Romulus
New Member
Vampire
...Jaded Mandarin...
Posts: 230
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Mai/Me
Oct 20, 2005 17:55:57 GMT
Post by Romulus on Oct 20, 2005 17:55:57 GMT
I love that poem. I swear, some of your work scares me, and some of your work moves me, and some of your work I don't necessarily like, but that one above was...something that I really like. I'm such a self-centered b****** that I only like things when I relate to them, and the above is very...'relative'? (is that the word I'm looking for?)
But yes, I relate to that poem so freaking much. Congratulations Mai, I must say - you've earned back my respect. ^_^ That poem was just too amazing. Though I must ask. Why is there an accent mark over the u in 'f-ing'? Is that just supposed to be to block out the censor, or are you supposed to raise your voice a tone at that?
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Hope Daniels
New Member
Slytherin Student
.rainbow in disguise.
Posts: 1,005
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Mai/Me
Oct 20, 2005 21:20:52 GMT
Post by Hope Daniels on Oct 20, 2005 21:20:52 GMT
Gorgeous, Mai, just amazing - all of them.
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Mai/Me
Oct 20, 2005 23:04:09 GMT
Post by Teagan on Oct 20, 2005 23:04:09 GMT
Yes! Mai posted a new one!
That one scared me, but it was still beautiful. I would probably like it even more if I could relate, but I lack anything like that in my life.
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Mai/Me
Oct 21, 2005 10:14:38 GMT
Post by Maí Lé Rosà on Oct 21, 2005 10:14:38 GMT
Romulus: The 'ú' is for both those reasons, and thanks, I appreciate your comments.
Hope: Thanks, dove.
Teagan: Count yourself very, very lucky m'dear.
I really appreciate your comments...I'm not entirely sure if you all can relate. I know you can to an extent, but not entirely. I'll clear it up: When I was younger, an incident happened to me which almost resulted in rape. Then recently, I went out with a boy for seven months, then we broke up, and were good friends, until last friday. He did basically what I wrote, and I ended up with bruises, cuts, etc. I know he never intended for it to end up that bad, but it did, and he knows what happened to me those years ago, so I'm hurting because he knew, and still did it. He's said he's really sorry, but as I'm sure you all know, sometimes sorry just doesn't cut it.
Here's a story...
Little Boy of Faith
The cobblestone streets rang with the sound of bells on carriages, their thundering wheels sending dull vibrations through the ground. On the step of a corner shop sat a young boy, holding no more then seven years under his torn cap. His little hands were kept just that little bit warmer by moth-eaten gloves; the fingers cut out so they wouldn't get in the way each time he lit a match from his small box to keep himself warm. Lint and soot covered his grey jumper and brown suspenders, which themselves only went down to just above his black socks and shoes.
The night was bitter cold, every ounce of warm breath treasured and every howl of wind biting at the back of one's neck. Occasionally the door of the corner shop would open, letting out with it's customer a rush of heated air. Just like the customer, this rushed past the little boy, teasing him to warmth for a moment, before blowing out his match.
"Oi laddy, get back to yer home, yer keepin' me buyers away!" A man's gruff voice growled through the door at the boy, followed by the 'fwoosh' of a broom before it hit the boy in the back. "Sir! Sir!" Came the boy's excited reply, "Sir! Would'ya buy me matches?" The boy asked eagerly, standing and pulling the tiny matchbox from his pocket. "Ye' matches?!" The man spat, shoving the boy off the step with a stab of the broom in his hungry stomach. "Please sir?" Then the door of the shop slammed in his face, the condensation on it's glass inside sliding like tears to the floor.
Suddenly a feral dog ran past, knocking the boy off his feet and sending him and his matches back-wards into the snowy-gutter of the street. His freezing hands grabbed for the matches desperately, but they would be no use now. He wiped the crystallized mucus from his nose with his sleeve, his periwinkle eyes stinging from the blinding cold.
A carriage stopped nearby and a heavy fellow leaned on the door, toppling out clumsily and catching a lamp-post for balance before his face met the gutter too. Grunting loudly, he heaved himself onto the edge of the London street and began walking in the opposite direction; a bottle of sharp whiskey in his solid hand.
"Sir!" Cried the boy with newfound enthusiasm; his hope for a decent meal tonight renewed. He ran on skinny legs to catch up to the drunkard. "Sir, would'ya buy me gloves to keep yer hands warm?" He asked quickly, hopefully, tearing his gloves off his shaking hands. "Yer fúcking what?" The man roared, swiveling his beady, bloodshot eyes to the boy and bashing his bottle of ale across the boy's jaw. The man snatched up the gloves as the boy's body buckled and collapsed under the power of the blow. "Ye' wanta be sellin' things people need, ye' mongrel!" The drunkard bellowed, spinning on wobbly boots and heading off down a dark alley.
The boy's wide eyes blinked as he thought about what the man had said, his bare, cold hands gently holding his bleeding jaw. Just then, behind the orphan, a door of another shop opened, and a very fine gentleman stepped out on well-shined shoes.
