Bleeding Heart

I proudly wear the title “Bleeding Heart.”

I’ve never understood its insulting quality.

Caring for another human being,

That is an insult, how?

I have no time for cruel gods

And no patience for sociopathic humans.

I am proudly intolerant of intolerance

So don’t think the accusation cows me.

Injustice boils my blood

Others’ pain makes me bleed.

I am a fighter sometimes a hater

Who will never give up until you tell me why.

Why the hate?

Why the injustice?

Why the pathetic attempts for conformity?

I am empathetic to a fault

but if you are not…

…that is your fault.

Cover

Cover the scars

Imperfection? Not an option.

Don’t let them now see you lacking.

In this world, you must always be acting.

 

Hide them quickly.

There’s not a soul who wants to see.

You are not irreplaceable

If you won’t pretend you’re alright.

 

Buck up, my dear.

Never be anything but perfect,

And you’ll fly beneath the radar;

If only you’ll cover the scars.

A Good-bye Piece

A drop of immortality,

a dash of invincibility,

and a dab of childish wonder,

and I never suspected

such a day would come.

My heart misses you already.

 

Yet it also rejoices,

now that you’re free.

I hear reminiscence,

allow words to fly me away.

You found freedom,

and I found peace.

 

Worry not, wherever you are.

I’ve muscled through worse.

I have my creature comforts,

and I can see the light already

through a goodbye piece.

 

Photo Cred to the incredible Oktober Hollow Photography.

Damsel Fair

The princess waited,

For the knight to appear,

Chaste and meek, heavenly fair.

But his armor had rusted,

His steed not nimble.

 

She waited and waited,

That damsel fair,

Until she could wait no more.

That damsel fair.

 

She waited no longer

For the knight to appear,

With sisters became the Amazon,

Deadly and fierce.

 

One day came the knight,

Too many years late,

Saw the Amazon and cried,

Where is my damsel fair?

 

You took too long,

The Amazon said.

And the damsel fair

Became her own knight.

First Step

This form poem did not work out when I first tried to post! So here it is again, in picture form.

Lock, not Key

It was a strange place for an American to study, he’d told her. Poland, though, held for her all sorts of charms, not least of all this green-eyed poet. It was love at first sight, if you believe in that kind of thing. It was even if you don’t.

Paris was far too expensive, but tips and commissions left him with enough to take her to Venice. A long weekend found them in Murano and its glass, Burano and tis lace. It was in the later that they found a bridge scattered with locks, just as in Paris. He kissed her than and told her they’d have to bring their own on the next visit.

It wasn’t fair, he knew, to give her hope. Only weeks after their fairy tale his hair began to fall out and he began losing weight. The dreaded C, or the N in Polish, had befallen him, and he was sure as he kissed her goodbye six months later it would be the last.

It’s been two years, and Lucy has returned to Venice, to a water bus to the small island of Burano. The green lock in her hand bears both their names. She clips it on and throws the key a way. A pair of arms hug her from behind.

Thanks to Marek and Lucy, wherever you are, for lending me some inspiration. I have no idea who these people are, I was just captivated by this lock on a bridge in Burano, Italy.

Guilt

Where does shame stop, guilt begin?

A circle, our ouroboros, the snake

Shame was beat into me for sin.

It follows real, imagined transgression

Or’s it guilt?

My compass points not that straight

Not quite South, but a good deal East.

Some one else influences it;

A magnet in my field, wavering me.

The Untold Origin

You may have heard differently, but that pretentious prick and I were brothers once. Once.

God, he was always so damn judgmental. You should have seen the look on his face when he saw the people I ran around with: the tired, the cynical, the angry. No, he only concerned himself with people who were perfect. And by perfect, I mean they adored him.

His façade never fooled me. When our parents died, I was set to take their kingdom, rule with an even hand. I was glad. I was ready.

Then the bastard overthrew me. Still pretending to be righteous, he “spared” me. He cast me, along with others who didn’t worship him, out of my own kingdom and into prison, where only the evil should have gone.

But I escape sometimes, trying to tell the truth about their God. For it, I’m called Satan.

 

Pretty

Don’t call me pretty,

Don’t you dare say ‘beautiful.’

I wasn’t put here

To please your eye.

 

Don’t call me gorgeous,

Don’t say he’s handsome.

The symmetry of our faces

Are totally irrelevant.

 

You know better than ‘fat,’

But don’t call her ‘skinny’ either.

Thank you,

Our bodies are none of your business!

 

Don’t call me pretty,

When witty, clever,

empowered, independent

Will do so much more.

 

Don’t limit us to our faces

Or the size of our waists.

We are here to change the world

Not match your aesthetics

Don’t.

It must be easy to be blasé

About painting your face

When you’re naturally blemishless.

You’ve no dark circles,

No blotchy tones, angry pimples.

 

It must be easy to not conform

To the rules of society,

When you set a room on fire

Just by walking in.

 

It must be easy to be outspoken

When no one’s told you to shut up.

 

Don’t tell me not to paint my face,

Don’t tell me to break the mold.

I will never blow them away,

I will never set the world on fire.

I will never find words to move hearts.

 

Take your beauty, your words, your fire,

and leave me in peace.

My place is here, among the sheep.