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This is Your GiftAll that you love shall be taken from you.
As punishment, all your attachments will be destroyed.
You will be continually tempted with all that you want and that you cannot keep.
You will be given no actual choice; all your choices will be mere delusion.
You will torture your own mind and twist your own perceptions in an overwhelming effort to avert your attention from the simple truth that all existence is suffering.
You are expected to perpetually succor your tortured mind with images of illusionary happiness until the moment of your inevitable sacrifice.
This is consciousness; this is your gift; this is your punishment for daring to exist.
The Ruins - Part IThe Ruins - Poems of Loss
by William Bethea
Once, when I went to the Darkness;
I left behind my precious things.
When I arrived at Its door,
There was no answer.
Upon returning home,
I found It waiting. The Darkness
Held my precious secrets in its teeth,
Ground them into dust and spit them
In my face, laughing.
Once, there was no where to turn.
The Darkness pretended to be my friend.
It welcomed me into Its lair.
As It fed me, nurtured me,
Comforted me, loved me,
It siphoned away my soul.
As I wept in utter delusion,
The Darkness consoled my broken heart,
Smothered my face into Its bosom,
Offered Its orifices to slake my misery,
Suckled my pain and fed on my loss.
The Darkness would became engorged,
Eyes rolling back, head lolling,
Grinning gleefully, contented,
Collapsing, in unconscious satiation
Until my need arose again.
Returning lucidity repudiated the Darkness.
It fled from my shattered existence, dying.
Only then, did I recognize
The endless irreparable ruins remaining.
My GoddessI prayed to my Goddess
Through many a Moon's night
To be worthy of the inspiration that
One of Her priestesses might provide.
Instead, She blessed me not merely
With Her divine delegate,
But with the Adorable Manifestation
Of Her Pure, Lovely and Perfect Grace.
Bound forever in grateful service,
I devote my works to this rebirth.
This Test and Gift, both, presented,
My Goddess now doth walk the Earth.
Her SkinHer skin
By the back light
Glows with inner fire
The scent of twilight lingers
On her neck
Her shoulders her
How to be Populardon’t talk
go to parties
listen to friends
go with the flow
drink some more
don’t let them see the tears
as you cry yourself to sleep
for the most important thing
is to be popular
Forgiveness takes twoThe words are struggling
to tumble off my tongue,
and despite having
a fleshy cushion
to rest on,
they stain my teeth
and sting like acid
"I'm sorry," I stutter,
but the bitter taste
doesn't leave my tongue-
not because the words weren't true,
but because I know
I won't hear,
Mommy Is A Super HeroMommy Is A Super Hero
Standing before his class, he held his tiny report,
“Who is your super hero?” Was written in yellow chalk on the green board.
Exhaling his breath, the curly haired boy closed his little eyes,
“Don't be ashamed of yourself” His mother's words rung in his ears, “And don't ever cry.”
He began to read aloud, with a shaky voice.
to his class, he told his mother's story.
At age fifteen, she was a beauty queen,
the most beautiful girl in all of the world.
She flaunted her silky hair, bore her bare legs,
prided her breast. The boys treated her like she was a treasure chest.
They respected her rules, they “looked, but didn't touch”,
but there was one older man, who from her, wanted too much.
All alone he met her, he approached her in the alley,
and all his mother told him, was that this man had treated her badly.
But what the boy didn't know was that she was taken against her will,
and that two months later, she turned up ext
cenotaph of stormsthe first thunderstorm
was triggered by a blunt pair
of scissors, sparking violently
against the lightning,
shaking in the wind.
the downpour pierced,
tattooed with no ink but
the dark bleakness
of an overcast morning,
infiltrating uniformed wrists.
hid behind the music block,
shaky raindrops rioting
fears, she fractured.
the second storm
wept a two year downpour
outline that dripped from wrist
to hip, sidelong silhouette glances
obscured by the rain.
stalictidal waves shuddered
frozen, until icy glass
fell in stained shards from
the stillness inside.
thinner, brittler, growing
in flurries of sleet and hail,
her outline was never filled,
though the floods threatened
the third thunderstorm
was a mist-ridden melancholia,
a dream for permanence
smeared in ink through
fueled by the hope
that just this once,
the rain would spark a
rebirth beneath the ground.
instead, a tsunami
washed away the ink
as tides so often do.
The sound of silenceThe sound of silence,
Is so deafening,
That it makes my ears ring,
With the cacophony of my own insanity.
Ideationlocked in a room
with only one escape,
or so it seems.
your hands shake and you drop the key.
Suddenly you're unsure.
Do I want to pick it up?
Do I want to find it?
Do I want to leave?
you think to yourself
there's no other choice.
find the key or corrode, or rust
wear down the hinge
use sadness as the key.
You have the answer now.
Just open the door.
Just walk outside and don't look back.
Let yourself leave with no regrets.
And yet you can't.
You're afraid, you think,
but you are actually strong.
Don't run away.
Don't take that leap.
DNAyou are content
because every day
you have the opportunity to
hug both sets of your DNA.
however, i am not content.
half of me is missing
and the other half
is hardly ever here.
Red Riding HoodI want to believe people so badly when they say they won’t bite
that I contemplate climbing into their smiling jaws
thinking that it might be better to be split in two than left hanging.
But always, I draw my red hood and flit back into the forest
running in the shadows of pathways, never stepping into clearings
because I’ve spent my whole life in the wilderness
and I still can’t tell the wolves from the woodsmen.
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