The man was dressed in a vest of the finest red silk, his pants were clipped in a golden lace and he was clad with divine leather gloves. His black hair was slicked back handsomely, and jewels shone from the buttons of his shirt, vest, and the side of his shoes. His hand clutched a silver cane, a gem encrusted as it's centerpiece at the top, while two beautiful and equally dressed women hung off each of his arms.
Why, this man had everything!
The boy scrambled to kneel in front of the gentleman and took his cap off with respect. Lifting his timid eyes to the almost black eyes of the man, the boy's lips quivered as he realized the one thing this man needed...
"Sir, would'ya buy me smile?"
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Mai/Me
Oct 22, 2005 19:36:57 GMT
Post by Teagan on Oct 22, 2005 19:36:57 GMT
That's a good twist in your story, Mai. It was a completely unexpected ending.
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Mai/Me
Oct 23, 2005 11:38:03 GMT
Post by Nefastus Eurus Caelestise on Oct 23, 2005 11:38:03 GMT
It's beautiful, love. It touches your heart, and you can still feel it there long after you've read it.
The poems written earlier struck me, the first one reminding me of a Dir en grey song in a small form, and it makes you think. At least, it does to me. ^^ The second, yes, I can seriously relate to that... and I hope you're feeling better from that night. I'm always here to talk to if you ever need someone.
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Mai/Me
Oct 24, 2005 0:40:51 GMT
Post by Teagan on Oct 24, 2005 0:40:51 GMT
Eurus! ...I'm glad you're back.
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Mai/Me
Oct 29, 2005 3:20:28 GMT
Post by Maí Lé Rosà on Oct 29, 2005 3:20:28 GMT
-sigh- I feel so...Pushed to the side, at the moment? Mai isn't what she used to be...
Edit: I'm not what I used to be...
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Mai/Me
Oct 29, 2005 3:21:57 GMT
Post by Maí Lé Rosà on Oct 29, 2005 3:21:57 GMT
| Lé Puppet-Tear |
Puppet, why wont you break? Your smile is ever so fake. The wood in your chest, your arms, and the rest, Tell me, doesn't that ache?
Puppet, why wont you cry? Your hollow stare is always so dry. The black in your soul: a cut out hole, Blink puppet, wink puppet, try.
Puppet, why wont you speak? Don't act as though you're weak. It's always your s t r i n g s that grant you w i n g s , They're just the excuse you seek.
Puppet, why wont you die? If you can't speak, break, or cry? Why should I hold you, when I can't relate to
A puppet
who will only
L I E ?
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Mai/Me
Oct 29, 2005 4:23:15 GMT
Post by Carmen on Oct 29, 2005 4:23:15 GMT
I don't exactly know what to say, other than it really is beautiful. It touched me in a way I cannot describe, which is rather sad that I can't explain it to you.
Your poems are always lovely, my friend.
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joey crowe
New Member
Vampire
have i lost myself completely? now i think i'm heartless.
Posts: 661
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Mai/Me
Oct 29, 2005 4:24:50 GMT
Post by joey crowe on Oct 29, 2005 4:24:50 GMT
i've heard that before, the concept lacks originality.
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Mai/Me
Oct 29, 2005 5:02:34 GMT
Post by Carmen on Oct 29, 2005 5:02:34 GMT
Lacks originality? My dear friend, are you becoming a hypocrite? Please, leave your damn negative comments to yourself. It's not hard to do. Just don't type them!
And it would be very kind of you if you deleted your post, you know.
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Mai/Me
Oct 30, 2005 2:12:19 GMT
Post by Maí Lé Rosà on Oct 30, 2005 2:12:19 GMT
Thanks crowe...way to make my day.
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Mai/Me
Oct 30, 2005 2:19:14 GMT
Post by Nefastus Eurus Caelestise on Oct 30, 2005 2:19:14 GMT
Oh, Joey, don't be so rude to Mai. Be polite, dearest, it's the way we write and the point of view that makes it original.
I love how you have things accented and highlighted in the poem, Mai, as well as how you pieced it together. Simply beautiful. It compliments your abilities well.
