[html]I was told recently by a friend that I was really good at this whole poetry business. And after some thinking and writing I've decided to make a thread to house my poems! Or at least the ones I feel like sharing, I'd love to get your opinions on them.<div><br></div><div>My Belladonna Lonesome</div><div><br></div><div><font face="Times New Roman">We’re all regathering the same pain through
different pairs of eyes, pain as vampiric as the azure of the shadow
stage, where all memories dance serenely as fairytale suicides. We watch
the lovers long lost dress themselves in roseate coats and vast esteem,
only to impress the air of the room they are stashed in, and nothing
more. The animals of her dreams haven’t any names in their heartless
rapture; The smiling cherubs seemed asleep along the edges of the corner
shelves, where her passions were bottled in lucid posterity. Lampshades
for tabletop mysteries, electric dust clouds shone out from the
candlelight, an entire galleria of useless delicacies-Handsfasting the
double-sided nightmare, must my restless heart be weighted by the burden
of tear-soaked tapestries, merely to decorate my spirit with needless
disguises, or to ornament my body with belladonna astringencies? I’d
rather be fluent in the language of abandon; There is no such thing as
useful criticism especially with such dilemmas as nostalgia. I would
dare to bet that every sentiment has been forlorn with the spirit, every
memory wretched, and a selection of the consequences unrealized. There
is a room where I had once attended the absolution of my phantoms-They
were lying across the balconies of despair, each balcony personally
entitled by the memory that it contained. The addictions and the
mistresses could only be executed if they were forgotten. Eventually in
the distance of seemingly a million nights, every lantern had
extinguished itself, every wishful memory of a face or a liaison had
faded past the blue vagueness of childhood. A common soul wouldn’t
question the value of reminiscence, the reason one should cherish a
moment, or even the meaning of remembrance. Time will take your life in
stride, so why mustn’t one take time in stride? The cold shoulder of
commitment strangles the dark with her sirenic offerings. The promises
were stranger than their maker, that one would never feel the same
whenever they’re alone, and that every familiar presence would become
antique and lost. The worth of a lover has become questionable on
society-The debt of a confidante to stand outside your door is like
taking yourself for granted.&nbsp;</font></div><div><font face="Times New Roman"><br>Whose company has urged to be with my
heart, whose eyes have wanted my lamp to luminate their back alleys? My
dreams have been clothed in the gray elegance of a funeral, while my
sins rupture in masochistic poises. The fulfillment of temptation sets
off the consequence; The fluidity of an occurrence engraving the mood
behind the keepsakes that littered her foothold. What happened to the
vase decaying in the sun? Where are its roses, never strewn through the
summer? Belladonna fragrances that were jeweled in the air have poisoned
the making of love once there, the leaflets had frozen by the windows
shade above the pleasures of personal promenade. Beneath the dark halos
of crystalline trees, two lifetimes formerly crossed prospected the
bleeding future; Holding their hearts in the face of exile, the world
they lived was called imaginary-Whether this it became or had always
been, it is surely what it shall stay. If the bloody future holds any of
the hopes we’ve once fancied, then let’s keep on dreaming because I’m
no longer who I was with you. Our tides are separate, and romance isn’t
just sleeping, it is dead. In this belladonna solitude please don’t
promise me anything; By the time of dying leaves blows by, I will no
longer know you or will you know me, our Halloweens will no longer be
costumed but forgotten separately. Belladonna bittersweet as the rotting
moon, nestled in the fluid chills of a sighing tomb. Belladonna laid to
rest, whose tears were potpourri upon the scenery of the pinking dawn.
Belladonna who loved like her name of deadly nightshade, has left at
last her desperate mask and masquerade. Yet at times when I wander where
ever we once were, I can still feel the footprints we before had tread,
and in those wandering times I never can deter, the footprints we had
left behind that haunt me now instead. &nbsp;</font></div>[/html]