"Doctor Nix."My little girl wouldn't sleep for it was a cold Winter's night, and she was a curious, bouncy, restless child. Being a musician, I was quite disrupted by the interferance, but I knew that she would not sleep without attention first, as she did so many days out of the week. "Tell me a story, Mother!" she'd always beg, but no story was satisfactory for her imagination, so on this night I was determined to give her something worth dreaming about. "Come here, Madeline, and let me tell you a story my own Mother told me when I was your age. When your Grandmother was a child, she lived in a quaint village at the top of a great hill in Kerry County, Ireland. There was not to much to do besides work so she'd often go and pick flower's for the supper-table. Everytime she went flower picking, she would pass the tiny cottage of the local legend- a middle-aged woman everyone called Doctor Nix. People were seen c
"...Remember...""Remember me!" she screams,
in the silence of her tears.
She locks away the memories
and throws away his fears.
She holds his hand through reckoning;
she kisses with a sigh.
"Remember me!" she pleads,
as if without him she'd die.
It was pure love that drove her there,
to a world of loathing and despair,
to the emptiness inside her soul,
the place where no one seems to care.
And everyday she remembers him,
the warmth inside his sheltered gaze.
She screams, "Remember!" with her eyes,
she's running out of days.
"Remember me!" she begs sometimes,
without her voice to yell.
She stares into his narrow eyes,
where, they say, she fell.
"Heaven"To this heaven I succomb,
the blossoms of bliss heavily lit,
to a darkness unpenetrable to all but the one
who I love.
Fear of sweet kisses lifts with the morning's dew,
enveloping the world in my happiness,
raining down upon draughts,
giving faith to those who were lost.
"Makeup"Applying makeup is like painting on a different soul.
I pick up the creamy beige foundation,
adding over it translucent white face powder,
perfecting the contour of my almond shaped eyes with jet black eyeliner.
As the soft brush flutters over my rosy cheeks,
I become someone else.
Deciding how I shall present myself gives me
a deep sense of independance.
As long last comes my favorite ending- the lips.
A red, pink, or burgandy lip color?
Most often I choose burgandy,
painting it over my lips until
they look swollen,
as if I had just bitten them.
I peer into the looking glass
exhulted with the art I have created
on my face.
"Back To Wonderland"The pain is screaming,
I cry my pool of tears.
The cat is grinning,
the cards are sinning,
the life I've lived for years.
All captive in my poisoned home,
all lost and all alone,
painting roses red.
Can't get away,
And off with every head.
Looking down- afraid to fall,
all at once short and tall.
"Eat me, drink me," all I fear.
The Whitest Rabbit late and praying,
the caterpillar's smoke words saying,
"Oh, you can't help that; we're all mad here!"
don't make a fuss.
not a place for the sane.
nowhere to play.
they've taken my powers.
I'll be Dead soon.