Cycle

I guess it is true
We are all going to die someday
I see it in the trees and in the shadows of this hot and muggy summer
As I am out making daisy chains
I hear my sister making love in a garden shed 

He reached his hand into my panties
I gasped in delight
Naked in the dirt 
His member making me moan
Entering my body

It feels certain that we each had our time
Moments of the unveiling and those moments
When we conceal ourselves back into a cocoon
As new girls become romanced under the moonlight
Men laughing at purity with the thrust of their penises 

I keep asking myself why I wasn't good enough
For the Lord of the Underworld
Your hands pushing me away
A face that used to light up at my presence
Now can't stand the sight of me

I am exhausted 
Full of tears
The light comes through and then fades away
An endless cycle forever repeating itself
Until the death of my days 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone Chapter 1 (Condensed Version)

 CHAPTER ONE - THE BOY WHO LIVED  Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of Privet Drive were the last people to be involved in anything strange or mysterious. Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills.  He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, and a large mustache. Mrs Dursley was thin, blonde, and had twice as much neck for spying on neighbors.  The Dursleys had a small son named Dudley - the “finest” boy around. The Dursleys also had a secret, and they were afraid someone would discover it. They couldn’t bear it if someone found out about Petunia’s sister’s family - The Potters. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, and they did not want Dudley associating with a child like that. It was a peculiar morning.  Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out a tie for work, while Mrs. Dursley gossiped away as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair. None of them noticed the large, tawny owl flutter past the window. Mr. Dursley got into his car and backe
Read more

Lost in Thoughts

A cold winter and my hands are frozen My eyes are weary For a long time they were open There are piles of books Each waiting be open There are pictures of worlds Of emotions left unspoken There is a formula for the writer A certain system to be achieved We must display the characters As neither good or bad Just psychological Significant humans A location A scene focused on it's nature The sunlight pouring through it's trees The drowsy morning of a mid summer The cold walk during the middle of the night in December Christmas lights adorning the trees A girl walks with her arms wrapped around her chest Wishing it was easier Wishing he was here There are things fantastical to be written about Yet there are also those normal, everyday moments There is a mastery of language that is needed A mastery of languages A mastery of diction A mastery of lyric Yet all the same A clear voice So that anyone could read it Original but not too original Enough to se
Read more

Past Lives or Schizophrenic?

Sometimes I feel like there's two of me. There’s the one who exists right here in the now. This individual has her own views and her own ego. She is able to make decisions even when she is a callous bitch about it and the world is generally easy to understand. Then there is the other person inside of me. I swear she is the most disagreeable person. Her name is Maoko and she is my past life self. She wins a lot of the time because she hangs onto her past or should I say OUR past.  Even before that was a girl named Talulah. She was a slave woman who was murdered. None of her life was that great. She’s fucking us both over even though she is technically both of us.
Read more