the illustrated life of amelia rose
| Author | Message |
|---|---|
| KillJoys Bulletproof Heart  Age: - Gender: - Posts: 25453 | This months muse:  All the following poems are of my own creation, something of sorts from a furiously flourishing second hand mind. I try not to write poems about flat subject aka. THIS IS A POEM ABOUT LOVE OR DEATH. Its just not my style, I like to make you read between the lines, theres a double meaning to everything I promise you. Thank you and to any one else who comments, indeed thank you. |
| KillJoys Bulletproof Heart Age: - Gender: - Posts: 25453 | The Cities Sleeping In Full Colour. The cities sleeping in full colour and we’re the perplexed protagonist, fingers too monochrome, unwanted personalities, rejected, too flawed. There’s royal blood in these punctured pin pricked veins but if my blood could manipulate the langue of humanity it would tell the world all about you. We’ve walked the world over, map in hand, richer with you and its the body heat under thinning blankets and shaking souls that make my eyes shine harder. The dirt culture of the streets is embedded in my fingernails, just itching for this mornings meal. The scared swelling inside believes in us, though you spin me fairy tales of finer things your eyes aren’t behind it. From tarnished toilet stall, five finger discount at shopping malls, we survived it all. Even if it was through tack-fully priced struggles with strangers, while you curled your fist and spat at the ground. It was in hospital, flat lineing was my only sound, in swaddled cloth placed in your monochrome shaking hands our love was made profound |
| KillJoys Bulletproof Heart Age: - Gender: - Posts: 25453 | Thick As Marrow Thin As Skin. Broken nails and pent up penicillin, exorcisms of dead moods as they infringe on your misshapen skull. Expanding irises, gritted teeth erode like granite, purple blossoms concave in the hollows and they judge you through a peeling paint porthole, on your peripheral vision. Clawing at the floor like some lowly forgotten wretched beast, no amount of kneeling before gods good graces can save a soul-consumed creation like you. It’s been manifested in you crooked gnarled bones of satin ivory, thick as the marrow and as thin as skin. You talk in strange hexed riddles in a voice of your darkest hour, but it’s not your words, scolding rain compelled nothing, not even by the hand of the humble servant. Wax cover tables burn the incenses of divine midnight oil, when your bound my leather hands, its too late to convert and there’s not enough linguistics in a Banshee’s scream to repent. |
| KillJoys Bulletproof Heart Age: - Gender: - Posts: 25453 | Personalities Are Durable Plastic At Best. Sun shines from your fingertips of a faded faculty, when word suffocate and stick to your rotted throat and the beats are too heavy to handle. Securing up digs on midnight swings set when all silver timed laughter has elapsed we gloat at ageing because the rushing stillness of youth is timeless. This sugar coated atmosphere is an inferno of redundant skylines as we waltz through ash fill industries and glistening sunburnt dance floors. The enigma of coded body language dressed up to the nines because we couldn’t afford tens, in cheap choking perfume, personalities are durable plastic at best. Waking up face down, wrapped in another skin and the crime scene is smudged in lingering coloured ruminants from last night. And if this is what they meant by growing up, then it’s a ghastly sight. |
| KillJoys Bulletproof Heart Age: - Gender: - Posts: 25453 | Multi-coloured Cast Off Musicals. The key to your retched vital organ is hung preciously around the neck of another, we laugh in silver and cry joyously in gold. I’ll weep to the street art and I’ll live out my days with paper shoes in obscure shopping carts while my name is but a graffiti signature in your neighbours mistress’s purse. When you’ve lived out all forms of critical clichés and your finger prints are all you own, you can hardly be the disgraced humble one to question the benevolent. Stairwells are where we hide the best when home bruises your lips too much to joke about and the stories all over your skin, we’re utterly shameless in that sadistic way. Abandon ship! isn’t even a suggestion when you’re diving headfirst into red-brick bridges falling into some one else's smouldering past because we can’t dwell in cast off musical all the time. I just wanted to know everything about you more than I ever wanted to know myself because my heart is three beats behind. All I desire is to pick apart that multi-coloured mythological mind. |
| KillJoys Bulletproof Heart Age: - Gender: - Posts: 25453 | Dog-eared Pages Of Heavy Limbed Idols. Disappearing, we’re all gradually sinking into the immense golden nothingness as some wish us farewell and throw bouquets of heroic roses at our failing feet. Pushing up dandelions is almost as tedious as rowing down the soul infested river sticks, but when you’re breathing backwards, aided by concrete lungs does it even matter? We're breathing for our sins, we’re no lavish saviour when you’re crowned in yesterdays folded news paper. The stars will fade and fall in warning as mothers whisper into shells about your atrocious walk of earth, caution harboured to all, flagged between utterly splendid sandcastles. Inspiration lacks when your orbs are corrupt with heavy limbed idols. No loophole salvation will ever be found between the dog-eared pages of a bible. |
