art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
The girl and the gown
I stand in front of my closet, staring into its depths. The darkness surrounds my once cherished item, the small light from my empty room gleaming down from above crawling it's way to the crystals elegantly sutured to the bodice. It would've been a spectacal to see for sure. My hair would've been done up in white flowers. My smile would've shined like the daily sun in summertime. Yet now the thought that once warmed my soul depresses it. I have a useless gown in an empty house and a story that breaks my heart. We weren't high school sweethearts, nothing so special as that. We met at a ballgame. On opposite sides no less. Maybe that shouldve been my warning but who would've been swayed in thought by that? The romance was whirlwind and full of flowers and dance. I swore it was my chance. Passionate, fiery, as suave as they come I was swept up in his act. That was all it was, an act. My whole fantasy was a carefully woven blanket of lies, the last thread stitched with betrayal. What I have left is nothing much but a sore reminder of this pain. I rip the dress from my closet breaking the hanger it hung by. My dirty shoe soles trample its innocent pristine look. In the garage my father keeps a full canister of gasoline to mow my yard for me. I go outside and fetch it, as I know it'll be there. He at least, is dependable, most men rarely are. I pop the cap at my front door and drizzle its fluid across my living room floor, where my gullible ways sealed my fate. I splash some on the kitchen counter where his lunch was made. I drizzle that shit across the whole damn house where our memories remain. And up the stairs across our bed that's been cold and lonely as of late. I douse that gown in gasoline, and set us all a flame.Start writing...
By Jaielyn Ceairra Belong5 years ago in Poets
Colors In The Clouds
In the passing, for such as time; I really felt my tears, pour me out all these years. Give to me some chance, this need in me to choose.Still my lens upon its black or white? Into the darkness or seek out its light? What focus will be my muse?
By Lynsey Stanfield 5 years ago in Poets
