This is a poem I wrote some time ago and published here in October of 2015. I’ve re-written it. I’d take the previous one down, but that feels ingenuine. I often take what I’ve made and rip it apart, before stitching it back together with different thread.
Since writing them, I’ve gone through many of poems and changed them. Without telling anyone. Just so you know. 😉
So without any further fuss
I give you –
Persephone Knows
My feet
They won’t walk right
My legs
They don’t shift light
My thoughts
So staggered
My sense
It’s shattered
No meter, no rhythm
Guess the lies never mattered
Beautiful how the truth can be.
Daringly sinister, you see.
The duality.
The beauty it can create.
Hearts it can incinerate.
Depending on the paintbrush
Using oils or lye
On which canvas
The why?
Even as the teardrops drip
And lips pout red
Something grows inside
As this truth is fed.
It’s really quite simple, darling.
Though that doesn’t make it easy.
It’s really not that hard.
Rather filled to empty.
Balances what’s inside me.
If I can’t be real
I can’t be free.
But now and then
I rummage and shuffle
Pretend I’m not me
Hide in this muzzle
Tips the scales and down I go
Falling until I hit bone and bow
When it comes to me,
Well, you see
Only hurt can smother the doubt
Always seem to take this route
So, I sit here and burn
Fight myself at every turn
Forget to breathe
Struggle and seethe
Scrape at the dead skin
Beg the truth not to win
Drowning in plastic again
I slam the windows
Barricade the door
But truth drags me by the feet
And I wash up on the shore
Drowning in flames
Dancing in the darkness
Shadows flickering
In duality’s likeness.
If only I’d remember
If only I’d learn
What always is salvaged.
Persephone knows
Death can be lovely
And flowers can be damaged.
If only I’d listen
I cannot hide pieces
And not be stricken.
The sun doesn’t always shine
The moon sometimes takes her time
I cannot smudge parts of my soul
And expect to live whole.
Truth cannot speak, only strike
Dormant matches in my chest
My beast never hides
Truth burns me best.
If only, if only
If only, I’d learn.
But always,
Always
I choose to burn.
by Daphne Shadows
(this poem is disjointed instead of flowy, on purpose)
