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- Last Login
- 09/28/2019 10:22 am
- Gender
- Female
- Birthday
- 07/05
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About
The name's~Bellé Morté
Please wear it out.
You can leave me on the corner of where you found me. I'm not for sale anymore.
I am an artist, a poet, a writer, song bird, dancer of the dance, wielder of questions, wielder of answers, lover, friend, child, mother, sister, brother, confidante, optimist, pessimist, open book, mystic, philosopher, metaphysical wanderer, hopeless romantic, dreamer, and human.
My favorite band of all time, without question, without doubt, without resentment, is indubitably Pink Floyd.
I suffer from OCD, ADHD, PTSD, Paranoia, Anxiety, Dysthymia, Daylight Hallucinations, Chronic Insomnia, Borderline Personality Disorder, and SID. Call me crazy, I love to hear it.
Scroll all the way down for pictures of me.
I am an artist, a poet, a writer, song bird, dancer of the dance, wielder of questions, wielder of answers, lover, friend, child, mother, sister, brother, confidante, optimist, pessimist, open book, mystic, philosopher, metaphysical wanderer, hopeless romantic, dreamer, and human.
My favorite band of all time, without question, without doubt, without resentment, is indubitably Pink Floyd.
I suffer from OCD, ADHD, PTSD, Paranoia, Anxiety, Dysthymia, Daylight Hallucinations, Chronic Insomnia, Borderline Personality Disorder, and SID. Call me crazy, I love to hear it.
Scroll all the way down for pictures of me.
On Artistic Integrity
As the cool afternoon breeze kisses my cheek,
As the grey clouds over head creep slowly across the sky,
And as my thoughts curl and contort just above my head,
I find my inspiration.
As I pen vulgarities and wish wash of heartache,
Gloomy Sundays and pelting rain amongst a storm,
Dramatizations clad in misery and woe,
I find my reason.
As I pinch a blush upon my cheek to meet and greet,
As I posture myself and dually note the reactions of others,
And as my observations take stead upon a blank page,
I find my rhyme.
Though I do not wish to make life out to be such an awful experience, or feign my love for darkness, or even cast a dim shadow upon the epitome of love itself, what am I to speak about if not of passion? How am I to call to the weak and lost souls if not through shared experiences? No, I do not believe that I should inspire others. Although to be an inspiration would be to have conquered many a great blunder and come out a hero, it is a glory best suited for those heroic. Shamefully, to whom it may concern, what I pen is memories and memories alone. To mark a stanza in my life story dutifully giving in detail my thoughts and feelings of circumstance. It is to place upon a page a rhyme and reason for what I have done, or what has been done to me. I believe there is an unacknowledged beauty in recognizing one’s own actions and reactions and showing them for the world to see, it is a beauty that is both a blessing and a curse. My fear, I’ve come to realize, is this: That my perception of things is no more than a disorder of my mind. That the pain, the sorrow, the tragedy, and the remorse are naught more than fantasies of a young girl without a cause to be so. That my theatrical demeanor is not for me, but for them. That I have simply forgotten my stead in my own reason and motivation. But clad thickly is that fear with pride. Pride of my works, pride of what I have accomplished and will accomplish. Pride in my readers understanding, pride in my vanity and hatred towards humanity. And this pride, I’ve come to know, is that blessing. For it gives me the fingers that grasp my pen. The thoughts that conjure such entrancing words. And the artistic integrity I’ve come to know and cling to.
In moments such as these, when I sit upon my back porch with the cool wind caressing my being and the sun shying behind the clouds as I puff a cigarette gracefully, that I think to myself: None of these opinions matter. None of my self-righteous critique and explanations for what I have become are what compose such a tapestry as I. For whether or not I dress in black and write poetry, I would adule the darker shades and pen my feelings. This is not because of the image in my brain of what I want to e. It is because of what I am. And with this knowledge comes power. Power to withstand the judgments of others and society’s hogwash of the perfect person and come out just s I was before. No, I am not saying that I will never change. I will, and do every day. I am simply saying that with these changes is solidarity in my character. I will always be this devious, brilliant, and self-destructive young girl you’ve come to know. I will always talk back to those opposing with an attitude condescending. I will always sing with a volume unwise, and walk with a quickness knowing not my destination. I will always write, and I will always write for me. Yes, a writer without a reader is no writer at all, but when one ’s self is the reader of one’s own, there comes a blessed self-awareness that calm the storm. Strong is she who knows her mind and speaks it. Fortunate the audience who hears such honest thoughts as these.
