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Literature Text
The music box is where she sleeps
Forgotten secrets she doth keep
The fragile hearts of fragile girls
Strung round her neck like pure glass pearls
In darkness, maidens clothed in black
Mourn heroes uncertain to come back
Their souls are bound by love and locks
Here within the music box
Maidens betrothed, betrothed did vow
To return as soon as time allowed
So slowly dying, they remain afloat
Not drowning but for that small hope
The key to the cage cruel hands do wind
The faint, sick melody decays their minds
Their souls held fast in chains and locks
Slip away in the song of the music box
Empty shells they do become
To all but love, blind, deaf and dumb
She dangles their hopes on a silver string
Weighed down with their precious wedding rings
She makes them cry, she makes them sing
Spurns nightingale beauty and clips their wings
But for breath of faith, their souls are lost
But trapped within the music box
She had been scorned, had been forgotten
In shame and anger, she withers, rotten
She blames all maidens for her fate
Torments the faith that won't abate
Someday she'll open the music box
Let in the light, undo the locks
Twixt her and her hostages she'll come to see
The fate of what her heart used to be
But for now, the dark of the music box
Is where she sleeps, the wounded fox
Keeping forgotten secrets locked away
Forbidden to see light of day
All souls are kept in love nearly lost
Here within the music box
Forgotten secrets she doth keep
The fragile hearts of fragile girls
Strung round her neck like pure glass pearls
In darkness, maidens clothed in black
Mourn heroes uncertain to come back
Their souls are bound by love and locks
Here within the music box
Maidens betrothed, betrothed did vow
To return as soon as time allowed
So slowly dying, they remain afloat
Not drowning but for that small hope
The key to the cage cruel hands do wind
The faint, sick melody decays their minds
Their souls held fast in chains and locks
Slip away in the song of the music box
Empty shells they do become
To all but love, blind, deaf and dumb
She dangles their hopes on a silver string
Weighed down with their precious wedding rings
She makes them cry, she makes them sing
Spurns nightingale beauty and clips their wings
But for breath of faith, their souls are lost
But trapped within the music box
She had been scorned, had been forgotten
In shame and anger, she withers, rotten
She blames all maidens for her fate
Torments the faith that won't abate
Someday she'll open the music box
Let in the light, undo the locks
Twixt her and her hostages she'll come to see
The fate of what her heart used to be
But for now, the dark of the music box
Is where she sleeps, the wounded fox
Keeping forgotten secrets locked away
Forbidden to see light of day
All souls are kept in love nearly lost
Here within the music box
Literature
The Music Box
An aged music box opens and tinkling music pours out in a pleasant tune...
The house had been torn down when the girl found the music box. Like most of the towns folk she and her mother had began salvaging what they could find in the ruins before it would be thrown away. The box was tiny enough to fit in just one hand, it was decorated with an aged crimson cloth decorated with blue and black beasts that made it terrifying...and alluring. The girl couldnt resist putting the music box in her tiny room, it made her room seem slightly less dismal when the sunlight struck it right. She grinned at the tiny thing and lay for hours
Literature
Music Of Death
Is death the end to everything?
A sad song we all must sing?
A broken instrument we all must face,
with broken notes we cannot place.
So out of tune we all must fear,
this hopeless song we all must hear.
Maybe we have no reason to fret,
for death might be a wondrous quartet.
It could be a beautiful dance,
this grand once in a lifetime chance.
Perhaps when one listens close,
and lets oneself become engrossed.
This song that we all will sing,
could possibly be the most beautiful thing.
Literature
Words
I only have one face, but so many sides
I have one soul, but there's something hides
Beneath my skin, beneath my smile
It's so different with its own sense of style
I am human, I am my feelings
I have no grounds but I have ceilings
I am words, written in poetry
I am bones, lost in a cemetery
Words, with action only towards others
One child with two different mothers
Written on stone, blood is the ink
A rosy flower with a lethal stink
I can't be mad, and I can't be sad
I can't have everything I ever had
One big smiley face with brown eyes
I tell the truth when I tell lies
Can you understand me, can you feel
A heart of ice locked in steel
I
Suggested Collections
Long writing is loooong. :C
--
I
don't know.
I just don't know.
How to categorize anything I write @____@;;;;.
Or whatever this is.
I just don't know.
I was sick when I wrote it.
Probably delirious.
If not coughing up precious oxygen, inadvertently shriveling a few brain cells.
My grammar fails at life.
--
ANYWAYS.
I always thought of music boxes as whimsical, dreamlike, yet severely flawed (underlyingly, of course) paradises. Abstract beauty, meaningless bliss, fatal complacency, and a whole sh*tload of monotony. The like.
I myself, as a human being of course, would probably go mad.
BUT if 1) we never knew anything but the music box, and/or 2) we all lost our wills as human beings, we'd all just become part of the mechanism, figurines dancing and singing for anyone who opens the box. Yearning for the light. For an escape.
But there's no time in the music box.
There is just do. Don't. Remember. Regret. Forget.
--
BAH forget this. I'll probably scratch up something under the same title with the more whimsical, less cynical view. Y'know, when I stop hacking up phlegm and go back to drawing crack doodles in my school agenda.
I have bad computer chair posture.
Poem. Enjoy.
--
I
don't know.
I just don't know.
How to categorize anything I write @____@;;;;.
Or whatever this is.
I just don't know.
I was sick when I wrote it.
Probably delirious.
If not coughing up precious oxygen, inadvertently shriveling a few brain cells.
My grammar fails at life.
--
ANYWAYS.
I always thought of music boxes as whimsical, dreamlike, yet severely flawed (underlyingly, of course) paradises. Abstract beauty, meaningless bliss, fatal complacency, and a whole sh*tload of monotony. The like.
I myself, as a human being of course, would probably go mad.
BUT if 1) we never knew anything but the music box, and/or 2) we all lost our wills as human beings, we'd all just become part of the mechanism, figurines dancing and singing for anyone who opens the box. Yearning for the light. For an escape.
But there's no time in the music box.
There is just do. Don't. Remember. Regret. Forget.
--
BAH forget this. I'll probably scratch up something under the same title with the more whimsical, less cynical view. Y'know, when I stop hacking up phlegm and go back to drawing crack doodles in my school agenda.
I have bad computer chair posture.
Poem. Enjoy.
© 2008 - 2024 diBsSupreme
Comments21
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lol your grammar does not fil at life.
this is a really good poem
this is a really good poem