Muses

One of my friends once said that muses work, because they are unattainable. Only when they are unattainable would you spend so much time and effort craving for their very presence.


I miss you so much it hurts.

I need inspiration.

Playing God

Playing God

I have given you life.

Transformed you from a creature of warm flesh

Into one that no longer needs to breathe.

You don’t need to.

Not any more.

With just a few scrawls on cream paper

You have been immortalized.

Today, you exist in more than a dozen creations

A different facet of yourself in each one

Every one captured with the same loving hand.

With a few embellishments, your metamorphosis

From a mundane human to absolute perfection

Is complete.

End.

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Yes, more emo poetry.

To Love

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket- safe, dark, motionless, airless--it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.”

- C S Lewis

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So. Is that good or bad?

The Transgresser and the Fool

The Transgresser and the Fool

At the sight of a single smile

The entire world comes to a stop.

Minutes, hours, time; precious time

Spent just thinking of you.

Time wasted, thinking of you.

Hammering heartbeats, tightening throats

Flushing a furious pink. Looking like a bad sun burn.

Generally making a fool out of myself.

Seeing you is crippling.

I end up tripping over legs, over words

And over nothing at all.

You catch my breath, surreptitiously

Steal into my dreams.

You have taken my undivided attention

And of course, your ultimate sin

You've robbed me of that oh-so-vital organ

My heart.

End.

Ward 3A

Ward 3A

Take a deep breath.

Close your eyes.

We’re going to take a trip, you and I.

Put away your busy life for a moment.

It’s not going to take long. It’s just a trip

To a place most people don’t care to visit.

They shove it aside, sweep reminders of it under a carpet.

But really, some things in life shouldn’t be forgotten.

I’m just reminding you of them, in the kindest way

I can. Now

Breathe.

The sharp, sickly-sweet sting of alcohol invades your nose

And your shoes screech against the spotless floor with every step.

It's an annoying sound, one that grates against your nerves.

The same way their teeth grates

When they watch their various fluids

Pooling into a limp plastic bag.

Look on closely.

As you pass each room, observe what goes on behind every glass door

Be reminded

Of the many different ways you can die on this earth.

This one looks on in horror while the angels of death

Swoop down and jam a sharp, shiny needle into his skin.

It quickly fills with a plum coloured paint and

Leaves behind trailing roses of the same colour

On his pale canvas.

That one seems to be sleeping.

Seems to be. She shakes, shivering lightly

As her face twists in pain every few seconds.

She doesn't need nightmares. She is in one.

There are at least twenty tubes leading out of her body

Into a cold machine.

There is another who doesn't seem to feel anything at all.

His skin and eyes are like paper.

White. Empty. Blank. It makes you wonder

Where do their spirits go with their bodies still living?

Are they trapped in the cracks of their own mind?

Or are they buried deep in a garden somewhere in heaven?

Questions only they can answer. And they never will.

Now, open your eyes. Breathe.

I told you it wouldn’t take long.

This is the world that we ignore

In our sunshine and laughter.

This is the one that is forced

To stay in the shadows of our world.

Remember it.

Go back to your life. Keep moving.

Keep breathing.

Even with your eyes open

It’s still going to be there.

End.

Careful What You Wish For

Careful What You Wish For

You scream

When your eyes settle on the fallen figure

Blood spills on the floor

As a ruby river

“Come back”

You cry

An excruciating moment later

He rises

He rises

An excruciating moment later

You cry

“Come back”

As a ruby river

Blood spills on the floor

When your eyes settle on the fallen figure

You scream

End.

Dreaming of Faerieland

Dreaming of Faerieland

Imagine this.

You place your head on a pillow and immediately sink into soft sleep. When you next open your eyes, you will be in an open field. The night air is perfumed with sweet flowers. The sky is black velvet, sprinkled with the finest diamonds. You are not alone.

Less than ten meters away is a circle of dancers. They sing as the spin in a circle, their voices low and haunting. Siren-like. Then you catch sigh of their knife-like ears, impossibly long, bone-thin fingers. One of them has leaf-green skin and hair. Another has butterfly wings sprouting from her back. Another turns to wave at you. His smile beckons, his eyes are inviting. His voice is honey, turning your name warm and sweet as he calls you. You join them without a thought.

Take their hands and dance. You spin in dizzying circles for what feels like mere minutes, but must be hours because when they stop, the sky is rose pink and veined with gold. They release their grip on your hands slowly, reluctantly.

“Goodbye,” one says. You realize he is the one who had called your name. he presses a gentle kiss to your lips and steps away. They melt like nightmares in the coming dawn.