As the cool afternoon breeze kisses my cheek,
As the grey clouds over head creep slowly across the sky,
And as my thoughts curl and contort just above my head,
I find my inspiration.
As I pen vulgarities and wish wash of heartache,
Gloomy Sundays and pelting rain amongst a storm,
Dramatizations clad in misery and woe,
I find my reason.
As I pinch a blush upon my cheek to meet and greet,
As I posture myself and dually note the reactions of others,
And as my observations take stead upon a blank page,
I find my rhyme.
Though I do not wish to make life out to be such an awful experience, or feign my love for darkness, or even cast a dim shadow upon the epitome of love itself, what am I to speak about if not of passion? How am I to call to the weak and lost souls if not through shared experiences? No, I do not believe that I should inspire others. Although to be an inspiration would be to have conquered many a great blunder and come out a hero, it is a glory best suited for those heroic. Shamefully, to whom it may concern, what I pen is memories and memories alone. To mark a stanza in my life story dutifully giving in detail my thoughts and feelings of circumstance. It is to place upon a page a rhyme and reason for what I have done, or what has been done to me. I believe there is an unacknowledged beauty in recognizing one’s own actions and reactions and showing them for the world to see, it is a beauty that is both a blessing and a curse. My fear, I’ve come to realize, is this: That my perception of things is no more than a disorder of my mind. That the pain, the sorrow, the tragedy, and the remorse are naught more than fantasies of a young girl without a cause to be so. That my theatrical demeanor is not for me, but for them. That I have simply forgotten my stead in my own reason and motivation. But clad thickly is that fear with pride. Pride of my works, pride of what I have accomplished and will accomplish. Pride in my readers understanding, pride in my vanity and hatred towards humanity. And this pride, I’ve come to know, is that blessing. For it gives me the fingers that grasp my pen. The thoughts that conjure such entrancing words. And the artistic integrity I’ve come to know and cling to.
In moments such as these, when I sit upon my back porch with the cool wind caressing my being and the sun shying behind the clouds as I puff a cigarette gracefully, that I think to myself: None of these opinions matter. None of my self-righteous critique and explanations for what I have become are what compose such a tapestry as I. For whether or not I dress in black and write poetry, I would adule the darker shades and pen my feelings. This is not because of the image in my brain of what I want to e. It is because of what I am. And with this knowledge comes power. Power to withstand the judgments of others and society’s hogwash of the perfect person and come out just s I was before. No, I am not saying that I will never change. I will, and do every day. I am simply saying that with these changes is solidarity in my character. I will always be this devious, brilliant, and self-destructive young girl you’ve come to know. I will always talk back to those opposing with an attitude condescending. I will always sing with a volume unwise, and walk with a quickness knowing not my destination. I will always write, and I will always write for me. Yes, a writer without a reader is no writer at all, but when one ’s self is the reader of one’s own, there comes a blessed self-awareness that calm the storm. Strong is she who knows her mind and speaks it. Fortunate the audience who hears such honest thoughts as these.
Succubus
She walked with stars and the moon in her sway,
She spoke with the melodic tune of harps being played,
She saw with the weight of temptation in her gaze,
She hunted with blood lust, her poor, willing prey.
Her routine was simple, though called for a mess,
When she rips the still-beating hearts from their chests.
It begins with a word, one hauntingly low,
That crawls, creeping into your heart from below,
The seed now planted, it begins to grow,
And leaves you dripping with desire on the morrow.
Return, they always do, with the hope that she’ll show,
Her appealing body she won’t soon bestow.
And next, there’s a kiss, one painted with fire,
That intoxicates your conscious thought and takes you higher,
To lands of heated passionate nights you’ll remember,
And that fire tickles your tongue with its embers.
