ladymirth: (calvin euphoria)
In Honor of Dorothy Parker

Who needs babies, homes and lovers?
When I have mischief, pens and papers
The ink shall run blood, bone and tears
That’s been my miser’s gold of years

My pain shall transform into prose
Tomfoolery into wisdom wrought
I’ll pick apart my scabbed sores
For red ink never so dearly bought 

I’ll wrench every hurt from this heart of mine
And viciously count them literary dimes
Where other women’s eyes leak useless brine
I’ll weep bitter poems and limerick rhymes

I’ll dress my dreams in gilt and sequins
To tempt and capture the naïve young
I’ll barb my ideals in weary witticisms
To appease the cynical senile ones

Say! Fine lady and dashing gents,
Won’t you buy my pretty lines?
Woo fine society for a few cents
Cheaper than high art or French wine

And when I’m dead, they’ll take the scripts,
In whose ink dries my life’s sum total
They’ll point and ponder and critique
And hail me another unhappy immortal

ladymirth: (contained excitement)
On Sunday life will begin at dawn
On Sunday glad my heart will be
On Sunday my pills will all be gone
And I will at last come home to me

On Sunday the world will spin slow again
On Sunday I’ll feel my fingertips
On Sunday I’ll walk in straight lines
And not feel my heart against my ribs

On Sunday I’ll feel the want of food
On Sunday I’ll taste sweet water
On Sunday chocolates will make life good
And I will be again my parents' daughter

On Sunday my house won’t be a brown study
On Sunday will go my mother’s frowns
On Sunday I’ll upend Dad’s glass of whiskey
And he will have no more tears to drown

On Sunday I’ll begin to be a friend
On Sunday I’ll be a lover true
On Sunday I’ll learn to care again
And those I’ve spurned, once more I'll woo

On Sunday I’ll learn if the doctor lied
On Sunday I’ll learn if there is a God
On Sunday I’ll learn if my demon has died
Or all my hopes have been for naught

ladymirth: (hamlet)

There is no thought in my head
Only a handful of brain cells
Tickling my skull
Like marbles trapped within a rattle
There are only vague feelings
Of contempt for my past
Surrealism of my present
And hollowness for the future
I am not there
Only an image that people see
Through the eyes of their memory
And expectations
Voices tell me who I am
Where I go and what I want
And yet, "I" do not exist
As though the astral umblical cord
Attaching self to my being
Has detached  and self-aborted
Leaving only a bleeding
And barren womb


My heart rams itself
Against my lungs
Tries to claw its way
Out through my throat
Trying to leave this body
Without substance
My soul trickles out
Day by night
Beneath my heavy eyelids
Escaping the vaccuum of mind
My breath counts lessen
My limbs atrophy
Death taking me
In all but physiology


I forget the beauty of the waking world
I forget the breath from lightened lungs
I forget the taste of want and thirst
I forget the feel of rain and sun

These things will no more encumber
My quest to cease my tremoring mind
Wandering a land between death and slumber
I crave only the peace of benumbed night

More poems

Oct. 26th, 2008 05:01 pm
ladymirth: (bunny)
 I'm really on a roll today.

Do you know where you’re going? 
Do you know where you are?
Do you remember why you’re doing
The things that you are
And if you don’t, is it satisfying
To breathe one moment to the next
And call it good living
With no meaning beyond that?
Without a cause who are we?
But another inconsequential 
Without want of a cause, what are we?
Other than shadows insubstantial 
If all the treasures of the earth
Were bequeathed alone to you
To your spirit, what is it worth?
Without a dream to pursue

Trite, isn't it? The next one's better, but disturbing. 

A Misanthropic Rant
All you cursed human animals
Your gut a-roiling with gluttonous fire
You’ll consume yourself out of house and home
Trying to quench your thirst with more desire 
Do you know the hunger that drives you?
That subsides with pretty trinkets
No more satiating than the smell of wine
Is to the raving drunkard
You’ll eat the earth and lay havoc in the skies
Blot out the stars with the very smog
Of your efforts to reach them; yet never ask why
The knowledge of a gaseous bog 
Has greater import than a baby’s cry
Crawling abandoned over inedible stones
As overhead, birds of carrion fly
Waiting to strip his starving bones
Drop a penny in a beggar's bowl
An investment in your halo
It’ll not keep his body nor your soul
But you’re still a jolly good fellow

I'm too young to be that cynical. 


Oct. 26th, 2008 04:35 pm
ladymirth: (bunny)
When every thought feels like
It’s been thought before
Worse! Thought by other men
Present and of yore
And all new ideas another
Tangle and twist in the string
Of this game of cat’s cradle
That we call ‘thinking’
The brain keeps a-whirring
Smokes of wisp-like thought
Like a sewing machine hammering
With neither thread nor on cloth
Where is the off switch?
That my mind may cease
Have all futility done with
And succumb to sweet sleep

Feedback, anyone? 
ladymirth: (bunny)
I don't often write poetry, but this just popped into my head this morning, and I thought I'd put it up. Hope it's not too confusing. I don't know whether it's any good, but I'd sure appreciate tips and criticism!

The Truth

“Love all-conquering, love all-conquered,
Fight, hold tight; the righteous be rewarded”
So preach fools to the children, innocent, unknowing
That lovers old and young have keened undying
That no cure is found for a shattered heart’s aching
That some nightmares will bear no awakening
That the only law carrying the triumphal arch,
Is ashes to ashes; Death’s inexorable march
Where the wise consign to the eternal plough,
The song of life continues, my love,
When with no thought of you, I greet the dawning
And know the silence of lost love forsaking.

June 2009

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