| KillJoys Bulletproof Heart Age: - Gender: - Posts: 25453 | What Charm Will Comes To Those With Broken Halo’s. The junk of my mind's eye is just anothers morphine fix, when the cracking of bones is too much to comprehend we reach for stars and fall on clouds. Paper crowns of the ever green youth, we ride triumphant upon whittled seahorse as we plague the fabulous fairgrounds of glittering sin. I would steal the world and sell it on black markets to well suited men armed with canes and crowbars, scowling sweetly. We settle for journeys in rickshaws on beds of blossom, daydreaming in a reality of awful wonders, for purely whites are but the plumage of my menacing mouth. Concrete lunged, peacock fathered hair, devilish dimples and vanishing exteriors, what charm will comes to those with little woes and broken halo’s. |
| KillJoys Bulletproof Heart Age: - Gender: - Posts: 25453 | Decaying Beauty Of The Second Hand Mind. Creating moments in our flourishing minds to fill the gaping holes of our less than innocent past. We’re trying hard to forget the definition of memories and we wish we could live in black and white photography, in fake family portraits. How long can you live behind replicated family cut outs? There’s only so much white picket fencing can contain. Running wild we’re on a treasure hunt to find our lost minds, for sanity was never found in a cocktail of blue and red. The city is in paint by numbers and these nocturnal second habits are everything but healthy when your sleeping on the curb of schizophrenia. On the hoods of burnt out cars we become critics of the sky, for it’s the only thing that’s ever held strong to a promised appearance. And as life slips silently away wasted on another moment half lived I can't help but proclaim it as ‘beautiful’ |
| KillJoys Bulletproof Heart Age: - Gender: - Posts: 25453 | Feathered Ink. Dressing how your great grandparents felt in their distasteful youth, we befriend the moon in that well mannered charismatic way. The Gentlemen subtly succumbing to the subcultures and high-noon tea is getting cold as cautious mothers wait in pinstriped deck chairs. And we’re dancing up hills away from the glimmer of the past because its held in every horizon, while the sky plays a symphony of delicious pinks. Flattened top hats with secret pocket watches, croaky played out on sharp lawns with petite petticoats and buckled boots. This world is two-tone to square eyes but an essential ecstasy to me. So we wrote it down in inked feathers in calligraphy |
| KillJoys Bulletproof Heart Age: - Gender: - Posts: 25453 | Sell Your Sallow Soul For A Pixel Glow. Today’s contribution doesn’t feel as superior as yonder years and the yearning they held for lack of knowledge, when you’re infatuated with immoral matters of self disdain. Rhetorical limbs fall from clouds of questioning and this sensory world melts away to an optical illusion, viewed best through amber irises. For the world is a failing mirror, of those celestial time old gimmicks of coy clones and cold copycats. Sewing machines could nearly nit me a dream life, while the charred seas of my youth mourned for a life lived in static motion. These dull dancing feet are but a miserably majestic display of my failing talents and my fleshing fingertips is the subways of my winning wits about the colloquial words. Sell your sallow soul for a pixel glow. Because the Internet will make you famous |
| KillJoys Bulletproof Heart Age: - Gender: - Posts: 25453 | Illustrated Social Butterflies. We’re growing up and everything is ill fitting, sailing in unhappy umbrellas through uncharted teen angst. Intestines viciously pull to be something we’re not and the essence of something that we are, is maliciously tearing us apart. Blissful one track minds, arms full of your parents past text books and classified classical music, but we’re dying to live in the exotic present. And sometimes you just can’t afford a trip down memory lane but darling we can pin precious Polaroid’s to the peeling walls. No children’s book could illustrate just how you feel when you’re walking off the rings of Satin. And sometimes it’s nice to live your life in tribute to silent films, talking in foreign accents. Because we’re not all social butterflies. |
| KillJoys Bulletproof Heart Age: - Gender: - Posts: 25453 | Tea Lights At A Gas-Chamber Door. Trading in our cloth of golden thread for striped uniform, we feed our dilapidated souls to the sky. We’re on bended knees now, our hearts in our mouths, its all just a stones throw away as skeletons try to escape skin. Running arms forward, eyes sewn shut into elegant electricity and in that one smouldering moment at least we feel, today’s flesh is yet tomorrows meal. Cold to the marrow, marrow to bone and bone to skin, we learn to dream and we’ve dreamed so well, even taste buds learn to synthetically tingle. Letters are no more, names are nonsense, because to be named means you exist our names are inked in gaping wounds of the forearms. Digging our own mass graves until the angle of death comes and you welcome it because your eyes are vacant and you don’t even know what hope is anymore. And maybe it would be nice to die. Yes, a rest would be nice. |
