Magic WandDragons fly through poison skies, their whispers in the windLadybugs in black sandcastles, scratches on your skinHopscotch over quicksand, and a castle made of dirtShining silver crowns and dancing 'round in spinning skirtsBloody, ruined princesses locked up in towers tallWatching as the prince quickly begins to fallSlowly, as the innocence does take her darling lifePlease do watch now, as the magic wand becomes a knife...
WafflesSmiling, as the spears sink into yourFlesh.The excitement. The joy.The pleasure. Slowly, I slice through youSo slowly, so painfully.The rush. The power.The satisfaction.And then, suddenlyAs if a demand from demons had told me to do it…I raise the fork to my mouth and take a bite.Waffles.
Canvas Is The MirrorA canvas is a mirrorThe paint drips down with my reflectionThe canvas is my mirrorMaybe imperfectBut only becauseThe canvas is me.The canvas is your mirrorAs the brush tickles its surfaceThe canvas is our mirrorMessyUgly And beautiful. The canvas is a mirrorThe depth of the artwork stares back into myEyes.After all, I do not paint a canvasBecause the canvasPaintsMe.
Words on the WallThe sun melted into the glamorous skyThe moon stood there, hidden by sweet lullabies.But mommy was crying, her day had been hardThe tears in her eyes twinkled just like the stars.Her face wasn't happy like it should have beenAnd though she was saddened, she forcefully grinned.I wanted to see Mommy smile through it all...I painted a picture on her bedroom walls.I told her to look, just to come in and seeBut Mommy was angry... she wasn't happy.She threw me down hard on the cold wooden floorThen picked me up, slamming my head on the door.She yelled and she screamed, then she hit me once moreShe slapped me till I couldn't see anymore.My heart then stopped beating, my laugh went unheardThen Mommy got up without saying a word.She looked at the walls splattered with my young bloodThen fell to the ground in her tears with a thud.She looked at my face, then she looked all aroundThen wrote on the walls with the first thing she found.Then, after she finished, she wanted self h
His BallerinaA gown of silk, flowing as a stream,Her footsteps so gentle, perhaps she was a dream,As he crouches near bushes to glare at the unseen,And she danced like ballerina.Her fingers combed her golden hair,A perfect lady who didn't careTo see the man that would never dareTo touch a ballerina.But desire grew, and patience died,As a lovely girl danced before his eyes,So he buried his heart, pulled out a knife,And tickled the ballerina.She fought his hands, in fear of death,A dirty blade sinking through her chest,For he would never settle for something less,As she screamed,She cried,She took her final breath...And the wind grew calm, barely blowing on the stream.Her voice so quiet (perhaps it was a dream).As he closes his eyes, cradling his queen...His beautiful ballerina.
HateIt was born with youand with youit withered.It broke me in twothen assembled medifferently.