"Il faut souffrir pour etre belle"
but there is nothing beautiful about it
and the river is so much uglier
���� than I like to pretend it is
with the weeds weaving their wild thoughts into my head
about how gorgeous nothing can be
and the shatter.boned corpses of trees,
����� naked, brown skeletons with dry-rot for eyes,
blink at me and tempt me to sing to their driftwood flesh
in melodies only heartache can produce.
and I pine for the dandelions to blow me away,
for the mourning doves to drop me,
����� soaring on some abstract breeze,
for the termites to carve their labyrinth paths into my skin
so I can feel again.
I stumble over the gnarled roots
of the guardians who shade me with their green-leaf coats,
with their arms stretched so high above their heads-- I breathe.
Kicking the smooth, river stones
to the edge of the daffodil patches,
smiling at me with yellow teeth and swaying to the music
inside the oak trees.
breathing.
and I�make bouquets of maple leaves and pinecones
with bluebells praying for the raindrops
to pitter-patter on my skin like Morse Code,
to seduce the goosebumps into surfacing on my frail, sun-burnt arms,
to sink in.
And I�drop sugar-tears for the ants and breadcrumb dreams for the birds
as I�shiver and sway against the pale, day-dream breeze.
The leaves are tumbleweed dancers, pirouetting in the wind,
the same wind that abuses me, and kisses the bruises.
And the water stares at me with hard, gray eyes,
telling me never to obsess over fantasy
because in the end, it just doesn't happen that way.
The sparrows echo thoughts so similar and
cut the sky with scissored wings--
but leave me sitting in bare rock thoughts,
with my faulty umbrella trees leaking the rain down on me
����� and all over my words,
painful and practiced as they are.
And there are no sunsets in Loneliness
just as there is no beautiful moon to shine silver at midnight,
and I�cannot live on high in the sun if it doesn't exists at all
nor can I�wake up the grass with a single kiss,
breathing into the overcast clouds who glare down on me
to whisper how pretty the suffering can be.
I�am covered in mud-splattered aches,
in tulip bruises, in notebook cliches that render me
hopeless, stupid, spineless, and speechless.
and the river swirls into itself to remind me that
what is ugly can never become beautiful...
even when the sky spits tears at my feet,
I�fall as if they are glass
and whisper my prayers to a river goddess
����� with wild tiger.lily hair
and she tells me to hold onto my dreams,
fragile and pastel as they seem,
in the glittering light of her smile
and that maybe one day,�I'd shine despite myself.
http://www.darkpoetry.com/node/work/129292
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