You wake, your heart in your mouth and tears in your eyes. Returning to the drudgery of life.

End.

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I've been dreaming a lot lately. Different things each time. It changes; from faeries to vampires to manga to... Whatever. And each time, I never want to wake up.

Exspecto

A Snow White subversion.

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Exspecto

Blanche is a girl who lives in the woods. She is beautiful; her reflection tells her so. But of what good is beauty when your mother, who is a powerful witch, hates you and determined to kill you? What good is beauty when the only people you see are seven little men, their grotesque bodies twisted and misshapen? How is beauty supposed to save you then?

The craft she has inherited from her witch mother are of little comfort to her. She has scryed the future so many times she can see it clearer than her present. She sees the handsome prince, sees him lift her on his horse and take her away to his castle to live happily ever after. She knows it will happen; she just doesn’t know when.

The charmed forest animals bring her food; the dwarfs she had magicked into being have built her this cottage, heaped shining jewels at her feet. They bring her all she desires except what she wants most; a future. One safe from the venomous gaze of her mother.

Every time she sees her reflection – on the surface of the copper kettle, or the cloudy silverware – she is half-tortured by hope and anticipation. She is beautiful, she knows. She only has to wait for her prince to come riding by and he will fall in love with her and rescue her from her lonely existence. But it is because she is beautiful she is trapped in this lonely cottage to begin with; living in exile because of her beauty and the jealous hatred it inspires in her mother.

And so, time passes. As the seasons change, and months of waiting turn to years, she grows from a rosebud of a girl into a woman in full bloom. Her ruby lips remain unkissed, her white skin and ebony hair, untouched. She begins to grow tired of waiting, begins to grow tired of seeing a future she can only dream of.

And as time passes, she begins to forget what it is she is waiting for.

…o…

The witch queen inspects her face carefully in the mirror, wary of any change. The heart the woodman gave her had tasted bitter and dry, like smoke and ash, not the sweet revenge she had imagined. But she had savoured the taste anyway; after all, it was Blanche's heart. When you consume a thing's heart you consume its power, and Blanche's power had always been her beauty.

It takes her years to realise that it was not her witch daughter's heart she had eaten; years of wondering at the emptiness gnawing at her, when she ought to have felt sated – after all, she had her revenge hadn’t she? It takes a strand of hair – frost white and wiry – amongst her raven locks before she realises she has been fooled, and Blanche remains alive and full of power. She confirms this with her witchcraft, spies the witch girl still young, still alive and still more beautiful than her, living in the woods. The faithless woodcutter she kills for deceiving her.

It doesn't take long for her to discover her daughter's whereabouts, and when she does, she sets out, determined to kill the girl once and for all.

…o…

It is winter when the two meet. The falling snow is not fresh and white, but ash grey, like their hearts.

The old woman, a hag really, with her back bent over with age and bitterness holds out a basket of apples with spotted, twisted hands. Each fruit is so red the young woman cannot help but think of blood.

She recognizes her mother, even with the illusion of age the witch queen has draped around herself. She can smell the bitter poison in each impossibly red apple, and even without the smell and colour, of course she would know they are magicked – after all, whoever has heard of winter apples? The witch did not think through her plan very carefully; she must have been desperate.

They gleam with the promise of release, for herself and for the witch queen.

The young woman reaches out a slender hand, and without a trace of hesitation, takes a large bite. The smell of poison is choking, and the flesh of the apple is warm, it slides down her throat like a chunk of bloody meat. In moments, she has collapsed on the floor, her hair spread around her like a black star, a dying one. The witch queen leaves, satisfied.

This is what they have been waiting for all along.

End.

The Little Girl and Her Garden

Probably one of my best pieces of writing. Not that that means much.

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The Little Girl and Her Garden

Once upon a time, there was a perfectly ordinary little girl. She was of ordinary height, had ordinary brown hair and had an ordinary face that was neither pretty not plain. Now, the little girl disliked this ordinariness, and longed to be different; whether a delicate and beautiful princess, or a strong proud warrior who went into battle swinging an axe, she didn't care so long as she could escape her mundane existence. Like many others, this little girl wanted many things; to be special, to never be overlooked, but all her desires stemmed from her first and greatest one: to never be alone. There was just one thing she had that made her different; she had a gift with plants and trees, so that under her tender care, her little garden flourished like Eden. Each flower was a radiant angel, each tree a great giant, and each fruit seemed forbidden, for every one was far sweeter, firmer and juicer than those found in any marketplace in the world. For fear of being left alone, the girl decided to put all her heart and soul into her garden so that people would come visit it, and thus, her. In order to please her, for they loved her dearly, the trees and flowers did their very best to grow tall and strong and beautiful.

