masquerade

Shoestrings

Shoestrings (an affected poem)

 

 

Are people's

lonesome adventures

depressive masquerades?

 

In a culture of one's

design; only

'tis Not

 

Deceit tied them

together like

Shoelace

 

Solace.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Reedited 06.26.2019 (for an incorrect use of a preposition in "on the process" & since have changed it to "in the process"):  

 

I wrote a free verse poem approximately on (possibly around the afternoon or dusk, or even in the evening hrs.) This was posted on my Twitter account on the 10th of the same month.  Its working title was changed from "Shoelace" to "Shoestrings" in the process.  Pls. kindly bear w/ it, as 'tis also an affected poem. 

Masquerade

Folder: 
Just a thought!

She claimed to be a hybrid

with alabaster skin and cheeky alure,

calling all hand maidens to render service.

She sits high on her throne

fanning herself,

awaiting a worthy Concubine

to unstich her corset,

releasing her small tufts

as incentive to ambush

her prey in this rehearsed

performance of seduction.

Her charms, unsucessful...

silent smerks, hidden giggles,

Another failed attempt of release,

She orders a bath drawn

to submerge herself and mask

the tears of rejection.



                                              

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Just another Masquerade Tale of loneliness'

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Erase - November 20, 2012

My recollections are making me change,

making me turn psychotic. This rage,

it's making me cave, opposite of brave,

I just want to start over and behave.

I've lost contact with reality,

and I'm bound to mental simplicity,

consisting of nightmares passed, true.

 

Before I fall, erase me, replace me,

with an unknowing, undamaged clone.

I don't want memories, I want to be free.

I want to peacefully, alone, go home.

I just want to calm down.

I need to calm down.

I don't want to be bound.

I am forever bound.

I am lost in how to solve this;

proof is in the scars, hard to miss.

I don't admit my problem out of fear;

I see only but shame in the mirror.

I refuse pills, and I refuse therapy,

for they will not once ever help me.

 

I need elimination;

obliteration if these thoughts.

I need to find a way, mind how they

slit my dreams, see them sit and rot.

I can't do it, go through with it.

My cowaring mind, endless demise,

won't let me end it all, but calls

to my inner self, my peaceful paradise

of images so right, so unlike

reality in its way to forgive me,

live in me; let me sit and be free.

 

Only one choice lies possible.

It denies in replies to take a toll

on my sanity. Don't you see? I can't stop.

I'm not as strong as you thought I wasn't.

The choice is to sit, so delicately sit,

and fit into my mask, slip it on.

It's so beautiful, it's so perfectly wrong.

The tears drop through, but I'm still in denial.

They can see naught but my pretty smile.

When the day is over and dusk turns to dawn,

my mask, still a smile. My soul forever gone.

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