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Veridicality and Equivocation
I'm Sorry Meg
Her fingers spread across the pages
Of a different time and place.
A forlorn fantasy of fiction.
The characters there are always fake.
She smiles at the background music,
It's a childhood lullaby.
Golden locks wiggle from the ribbon
As she bends her head to the perfect lie.

Once more her mind submits
To the simple black lettering.
A crimson drop from turning pages
Stains her story and that is the hurting.
Her pale pink lips tremble
As the rain begins to fall.
Throws the book and runs away
Holding her mother's doll.

Alone, as always, in the house
Without the lies comfort, too,
She stumbles into a large kithen
That is everywhere hued in blue.
Her decision still wavers as
She flutters across the threshold.
Shakely fingers the silver
That burns her for being just too cold.

Clutched between pale hands
She slips to a marble floor.
Thinks about the lovely book
Read 5 times with the same in store.
Knows it never changes
In a made-up fairytale
And still weeps heavily
As her heart tips from where it's held.

The porcelain doll smiles
A plastered on mirage.
Laying on the marble as
"Tick, tick, tick" goes a wooden clock.
She looks to the clock once
And frowns gracefully before the chime
An inapprooriate 2:00 is the
Meaningly unbefitted time.

Cold metal is a reminder
When it slices delicately a bare leg.
She gasps and smiles at the doll
Whispering , "I'm so sorry Meg."
Scarlet threads across her skin
An ominous reprimand.
She studies it and thinks not again
With the knife now firmly in her hand.

Voices shimmer across the room
In abrupt, too late, protest.
"Emily, don't do it please!" they cry,
"You are sixteen, so young yet!"
The ghosts of family are nothing
To her decided mind.
Alone, loneliness eats away everything,
Every memory where cheerfulness once shined.

One more chocolate-eyed smile
One more painful, staggered breath.
She drops the knife and looks to her captor
Not the grim reaper and still a man of death.
Solemn tears slip down ivory cheeks
Submission the blade was a gone protest.
The gunshot zings and echoes in the blue
Never a frown but so many regrets.






User Comments: [3] [add]
-Closed-x-Eyes-
Community Member
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commentCommented on: Thu Aug 09, 2007 @ 03:04pm
I'm really no good with poems like these... sweatdrop


commentCommented on: Thu Aug 09, 2007 @ 11:06pm
thats actually really good... rather depressing, but good, none the less



sportyem
Community Member
FaithEmblem
Community Member
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commentCommented on: Sat Aug 11, 2007 @ 03:41am
Actually, I protest with your opinion!

I think that's the best thing you've ever written. . .

It holds more passion than your other poetry.

I liiiiiiiiiiiiiiike it mrgreen


User Comments: [3] [add]
 
 
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