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Mai/Me
Dec 4, 2005 12:31:14 GMT
Post by Maí Lé Rosà on Dec 4, 2005 12:31:14 GMT
We whizzed past traffic at a leisurely pace, not really knowing when we would meet our destination, let alone what it was. The headlights of other cars left me blind for a few moments after they passed, none of them courteous enough to switch them off bright. I stared out the window, watching silver raindrops hug the little bump of rubber than slips either side of the window to hold in the glass. They wiggled free of gravity sometimes, flying off the velocity and the whip of wind caused every time a traffic light turned green. The lights reflected in the slippery droplets, red, yellowy-orange, green...They were hypnotizing me. The lull of music crackled nervously from the new sound system in the old van; the system was new, but the old speakers couldn't handle it. It was a waste really. Could have spent the money on better things. Like a rose garden. I've always wanted one of those. Red, white and black roses. Faded peach too, but I only like those in summer. They're deliciously sweet-scented then. The smell tastes like fresh fruit. Melon. The music kept vibrating in a dull buzz in the right-hand speaker, it felt like some other presence in the van was trying to break the awkward silence that prevailed. The clock switched oily numbers to 12:56pm, and I lent my naked cheek on the cool glass of the window, looking out up at the stars. I saw Orion's belt, the twist of stars I called 'The Centaur', and the Seven Sisters. The Sisters were clear tonight, sparkling beautifully with each other right by their sides. When I stared long enough, it looked as though each star was made up of a little dome of light, with a tiny, glittering fairy dancing elegantly inside them. I used to picture that when I was a little girl. Mother used to say it was bullshït. So we drove on, my chin on my hand now, still gazing out at the night sky. It rained on, and something winking to me in the stars told me this would continue for another week or so. A dismal setting for early summer. I hated it. A bump in the road sent my knuckle up hard under my jaw, and I frowned. I heard the moist press of his lips come apart as he parted them to speak. "How was it?" He asked, his tone full of practiced enthusiasm. I could see right through it. He was trying, I'd give him that much. But that was all. "Fine." Came my short, monotone answer, sifting through it a silent message to leave me alone. Silence. That sick feeling of remorse welled below my collarbone, then sank, to that vulnerable spot just under the plump of my breasts, it made me sick as it sat there, dripping slowly into my stomach at an alarmingly slow rate. I swallowed back vomit, it burnt. His eyes were on the road, I could see this from his reflection in my window. I wouldn't look at him, I couldn't, I can't, it just feels strange. There's a barrier there. I can't say more than one word to everything he asks me. It's always a question, trying to evoke conversation from me, but my eyes fade to grey, my throat goes dry, my emotion disappears, heart slows, lips begin to crack, and my stomach starts to tango with my intestines. I can't look him in the eye, I've almost forgotten how deep the brown goes in those irises, and it hurts. I act cold. So, so cold. I act like I hate him. "Who'd you go with?" The next attempt. I murmured something, I don't even remember what, it never mattered. I felt attacked at his attempts to talk to me. I wanted to open the door of the van and step out, see what happened then. My hand rested softly on the handle of the door, casually, my thumb massaged the curves of it, testing it's flexibility. My weight was on the door, I knew when the handle would give way, a millimeter more and the door would open. The door would open. I inhaled deeply, and strangled the fear of looking out the front window. The strength it took to turn my face to the front, so I could see him from the corner of my eye, his twitchy hands clamped hard on the steering wheel, it was grossly underestimated. I froze. Paralyzed to look at nothing out the window, I didn't dare move back to look sideways. Everything was disfigured, I didn't want him to ask another question. I knew my hand would 'slip' on the door handle. 100kph. Hell, I'd end up uglier than I already was. Splattered tar to curb, flat flesh on pavement, blood seeping down the grates of a drain on the side of the road. He'd be accused of pushing me no doubt. He'd be accused of pushing me. The skip of saliva in the moist gap of his face signaled another question coming. It felt like a decade since the last one, but I wasn't ready for another one. I never would be. I coughed loudly, pretending there was a tickle in my throat. I coughed so hard, my throat scratched, ripped and tossed a hurl of blood and fluids from my mouth. I puked, all over the dashboard, he swerved in surprise, and tears sprung to the back of my eyes in agony. I inhaled sharply, gasping, and sinking my nails into my throat as I held back another convulsion, placing timid fingers against my lower stomach, I felt the small bump there. I wished it was a baby, more than I wished it was flat. There was something beautiful about a mother. They were ever so brave, and I needed courage right now. As flat as my stomach in fact was, it felt bulging, I felt fat. Ugly. It's hard to feel ugly when your favourite word is 'beautiful'. It's hard to see ugly when you dream of beauty. Dreams are always more passionate than reality. It's why we distort our reality to a dream. It's why I do. I'm ill. I need help. Swerve to the left, swerve to the right, my head swung in whiplash and I caught a final glance at the starry night. There is no bonnet on a van. I didn't need to open the door. The windscreen cracked itself into a fabulous display of spiderwebs, before my curls skidded against the blood of my own insides on the dashboard and my forehead broke through the arachnid's trap. I didn't make a sound. My mind dove in toward darkness as my pupils engulfed two perfect pinnacles of icy glass, blinding me instantly with a spray of scarlet. I'd always dreamed of being blind. I distantly heard that moist part of his lips beside me and I felt them press a quivering kiss to my bruised cheek. I couldn't move, but tears flowed delicately from the sills of my eyes. I thought about it, like the raindrops on the rubber of the van window. The last thing I saw was the sparkle in the glass heading for my eyes, like two of the Seven Sisters in the heavens. I knew I would be up there soon, it surprised me that tear ducts worked when one's eyes had just been split in four places like the uplifted corner of two dice. That kiss, rendered silence in my heart. My hair, like silk, slid down over my cheek to shield it from his lips. I...I felt beautiful. A smile even spread over my porcelain features as I parted from the world, swirling up into a vortex of grey to settle brightly among the Seven Sisters. I had never said more than one word to him. My invisible finger traced two words on the condensation of the window I'd been staring out of earlier. "Thank you." Then, I closed the door.
Who knows what that was... Who knows where I've been... Two words,
Miss me?
Love, ~Mai xx
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