By Sabrina Samone
Copyrights © Tortured Muse, 2005
I rarely share my poetry because most then, realize how morbid I can be. Even attempting to write something romantic, usually ends tragically and dark, but after reading a few poems recently I felt I wanted to share my fictional side, hope you enjoy.
She’s one of the daughters of the God of the sea,
Being murdered by you,
You fool.
She came to help
But you stone the already battered soul.
That cat even knows,
But you,
You, just go on with your flow.
Go!
Or open your soul’s eyes
See the corpse before you
Bleeding,
Rotting flesh
Symphonies of a thousand composers,
oozing like pus out of her veins.
The paint of countless artists,
boils
on her skin.
A dramatist tears,
flows from her eyes
as black as tar,
with the stench of Hades.
Your sins are with her
Now rape her body with your eyes
See her radiant,
No care,
Beauty, you think undeserving
Untouchable
Fierce control,
Independent and wise
Or
Continue choosing your illusions
Scares dressed in lace so you can feel okay,
Never seeing how the scars grow,
Never seeing how powerful you re to her as well.
So?
Continue!
Hammer her head,
More
So that her brains drip off her body,
like the thoughts of a writer,
onto his sheets.
That you fool
Was the last daughter
Of the Great God
of the sea
Your inspiration,
Ours,
Your muse if you will.
She could walk your soul to the gates of Satan’s door
Rattle your brain
until your thoughts are no longer yours.
Lost dreams
Fantasies never fulfilled,
Empty marriages and empty carriages,
A rotting womb and barren tombs
Rejoice for death
Remorse a birth
A blank stare into the abyss
A never ending reach
For the next process
Can be
And still you tempt.
Only gifts
She longs to give.
Inspired dreams yet dreamt.
A thousand songs yet sung.
Countless realities,
imagined,
portrayed,
understood.
Endless midnight readings.
Never ending green landscapes,
seen in deserts.
Waterfalls seen in a metropolis.
Fragmented bodies,
connecting,
To a tapestry that never ends.
Only when gone will you know
She had been your muse,
With cold
Blood (?) by Italian artist Deaz
Dripping
Dripping
From your hands.
Ofcourse I believe you should come away with your own meaning, but have had so many friends think it was just a blood and gore poem, its really meant to symbolize what it means to your inner muse, when you don't follow your dreams and heart.
2 comments:
I understood the reference you were getting across about the dangers of not listening to your creative side. We as artists and creators in general are given a gift and a talent and are called to use it for a higher purpose. If we fail to do so then we are plagued/cursed with a tortured soul for repressing our true nature and calling. I feel that way a lot of the time when I don't take time to create. Good job. It def was dark lol, but my poetry is depressing and angry for the most part. Writing is how we get all the bad stuff out I guess.
Thank you Mr. Jeffrey, I'm honored and flattered that such a great writer and artist stopped by to read my little ramblings, :). Thank you.
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