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What Happened?
by Dizzabeth on Sunday, February 13, 2011 at 8:29am
Written 2002 (?)
What Happened?
What has happened to my desire, the urge to etch lost emotions onto a page?
The passion driven flow of feeling once expressed.
The pound of my own heart beat in my chest, my ears as I scribble methodical sequences of letters derived from fears.
What has happened to my heart, that I can no longer feel as deeply?
That leaves me colder, I feel as though I've digressed intellectually. Once artistic, warm, articulate.
My body only functions according to how my mind allows it. Why can I not portray the lessons I've learned in my actions, my play of life, my tale to write?
The echo of self-deception is devouring me. Do I know the truth buried somewhere in all of this duplicity? Or is it permanently denied by what I allow myself to perceive? Is it just an innate duality; this paradox I cannot conceive? Can I endure the terrors created by self-loathing? Do I even believe them? Or have they captured me unruly? How can I once more obtain my desire, passion, intellect, warmth, if at the same time I never truly, possessed these divine qualities in a collective reality?
What Happened?
What has happened to my desire, the urge to etch lost emotions onto a page?
The passion driven flow of feeling once expressed.
The pound of my own heart beat in my chest, my ears as I scribble methodical sequences of letters derived from fears.
What has happened to my heart, that I can no longer feel as deeply?
That leaves me colder, I feel as though I've digressed intellectually. Once artistic, warm, articulate.
My body only functions according to how my mind allows it. Why can I not portray the lessons I've learned in my actions, my play of life, my tale to write?
The echo of self-deception is devouring me. Do I know the truth buried somewhere in all of this duplicity? Or is it permanently denied by what I allow myself to perceive? Is it just an innate duality; this paradox I cannot conceive? Can I endure the terrors created by self-loathing? Do I even believe them? Or have they captured me unruly? How can I once more obtain my desire, passion, intellect, warmth, if at the same time I never truly, possessed these divine qualities in a collective reality?
2010’s Peter Pan
by Dizzabeth on Monday, February 14, 2011 at 5:44am
2010’s Peter Pan
The man that’s a boy, who turns me into a little girl,
He has the hands of a man, with the soul of a man,
But the laughter of a boy~ that tickles me,
My laughter,
My soul,
This boy that’s a man,
Chokes my heart up into my throat,
And scutules back down into my stomac,
With a swiftly tempo’d rhythm.
The mans that’s a boy
That almost turns this cynic woman
Into a little girl
With the sensibilities of a naive romantic
When I indulge in him…
Seems to be succeeding,
At suffocating those last embers
Left from the blazing Notions devoid of hope
That brimmed the burn for 26 years
Of My laughless, tickleless, smirking Soul...
It’s oxymoronic? And thus untrue?
A boy can’t be a man, a woman a little girl
Or do we defy normality
To revel in the pleasure,
That could exist
In another... Reality
No. I have hidden in alter realities long enough,
Now I’ll indulging the contrived cliché that it’s never to late,
So I left Peter Pan in Never Never Land,
Simply a storybook that seemed great.
How ironic, or true to my nature;
Being oxymoronic,
That I would find my fairytale man,
Right here, without a plan now on my land
And he just happens to exist...
In THIS reality,
That is Mine, Yours, and the Who ever wants it,
Purified from fictions trickery,
An allowed treachery,
That once always had its hold on me.
Deplorably, whom am I kidding?
Peter Pans fable will always have a lingering hold on me.
Luckily for me not so unpardonably,
This loitering end with weighted eyelids,
The effortless fall to my pillow,
My face smartingly teder, left with a pleasant aching,
Pure ramification of all the prolonged smiles and bouts of laughter,
Uncontrolled from fits
That haile down on me, as I'm regailed
against my will, but only resisting because of this unfimiliar provacation
Some kind I've never had to forture of taking
This is a woman's man,
Absant of the of child’s play enchantment…
The expostion of any lurcking
All I taste is a thimble, As you face me
Want to attach, that hiding place so nimble
No longer, not the way this pusle attracts
Needle and thread?
Hell no, I will reap what you can't no longer sew
Shadowless
Because fuck fairy dust!
As I sink into the onslaught of Night
That fills my slumber
With the pleasantries that design
These neverever-land of dreams
Where now you resign your flight.
Kassim Qow'te Shaqur wow. Breathtaking. Bless the boy man who triggered You to write ths. Dope
October 8, 2011 at 7:09am · · 1
Dizzabeth but awww wooohooo, you think its fly, yay thankyou thank you (bows head)
October 8, 2011 at 7:12am ·
Xoduz TheAutopsy Alostchild'thepoetofdarkness Wow...very deep and intense imagery, some great artistic features that you posses...those innocent lil gal's dreams/fantasies told in a grown woman point of view, and ideas are exalted beyond normal writes, to create a great MASTERPIECE!
January 6 at 4:20pm · · 1
Dizzabeth exalted beyone normal rights??? shucks, you sure yournot puttering a luly up? hahaha (thans x o)
January 6 at 4:32pm ·
Xoduz TheAutopsy Alostchild'thepoetofdarkness Hehe u know i cant do that...i lv this piece.
January 6 at 4:45pm ·
Qamar Shixx PoetiQueen And me too,
Peter Pan will always have an effect on me. No matter how silly it seems.
I love its sweetness.
January 6 at 11:21pm · · 1
Dizzabeth yes Qamar... almost more true for the "less fairytale" pan and nevernever land who has that... quality... its not immature, just unrealistic and unattainably bittersweet maybe? (thank youfor the comments btw :-D)
January 7 at 1:14am ·
Anger: revisions updated : Today
by Dizzabeth on Friday, December 23, 2011 at 4:23pm
But only turns Into pain/hurt/sorrow.
A tear dries up my soul; leaving my inside, un w-hole...
Gaping.
Self inflicted sensory deprivation, I Fear of never escaping.
The immediate an' Present danger being: Devastation...
to My brain/body/limbs/whim.
So I retreat into the salt encrusted hole; that which was once my heart.
Am I now safely hidden from defeat?
PLEASE < HEAR MY SHOUTS! All I ask, for one to try; and tell me...
How do I outwit this fear of peril?
{"I wonder, does she realize, the one who needs try, is she, this whole while?"}
My temptation to feel conflicts with apprehensions I have to heal...
{"be vulnerable..."}
To willingly LET myself be subjected to societies embedded fallacies.
My built in wrath against the "non-conformist conformism", puts me in jeopardy.
Should I retreat into my salt encrusted hole?
Or face and endure this worlds indistinguishable illusions... compositions of symphonies of disillusion... Called by the majority: Reality.
Anger consumes My brain/body/limbs/whim.
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