Sonnet
Sweetest heart and deepest eyes,
Guardian, thy soul is pure;
No hatred hold, nor delve in lies,
Though many trials thee'll endure.
Hold fast, Stranger; fear not weep,
Fear not storms nor creatures dark.
Sade is thee in thy's warm keep,
In thee's chest burns harty spark.
With steadfast courage, thee I trust
From darkest dusk 'til brightest dawn.
Corrupt not, nor held by lust,
Thee is faithful, sword undrawn.
If thee's detained in dimmest grove,
Hold fast to heart, and mind not rove.
Here and There: There by Rockwell--Shaw, literature
Literature
Here and There: There
There
Something there I see is Red
Warm, not dead
Still, but stead
Something there I see is Red
Something that entreats me
Something there I see is Blue
Fresh and New
Calm and Flew
Something there I see is Blue
Something that defeats me
Something there I see is Green
Never seen
Hid by screen
Something there I see is Green
Something that relieves me
Something there I see is Dark
Near and hark
Grows a spark
Something there I see is Dark
Something that believes me
Something there I see is light
Not a plight
Though a sprite
Something there I see is light
Something that depletes me
Something there I see is Red
Never fled
Here and There: Here by Rockwell--Shaw, literature
Literature
Here and There: Here
Here
Something, here, I feel is cold
New then old
Shy then bold
Something, here, I feel is cold
Something that restrains
Something, here, I feel is waiting
Still debating
Still relating
Something, here, I feel is waiting
Something now that gains
Something, here, I feel is beating
Never needing
Now receding
Something, here, I feel is beating
Something that pertains
Something, here, I feel is calling
Going, stalling
Flying, falling
Something, here, I feel is calling
Something that refrains
Something, here, I feel is cold
Blue then gold
Red and fold
Something, here, I feel is cold
Something now that strains
Prologue
Candles
My life ended at age six. I remember it so vividly, that last fleeting moment of tranquility, that last breath where everything tasted crisp and pure like mountain air. That last moment before my world was to come crashing down on top of my head and crushing what little pure and innocent soul I had left inside of me. I remember being alive, sitting up in my room, staring out my window into the dark night.
It had been my birthday that evening; Family had gathered and we had celebrated the usual way with cake and ice cr
Mary Had A Little Doll by Rockwell--Shaw, literature
Literature
Mary Had A Little Doll
Mary Had A Little Doll
Mary had a little doll
She dressed and fed it well
She kept it dry when rain would fall
And thought it rather swell
Her little doll, so sweet and kind,
Accepted gifts so graciously
But Mary dearest kept in mind
The pain the doll stored viciously
While on a walk one sunny day
Mary and her doll did spy
The Preacher of the church, and prayed
An exorcism he'd not try
But he caught sight and flipped a fit
And Mary felt not well
He cursed and flailed and flipped a fit
And said shed go to hell
So Mary took her dolly home
And with a spiteful air,
Cut a slit in dollys dome
And stuffed her with the
Jo, Jo
Jo, Jo
Standing in snow
Never knew
Which way to go
Never knew
Just who to see
Never knew where
Or when to be
Jo, Jo
Standing in snow
Whos life had highs
And dreadful lows
Whos memory comes
And memory goes
As biting cold
Bites at his nose
Jo, Jo
Sitting in snow
Wishing for rain to fall
And wind to blow
For Summer to come
And Spring to go
For Falls reprieve
And Winters glow
Jo, Jo
Sitting in snow
Breathing hard
And breathing slow
Waiting for
His life to go
And melt away
With ice and snow
Jo, Jo
Laying in snow
Willing to sleep
Willing to go
Missing those friends
He dared let go
insanity in its mildest form by Rockwell--Shaw, literature
Literature
insanity in its mildest form
insanity in its mildest form
a nervous twitch, eyes rolling back into your head
how long will you hold out?
