Elle Kyser {D6} done

You'd think a girl with satin eyes,
struck with midnight; starlight,
wide and orbiting; a vortex of strangeness,
blue so dark they speak of creatures long forgotten,
may share her mystery with strangers.

It's not that the thought hasn't crossed her mind,
but so did a thousand others, dreams of a life outside rigidity;
and starvation. whispers of something forgotten, luxury perhaps,
a willow tree meant for more than murder,
where dreams hang among its limbs and not bodies.
Burgundy sweaters, so soft they may swallow you with their cotton caress,
not strangle you with the blood of your neighbors.
Yes! she thought a thousand thoughts;
but still, midnight eyes didn't share secrets,
for trust; whilst granted for some, was not easily persuaded,
and her midnight mirrors, that reflected so much depth, were guarded.

If eyes were midnight then her hair was surely the sun.
For mysteria, our little dove, swallowed air and spit it out in verse and rhyme;
but only if you could crack the code to her lips.
When she did speak, quiet and unobtrusive; forgotten almost,
the words she painted were bright and full of hope and for a moment, you just watched,
unsure if the girl with auburn hair radiated sunlight or midnight.

Ashes in water sizzle serene; and float among austere blue-waves,
whether these ashes come from cigarettes (as our dove so often steals from her father, who drowns himself in them since the floating began), or in the specks of someone forgotten, whose knocking knees and skinny limbs; willow limbs; were all the sunlight-midnight dove had to remember the memory of a parent who loved her more than cigarettes and liquour.

They were supposed to be smart. She knew that, but she didn't believe it of herself. How could she?
The quiet-spoken man, who slept more than he thought, didn't share a single trick with her.
Didn't even find ways to earn money.
Didn't contribute; the bastard; the effing bastard; no, no, dove, don't fret;
his shallow eyes are not for you; they have sunk because he drowned; as she drowned;
though how someone can drown in a few feet of water is beyond the willow-limb dove.

Straight and fast... didn't she read that in a book?
It couldn't have been straight and fast; but perhaps the encyclopedia she stacked on her barebones frame contributed to the passage. If you can't struggle, why fret? If you can't move; then fast to your grave you fall.
Why?
the dove wondered this question for three years; but even the most sincere novel failed;
even the words of those long drowned had no answers for a child,
who was alone in a world full of noise.

when her mother died; elle kyser learned the world was cruel.

Resigned, she fought for what she could;
took work where she could and worked and rhymed until her fingers bled burgundy sweaters;
made from poverty and not escape.
her only weapon was her voice, her words,
but she kept those still, stuck in the wind.
and cried silently.

Hoping, upon the vines she longed to burrow beneath, that the world would forget her;
and her and her father who swore quietly under his breath, and reaked of liquour, and didn't work,
the father she fed with the meager earnings she made in labs and libraries,
who forgot she was there too,
would soon be a whisper in the wind.

Words left unsaid.
Poetry left hanging -

when the mods in the thread ya
bump it like it’s hot
bump it like it’s hot
bump it like it’s hot
when the tribs try to get at ya
bump it like it’s hot
bump it like it’s hot
bump it like it’s hot
and if a sitter get an attitude
bump it like it’s hot
bump it like it’s hot
bump it like it’s hot
I got the rolls on my arm and I’m pouring instas
and I roll the best verse cuz I got it going on

xoxo gossip meg