• eurusgrey 6w

    Tonight I'll bleed red, not scarlet like the love they talk about, but a crimson hue that I stole from a poet's broken muse.

    #writersnetwork #mirakee

    Read More


    Her lips stitched
    into a perfect smile,
    with a thread
    they call modesty,
    a little too fragile
    and so she treads carefully,
    suppresses the laughter;
    and muffles the frown,
    afterall she's the queen,
    any emotion
    would break the crown.

    Her braid adorned,
    with caged birds of doom;
    hush, don't speak
    for truth, there's no room.

    Her wrists festooned,
    with fetters of misfortune;
    every night they dig deep
    into her skin,
    and drown her poetries,
    and every night,
    the poet within her
    longs to be freed.

    Her corset is elegant,
    a perfect fit
    to stifle her dreams
    it's the heart that suffers,
    from wounds and sins,
    that so mercilessly ricochet,
    but still,
    she mustn't speak.

    With knives of metaphors,
    she delicately removes the stitches;
    careful not to spill any emotions
    and her lips frown,
    finally carefree.
    With bare hands,
    she caresses
    the wounded souls;
    the doves soar high
    and her soft locks
    finally feel the wind.
    With hymns of hope,
    she softly sings,
    the shackles break
    and fade away.

    "I shall speak
    and I shall be heard."
    She finally breathes.

    But then,
    dawn arrives;
    she wakes up panting,
    was it all
    just a dream?