Throughout the spring and summer, people from all over the world flocked to her wondrous garden to see her flowers; the colours of her blossoms were richer and brighter than any precious stone, their petals softer than the finest silk, their scent was like an angel's breath. She would pick blooms and weave them into wreaths and bouquets to be given to whoever visited, even when dusk came and she would be left with none to admire, for they promised to visit her every day if she did so. Because of this, the flowers protested, for they had to grow doubly fast in order to replace the ones that had been picked. "Please, please, stop," the flowers would whisper. "I can't, I can't," the girl would reply in sobs as she reached out to take yet another blossom. "For if I did, no one would visit me." They had nothing to say to that, but parted their thorns and swatted the flies and gnats away to make her task easier, even though their plant-hearts were heavy with sadness.

When fall came, the fruit turned ripe and firm and the trees seemed to blaze red and gold like the sun. She gave away the fruit to those who visited her with a happy heart, even when she was left with only the rotting ones to eat, for the people promised to visit her every day if she continued to do so. Because of this, the fruits protested, for they had to grow doubly fast in order to replace the ones that had been picked. "Please, please stop," the fruit would whisper. "I can't, I can't," the girl would reply in sobs as she reached to take yet another fruit. "For if I did, no one would visit me." They had nothing to say to that, so they grew as large and sweet as they could to please her and the humans, even though their plant-hearts were heavy with sadness.

Then winter came to pass, and the leaves, flowers and fruit fell to the soil and rotted away, leaving branches thin and bare. The garden looked like a bride, fresh and virginal, draped with a crystalline veil. It was still as beautiful as it had always been, but it was a different kind of beauty, one that was simple and pure, that didn't require a riot of colours to hide in. Despite this, no one came to her garden any more as there were no more flowers or fruits they could take home, and it would be quite foolish and impossible to bring back a handful of snow. A week went by, and then another, without a single soul coming to visit the poor little girl. She wept, her heart aching with loneliness and despair, and her hot tears melted and watered the frozen plants. Then they wept with her, for her despair was so great. "We will try," they told her. "We will try."

With great effort, rich green leaves began to grow. The rose bushes blossomed with large fat blooms; sunny yellow, cheery pink, snow white and blood red. The fruit trees grew flowers that quickly became fruit, ripe and tempting as ever. As the girl watched, she continued to weep, but her tears were now those of joy as she watched the jewel-hued plants grow before her in the midst of a bleak winter landscape.

Word of this miracle spread quickly and once again, people flocked to see her garden. At its centre, the little girl met them, with smiles on her face and gifts of flowers and fruit in her arms. They stopped short, and fell to their knees to thank the Lord for this miracle.

That was when one pious man protested, and said that it must be witchcraft. "For it is impossible for flowers to bloom and fruit to ripen in the winter," he said. "Let alone for them to be of these monstrous sizes and gaudy colours." The others agreed that there was sense in his words, and declared that the little girl must indeed be a witch. "Stone her!" they cried. Frightened, and unable to comprehend the sudden turn in events, the girl remained where she was and did not attempt to flee. She did not take long to die.

As she drew in her last breath, the ground rumbled in anger. The earth opened under the people's feet like a gaping mouth and the people tumbled into an abyss, without any hope of escape. The trees around the garden began to grow and grow, until they were taller than the sky, far too high to scale. The rose bushes that ringed the garden quickly became wild and tangled, with razor sharp thorns that would tear at the flesh and blind any intruder who dared try to enter the garden. And the little girl's body rests in the centre of her miraculous garden for all time, surrounded by her beloved plants; the ones who had and would always loved her.

End.

You Remind Me

You Remind Me

Of childhood.

Fairy stories of beautiful princesses and

Their knights in shining armour.

Sunlight and butterflies dancing across fields.

People cried, sometimes. Never for long.

Of happiness.

Bursting into song and dance in the middle of the street

We don't care what they think.

On a beach, the sea a glittering sapphire;

A warm smile and gentle eyes.

Your hand folds itself neatly over mine.

Of pain.

The prince has forgotten his horse.

He cuts a sad figure; limping along dusty roads

His armour scratched and dull.

The sky is overcast and the sea choked with garbage.

The people here do not cry

But they have forgotten how to sing.

In that one glance

You remind me of all these.

End.

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This can benefit from a LOT of comments. I like the imagery to it, but please critique so I may improve. Thank you. =)