Siren

Beheld as a coy siren,

She is like sweet venom,

To her this is unknown,

She walks amidst shadows,

Silent, simple and alone,

A goddess of the creatures of the dark,

She walks them barefoot through the nicest parts of hell,

With such grace, strength and ease,

It is almost as though she is guided by the night breeze,

The musical ring of her laughter,

Words flow from her silken tongue,

Like a lovers sensual caress,

She entrances like a snake charmers hypnotic melody,

But this sirens call,

Isn’t really that at all,

With the bat of heavy lidded midnight eyes,

Many have drown,

Taken captive by that gaze, forever mesmerized,

Just as the pied piper led rats from the town,

Those who have gotten close to the true her,

Fall to their knees, at her feet, spellbound,

Those who have survived the madness,

Now covet to possess,

With her shy smile she does lure,

Her mystique lies in her look of innocence so pure,

She is a wicked wench,

Evil through her entire soul,

Yet they still insist…she is the answer, the perfect cure,

Pity to all who have ever met her come hither stare,

For once they do, they do not stand a chance,

She dances a sinful wicked dance,

On a moonlit summers eve,

Oblivious to her powers,

She is cunningly naïve,

Her sweet innocent flirtation,

Leads straight to temptation,

She is so bewitchingly evil,

Uses her silence to devastating effect,

For even in her absence her essence still lingers,

She can drive one to madness with just a look,

She is unknowingly deceitful,

Beautiful and perfect,

She is sin incarnate,

Completely poisonous, and soon she will possess,

Your soul forever more,

She is a black butterfly,

A dark fae of the night,

Goddess to the creatures of the darkness,

Once she takes flight…

She leaves devastation in her wake,

She is lovely but fatal,

A mistress of insanity,

With a devious twinkle in midnight eyes,

She smiles so innocently and to herself thinks,

I hope you enjoy the misery that I have left behind,

You should have known from the beginning,

I would make you lose your mind.

Tainted

I am one of many…

Battered and abused,

I have become,

Tainted,

After years of mistreatment and use,

With a heart so blackened and diseased,

Scars that run so deep they will never cauterize,

The only relief from pain in sight seems to be demise,

While the screaming inside becomes deafening,

And threatens to break free,

I realize I am damaged beyond repair,

And there may never be…

Any release from the rage,

Or any peace for me,

The vile blood that through these veins flows,

Is now so septic that it corrodes,

Washing away any trace of the once unbroken soul,

Can’t recall a time where I wasn’t bitter and jaded,

Or I didn’t feel weariness and wasted,

Longing for escape from the nothingness inside,

So numb from all these years,

Can’t recall the last time I felt enough to cry,

I am vile and venomous,

Toxic to all pure souls,

So baneful and lost,

That no one can behold,

I am weary and wasted,

Bitter and jaded,

To all living things I am toxic,

Sarcastic and caustic,

But I didn’t alone find my way into this hell,

After years of abuse, mistreatment and use,

I am corrupt, nearly broken…

Tainted.

Canvas

The body is a canvas,

Mind a vast blank parchment,

Thoughts and ideals imparted on us from infancy,

Begin to fill the pages of the empty scroll that is our memory,

As we begin to live for ourselves,

The calligraphy pen furiously inscribes,

Etches in time,

As we begin to ponder what in the beginning we were taught,

Form our own opinions,

Follow through on independent thoughts,

My body is a canvas to express who I have become,

The needle tears the skin,

And soon begins to fill,

Canvas which was once blank,

The artwork begins to form ideas that are my own,

Palette of colors begins to paint a picture,

An expression of who I am,

The body is a canvas to be displayed for all to see,

With the artists job now done,

In the expression of his talent,

He has also uncovered the freedom and creativity,

That is what I stand for,

That is the true me!

Poet

What is a poet but a tortured soul?

Who takes words and letters and turns them into gold,

Wraps them in meaning and paints a picture in your mind,

Is there any truer form of art?

Than taking the blood of your soul and writing it on the walls,

So that everyone will know,

No matter what the feeling, some one has been there before,

And words do flow like fire from the minds of the inspired,

Isn’t it amazing how…

One can take mere words and weave them into…

Beauty, pain, love or hate,

And suddenly they take on movement as they lie upon the page,

We can take you to…

The heights of happiness or the depths of despair and rage,

What is a poet?

If not a magician,

A conductor of the words of the heart,

What is a poet?

If not…a living, breathing work of art.

Torn

She sent a wish along with a piece of her heart,

It sailed along for awhile but never made it very far,

Her wish along with her heart was bruised, battered

and torn apart,

Torn and tattered too many times to repair,

All the things he got away with that were so unfair,

His deceitful beauty that ensnared her inside,

His silver and powerful web of lies,

An iciness that reached so much farther than those

deep endless blue eyes,

Acting like he cared for just a little while,

Then he turned on her with that perfect smile

And once again acted as if there had never been…

Anything between them,

And the cycle always repeats,

He draws in another,

Her advice is run, seek cover,

Your heart will only get bruised and battered,

And he’ll claim another victim as if that is

all that has ever mattered.