even insanity in its mildest form will kill
feast on the blood that seeps from the wounds
that shard of silver slitting your throat
greedilly stealing away the light from your eyes
enclosing you in a sickening embrace
altogether so comforting and alluring
you can't resist insanity, even in its mildest form
constricting the beats of your heart
keeping your breathing at a bare minimum
twisting that silver twine around your neck
squeezing the very words from your lips
dripping down into that velvety oblivion
for even insanit
I Will Not
I will not tell you what it is that's wrong
that is much too simple
besides that fact you'd never understand
and that it is not in a matter of words
but more like images
people
places
feelings
I can not tell what it is that lingers in this hollow heart
I will not
I will not tell you what it is I crave to tell
Even if oblivion looms
for it's a secret kept even from myself
A shallow reality I struggle to control and restrain
Like a rabid hound thirsting
For blood
Flesh
Bone
Even when my heart fills itself with this oppressing sickness
I will not
Flower
A day
A year
An hour
Captured thus
Inside a flower
Counting all
The moments past
Joys like such
Can never last
A week
A month
A second
Tilting thus
The flower beckoned
Summing all
My mortal fears
In this fragile
Angel's tears
In no breath
Or space
Or time
Can any human rhyme
Captivate this
Lovely flower
Who's life
Lasts but
An hour
That Musty Smell
I found myself down main street this morning, walking Jake, letting him rediscover all the sights and smells that were now to be his home, when I saw this man sitting up against a building. His knees were drawn up to his chest and were visible through the growing holes in his jeans--He was wearing an oversized parka that was worn nearly thread bare, and stuffing poked up through the holes within the fabric. He had no shirt, and I could see him shivering, even from the distance I was at, his short red hair damp from some unknown liquid. His bare toes were curled, and his feet were dirt-encrusted and lined with dried blood.
He Writes No Longer
He Writes No Longer
Than 10 pages
When I open his letter
That fresh scent of basil
drifts up and greets me
That familiar little leaf
That there's still someone
Willing to listen
But He Writes No Longer
Atleast not to me
The real me is still clutching
Onto that little sprig of Basil
One of which
I will no longer find
Tucked amongst the bills
In the back of my mailbox
And He Writes No Longer
Because of the selfish fool
That he's discovered me as
We're both tired
of reading the same thing
ever week or so
watching the same pen
scrawl across the same stationery
So He Writes No Longer
Bored with the usu
A Wasted Invention
A wasted invention
this little pathedic piece of plastic
that rings and lights up
much to my disturbance
What's the point?
to call someone to talk
and end up screaming to and fro
to both of our distress
A wasted invention
meant only to tear apart hearts
and devour hope in an instant
with a simple expression
What's the point?
I no longer yearn to hear your ring
or your voice, even
as you do me, I'm sure
A wasted invention
that of which I now passionately loath
I'll put an end to you
and kill whatever is left
Because It Hurt
Because It Hurt
I no longer call
because it hurt
I gaze at the wall
waiting for
your gentle touch
because it hurt
I'm denied this much
Because It Hurt
you stay away
because it hurt
you dare not say
wishing for
my last return
but no, my love
this court's adjourned
Because It Hurt
I waste away
because it hurt
I curse the day
waiting for
your voice, to hear
and still I yearn
to hold you near
Because It Hurt
I begin to write
becuase it hurt
I fail to sight
wishing for
the pain to ease
and hoping one day
you, I'll please.
Shaken, Not Stirred
While sitting amongst my twisted covers
legs crossed, eye down-cast
Indistinct voices fill the room
errupting from this annoying little device
It is then it dawns on me
That I seemed to have been cheated
like my life, from the beginning, was shaken
not stirred. cast into deep troughs and crests.
That, unlike a cool lemonade,
I was never allowed to simply lull about
in the lazy summer's glare
or be simply disturbed with a subtle push
That I was shaken violently
Up and down, side to side, to and fro
like some poisonous beverage you'd find
in some smoky, dark, cavern of a lounge or bar
it's at this thought th
Let the world forget by Rockwell--Shaw, literature
Literature
Let the world forget
Let The World Forget
Let the world forget
that it is that
what was
what is
what will be
and move on
Let the world forget
that there are those
who were
who are
who will be
and move on
Let the world forget
that we are those
that were
that are
that will be
and move on
Let the world forget
that I am one
who was
who is
who will be
and move on
Standing idly on a filthy street corner. It's probably about mid-november, with a distinctive chill in the air. Looking left and right, I see no one that I recognize in particular that's approaching me, so I slip from the street corner into the alley nearby. Not that I really have any reason for what I'm doing--Just skipping school and looking for trouble. I happen to be fully aware that I'm in a dangerous part of downtown--not that it makes much difference, since everywhere is dangerous to some degree.
I should have know it was going to all come down to this. Running into trouble when you look for it is inevitable, you know?