| KillJoys Bulletproof Heart Age: - Gender: - Posts: 25453 | Photographic Memories. My exaggerating memory lies in blotted ink over a life of dead leaves, bent, battered and broken spines. But we’re already subscribed to the dead poet society because we want to go down in history don’t you know? What happens when the history books are full? When dust consumes you’re very soul and you’re breathing six feet under? Because this is the era of collapsing minds, burnt out eyes, swollen lungs and where suicide is seeking refuge on the tip of every tongue. We live to be forgotten. And we take photographs so we’re not. |
| KillJoys Bulletproof Heart Age: - Gender: - Posts: 25453 | Galaxy Of Origami. Cold cups of camomile tea and stale biscuits, the words you speak are dull to me. Pointless twittering of another waste of a less than wanted life, it’s of no importance to me. Your mouth moves with swollen lips, hot syllables, stirring in some exaggeration for good measure, because god only knows where we would be if we actually had to live our own perfect life’s. I’ll nod artificially along and comment on the weather, anything for a change of intellectual pace. Cocking your head to the side like a child raised feral, you shrug me off pumping me full of woes of white glitter covered fallen stars. On this thrown of plastic I wish to make origami of your galaxy. I hope for all our sakes that these legends turn to myths |
| KillJoys Bulletproof Heart Age: - Gender: - Posts: 25453 | Wrists Tied In Ribbon Fists Tied In String. You’re slowly becoming my favourite hour betwixt hollow twos and timeless threes infinity seems everything but everlasting. The heavens are open above me, yet closed to people like us. We’re full of unsung stories, emptied of sordid secrets and living lust. Oh but I haven’t given up on hushed soliloquies between the rush of your parents sheets, sexual preference doesn't come into the pull of veins. Curious fingertips counting ribs, eating skin of the finest silk, Gods greedily graced you, with the apple hollows, cupids bow, full fans and the sea didn’t even murmur when you charmingly borrowed its purls. You’re tailor cut, drawn and quartered. Yet... I don’t want to think about you. You shall remain un-thought of. |
| KillJoys Bulletproof Heart Age: - Gender: - Posts: 25453 | Palpations Of The Bored Soul. Everything is so magnificently ordinary, from the flickering light of the mindless TV to the littered air that no pirouettes of white could ever purify. The trash filled papers belong better on the beaten streets than in my humbled hands. This beautiful tedious routine of life is not what my heart beats for. These fake smiles just aren’t cutting it any more and we live behind broken handshakes in borrowed shadows. Existing for the green currents, coming once in a Luna eclipse. It’s proving to be our biggest downfall. We keep on falling, head over heals. So what if it makes the world go round? I could stop it turning in a beat, at least for me. Nods and winks don’t convince anyone, when you’ve forgotten how to talk and our tongues are loose from lies but we’ll still run the headlines. And I hate. I hate it all. And I want to destroy everything more than anything, everything I’ve built. But kid it aint much. |
| Tilly and the Wall Bleeding on the Floor  Age: 31 Gender: - Posts: 1850 | Well, your poetry is all so brilliant I read it again xD I haven't read some of this stuff before, but it's just like =0. I mean I start reading a line and then by the end of it my jaw has dropped and I'm just aahing out of wonder. Amelia, you're a genius, and I love your poetry. |
| KillJoys Bulletproof Heart Age: - Gender: - Posts: 25453 | Caged Mocking Birds Of My Pockets. I’ll keep a mocking bird in my pocket of pities So it can sing me nautical ditties Because daddy never bought one for me. And this ring has long been brass But I don’t want another one, I dear not ask The looking glass is not worth a look Everything it ever held for me has now been took What’s the use of a Billy goat or Bull? I’m sure there a troll under our bridge, your fist is always pulled Here’s to hoping the dog bite is worse than its bark Or will it be a kindly friend locked forever in my heart? For nice trinkets never last Pocket watches tick where the hour hand is fast Because that’s all daddy ever bought me. |
| Asiah Scott Joining The Black Parade Age: 31 Gender: Female Posts: 194 | WOW. xD These are wonderful Amy. I cant select the best. Your style is awesome. The way you twist the words, I wish I can do that. Love every bit of it. =) |
| KillJoys Bulletproof Heart Age: - Gender: - Posts: 25453 | Solifified Lullaby I made a wish, Once upon a falling star, When mother told me the moon, was held by Gods hands God spun the stars too, on the great canvas sky And that dazzling dust was solidified lullaby. They shone the brightest when she softly sang. I wished, More than anything to hold a star, For the moon was in Gods golden hands And my fingertips were too brass, to brag of such wonder Lullabies finish and stars die. And it never landed under my crowned head of delicate duck feather. Skin ages and the body tires, bone creek and the mind unravels The stars stay desolate in the heavens hailing ignorant to the north Though mother has long stopped singing It’s hard to tell with the drag of sordid soil and pitiful pine God’s hands no longer hold the moon, nor does he cover it finger by finger It’s scientific all numbers and long words that never meant a thing to me All the mystery behind the magic’s gone. Though the stars remain silent yet snugly mocking Cramming a treasured trash bag I set out to find my wayward fallen star. |
Options
Go back to top
Go back to top