By then, you are past the point of no return,
And in the fire you’re destined to burn,
But you can’t break away from the undying pleasures,
The ever-waking throbbing ache for her treasures,
And with her stare she crawls inside of your skin,
Attaching herself to every fiber within,
So you venture forth in your relentless tries,
To feel the warmth of her flesh from the inside,
Meanwhile you’re stricken, you’ve nowhere to hide.
As you wait for that day when your beings will collide.
Her touch coils around your body so still,
Encircling you in a vise of passion distilled,
It tightens your throat as you gasp for air,
But you can’t find the light through the waves of her hair,
And then it comes slowly, lingering vaguely above,
Realizations of the woman you’ve given your love.
But quicker than another thought could be conjured,
Her venomous lips part with dark laughter now heard,
Her claws rake down your chest, peeling back the skin,
Her teeth sink into your neck, and without hesitation she begins,
To drain your thick life-source so bitterly sweet,
Sucking and savoring this delectable treat,
Until the last drop slides desperately down her throat,
And only then, can she look back on your encounter and gloat,
“It’s so easy!” She cries, “So easy to kill!”
She bubbles in laughter at the sake of the thrill,
But soon, the joy is gone, and again she must sate,
Her obsession with hearts and their taste as they break.
She walked with stars and the moon in her sway,
She spoke with the melodic tune of harps being played,
She saw with the weight of temptation in her gaze,
She hunted with blood lust, her poor, willing prey.
Her routine was simple, though called for a mess,
When she rips the still-beating hearts from their chests.
It begins with a word, one hauntingly low,
That crawls, creeping into your heart from below,
The seed now planted, it begins to grow,
And leaves you dripping with desire on the morrow.
Return, they always do, with the hope that she’ll show,
Her appealing body she won’t soon bestow.
And next, there’s a kiss, one painted with fire,
That intoxicates your conscious thought and takes you higher,
To lands of heated passionate nights you’ll remember,
And that fire tickles your tongue with its embers.
By then, you are past the point of no return,
And in the fire you’re destined to burn,
But you can’t break away from the undying pleasures,
The ever-waking throbbing ache for her treasures,
And with her stare she crawls inside of your skin,
Attaching herself to every fiber within,
So you venture forth in your relentless tries,
To feel the warmth of her flesh from the inside,
Meanwhile you’re stricken, you’ve nowhere to hide.
As you wait for that day when your beings will collide.
Her touch coils around your body so still,
Encircling you in a vise of passion distilled,
It tightens your throat as you gasp for air,
But you can’t find the light through the waves of her hair,
And then it comes slowly, lingering vaguely above,
Realizations of the woman you’ve given your love.
But quicker than another thought could be conjured,
Her venomous lips part with dark laughter now heard,
Her claws rake down your chest, peeling back the skin,
Her teeth sink into your neck, and without hesitation she begins,
To drain your thick life-source so bitterly sweet,
Sucking and savoring this delectable treat,
Until the last drop slides desperately down her throat,
And only then, can she look back on your encounter and gloat,
“It’s so easy!” She cries, “So easy to kill!”
She bubbles in laughter at the sake of the thrill,
But soon, the joy is gone, and again she must sate,
Her obsession with hearts and their taste as they break.
:ʎʇısoıɹnɔ ɹnoʎ ǝʇɐs o⊥ 'ǝɯ ɟo sǝɹnʇɔıԀ
Multimedia
Signature
[i:b7fefb01bf]We're creatures of the underworld...[/size:b7fefb01bf][/i:b7fefb01bf][/align:b7fefb01bf]
[b:b7fefb01bf]Bellé Morté[/align:b7fefb01bf][/size:b7fefb01bf][/b:b7fefb01bf]
[i:b7fefb01bf]...We can't afford to love.[/size:b7fefb01bf][/align:b7fefb01bf][/color:b7fefb01bf][/i:b7fefb01bf]
[img:b7fefb01bf]http://i838.photobucket.com/albums/zz308/anna_apocalypse/33fa2786-5f5c-4226-b21b-7993188d4550_zps69adf2e2.jpg[/img:b7fefb01bf][/align:b7fefb01bf]
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