Not Quite Insane
I'm not quite insane
just because I enjoy
holding conversations with myself
during the wee hours of the morning
does not quite label me as such
I'm not quite insane
just because I cry
for no particular reason as I sit
by myself in my nest of covers
does not quite label me as such
I'm not quite insane
just because I write
about all the atrocities that I can't quite forget
and sometimes dwell deep within them
does not quite label me as such
I'm not quite insane
just because I scream
at my own reflection in the mirror
becuase the person on the otherside loaths me
does not quite label me as such
I'm not quite
Uncomfortable
You make me uncomfortable
I don't appreciate you staring me down
Like I'm some sort of creature you've never seen
Like some thing that just crawled out of the gloom
I make you uncomfortable
You don't appreciate my figetting or nervous glances
Like I'm some kind of addict of sorts
Like some insecure sufferer of addiction
You make me uncomfortable
You think I can't see you jotting down notes
Checking your watch and shifting in your seat
Checking your schedule and briefing my records
I make you uncomfortable
I think you can't possibly comprehend my paranoia
Checking my own pulse just to make sure I'm still alive
Che
Crouched in the corner of my bedroom, I stare to the opposite wall where my father now stood in the doorway. It was no news to me that his temper was easilly set-off while in such a drunken state as this, but he'd never lashed out on me before. Not until then.
I can't really say that much of it hurt. I'd been bullied before, at school. But it's a different matter when your father strikes you, and not just some older boy that takes fun in making you cry tears and blood.
Never do I recall seeing such hatred in his eyes before then. To think, I'd done nothing but ask if he'd tell me a story, like I always had. Even when he was
Blow
Blow
out the candles
of my birthday cake
smiles, joy
How old am I?
six years old
Blow
off the seeds
of a withered dandelion
tears, sorrow
How old am I?
ten years old
Blow
in the back
of a lonely alleyway
blood, pain
How old am I?
fourteen years old
Blow
to the head
with a broken bottle
alcohol, regret
How old am I?
eighteen years old
Blow
out the candles
of my birthday cake
smiles, joy
How old am I?
six years old
Words don't matter to me,
Wailing the melody,
That one that pierces who I am,
Burrows deep inside of me.
It spreads its roots,
It grows its seed,
Taking over, piece by piece,
Someday,
The music will destroy me.
the things we do,
to live seamlessly,
in the shadows of their image,
the lies we suffer,
to be as they were,
when all we know,
is that we don't know,
what we want
Anymore.
This life is a game. You can win, or you can lose, and you can play for hours and days and weeks and years, but in the end you will either win, or you will lose.
There are no ties, there are no equal forfeits, there is no compromise or gray zone, it's either black or white, top or bottom, there or not.
But here's the secret, the cheat code to the game.
You can only loose if you give up. As long as you keep trying, you win. Even if you fail at every turn. Even if you hurt and you cry when you go to sleep at night, and you would rather die than get up in the mornings, if you don't give up, you win.
And when you win, everyone else loses.
Bu
What is a man, but a shallow, petty picture? He has been painted and repainted again throughout the centuries, once with an axe or mace, and now with a gun and picture-perfect family.
You cannot hide behind the shell of a man's exterior. I don't care if you say that you're afraid of nothing, because men aren't afraid. I don't care that your mask has I'M FINE printed on it in big, black, block letters.
I know that underneath all that paint, and all those locks and bars and chains, you're a human being. You hurt, you fear, you want, you are.
You cannot change your humanity. When life hands you lemons, start up a conversation about them. When
Depression
Deep, pushing down on me,
Emphasis on every hateful word you force upon me,
Punishing myself by believing you lies,
Running from the shadows that haunt me,
Expecting too much of myself and everyone else,
Slowly falling over myself,
Seeing all those truths I don't want to see,
Inside myelf I'm falling apart,
Over again I'm living the same days,
Not going to lose myself this time.
Minutes
Meaning to get out,
Incredibly loud in here,
Never a moment of peace,
Uselessly trying to focus,
Tearing myself apart,
Exhausted by such a short amount of time,
Solving nothing by counting the time.
Suffer
Supporting the pain,
Underneath my facade is loneliness,
Feeling broken and destroyed,
Farther away from salvation,
Expecting to never feel whole again,
Ready for the night-time now.
Stress
So far into my mistakes,
Tethered to all these problems,
Readily awaiting punishment for my actions,
Exempt from these rules of forgiveness,
Sending myself into a worried panic,
Spiraling out of my own control.
~bunnehleftplz (https://www.deviantart.com/bunnehleftplz):iconbunnehrightplz::iconrockwell--shaw::iconbunnehexitplz:
I have officially finished the Prologue of my autobiography, the first chapter, and am working on chapter two.
If things I have said previous about myself do not match up with my story, then I must have been lying or got things screwed up. Sue me, why don't you.
I don't mean to be calloused: I've just already gotten flack from people about it.
I have officially finished the Prologue of my autobiography, the first chapter, and am working on chapter two.
If things I have said previous about myself do not match up with my story, then I must have been lying or got things screwed up. Sue me, why don't you.
I don't mean to be calloused: I've just already gotten flack from people about it.