterwork of art
Stress takes a harsh toll on such a young heart
Her vision is warped where she cant see
How wonderful her unique art can be
She cant see that a lot of her art inspire
In her burns a raging artist fire
For she is blinded by the darkness of life
I only hope she fights through her strife
So dont give up, this for you  isnt the end
I know you have support from people and friends

54

2 5 2
:iconeleventh-wound:

Muse suffocatingby ~eleventh-wound

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I go rawr in 26 differnt dialects
©2009-2013 ~eleventh-wound
Category: Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

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Submitted on
June 27, 2009
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:iconforbiddenloveforever:
!ForbiddenLoveForever Jun 27, 2009
STFU! U mean nothing to me, so stop trying to butter me up.
Reply
:iconeleventh-wound:
~eleventh-wound Jun 28, 2009
Thats one wasnt for and or about you.
Reply
:iconkate220:
~Kate220 Jun 27, 2009  Hobbyist
i like it!
Reply
:iconeleventh-wound:
~eleventh-wound Jun 28, 2009
Thanks you!
Reply
:iconkate220:
~Kate220 Jun 28, 2009  Hobbyist
no prob!
Reply
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