If I paint myself
By
Serena Mossgraves
Would you love me
if I paint myself
to resemble the child
you wanted me to be?
plucking away each
of my differences
making sure I was just
the one you planned me to be ?
The paint is peeling,
perfection an illusion,
not reality…
I cannot make myself
fit the dream of who I should be.
If I paint myself to fit the world
I lose the colors I was given at my birth,
And darkness settles in…
smothering my mirth.
Under my head
By
Serena Mossgraves
the stones are poking
so painful today,
the box is broken
under my head.
I was laid down
and told to rest
in place filled with
glass from my memory
grounded.
perhaps it was supposed to be
soft silt for me to lie,
but due to the chaos of my broken life
shards of stone and hatred
are poking painfully
under my head.
Stained Glass burial
By
Serena Mossgraves
bury the urge
in my soul,
to be perfect.
I am broken glass
from a stained glass window
only in the shades of gray.
Crimson drops reveal
the fault lines
that deeply carve into
the soul released across
eternity .
Decompose
By
Serena Mossgraves
Don’t know what is
Eating at me,
Clawing into my soul…
Opening up my
Memories at the end of the knife.
Pretending that I will be
Okay after all is
Said and done…
Eventually.
Breaking Down
By
Serena Mossgraves
the news speaks
of another death,
a child found in tragedy,
and the thought begins
that society is
breaking down.
perhaps it is but the symptom
of the design,
a disease of the collective mind.
darkness seeping from each corner ,
so the only ones that see
the ones that suffer,
are the childlike.
Society is
breaking down
and not a soul
notices…
Peeling
By
Serena Mossgraves
I need to finish all the stories
That lay half written,
Instead of dreaming of new tales
Where I am a monster
That can just peel away their skin.
The theme is utterly clear
Mentally I want to strip out
Of who I am,
Peeling away from the
Responsibilities…
Yet, still I am not a
Monster.
Blindfold
By
Serena Mossgraves
I have found it too easy
To don the darkness
Of the intentional
Blindfold.
If I can not see
Then it will not
Hurt me,
If I am but
Blind,
Then you are
But a figment
Of my mind.
Sirens lullaby
By
Serena Mossgraves
Blood in the street,
youth for the reaper to greet.
regrets pour from the end
of the gun like just another rainstorm .
Perhaps the community is so used
to playing the game,
oh well that's just fireworks again...
and the reaper's approach
will go unnoticed.
Or the sirens will be the lullaby
the infants remember
because of how oft they have
heard them .
What the Dead Know
By
Serena Mossgraves
Regrets add weight
To the soul,
Leaving knowledge
Of what life has been
Stripped away
From all that was
Worthwhile.
Instead of fighting with
What the Dead know,
The living should be
Thinking about how
To live instead.
Hell
By
Serena Mossgraves
I read somewhere
That Hell was a place
Of fire and suffering,
I think not.
Hell is familiar,
That place you go
over and over again.
Hell is repetition,
and unending.
Hell is the moment
where the pain feels
the most like home.
Perhaps there might
be suffering,
but in the moment
would you see it so?
Or would you merely accept
that this is all you have
ever really known?
Pattimouse 