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If you want to contact me, my E-mail is Elizabethancourt@hotmail.com. My facebook is www.facebook.com/courtney.elizabeth.wilson. I'm always open to new faces, so don't be shy about saying alo. :) ....... ABOUT ME..... I've been writing poetry since I was very young. I grew up with a Dad that wasn't home very much and a schizophrenic Mother so my hobbies kept me sane. Most of my poetry revolves around some kind of loss. Love, death, etc. I'm not good, but I'm not trying to be good. I write about what I want to write about. I like to be descriptive in my poetry, so as to paint a picture at the same time. I want people to FEEL it, not just read it. ***WARNING*** I write very depressing poetry, often about death and the sort. I'm tired of people telling me to write of something different. I do not have a talent for the positive, nor has it ever called to me in such the way of tragedy or darkness. I feel poetry should be rated on how it is written, not what it's written about, unless the topic is extremely inappropriate.(racist things and the like) Don't read my poetry if you don't want to feel sadness or if that annoys you. Thank you.
red paint sweeps over my lips, ebony ink flicking at the corners of my eyes,
I learn dances and tricks, gentle conversation and teasing glances,
each day I mask my face and curl my hair, yet you ignore my disguise
Like a queen,
golden adornments lie in my raven tresses, I pr*ck my finger for apples of rose,
patterns, velvet, silk wrap my curves, salacious fruit travels through my lips,
milky skin drinks lotions and perfumes, livid colors and scents pearl over my toes
My cold Narcissus,
I do these in your plea, for the attention of those irises of blue,
masking the ethnic quality of my face, the pool of nations in my eyes,
my efforts in despairing vain, for I'll never be pretty enough for you
My cold Narcissus,
my hair is too dark to please, my poison eyes too green to be divine,
my lips too full for your tastes, my skin too pale for your want,
oh, my love, I throw myself to you, but I fear you'll never be mine
My cold Narcissus,
I could tell you a thousand things about history, or my love of art,
whisper saccharine words of love, play you ballads from the soul of my hands,
if only you'd pay attention to my mind, to the depth and width of my heart
My cold Narcissus,
if I were a mirror, would your gaze finally pour over my skin,
your fingers touch the sinews of my flesh, your eyes meet my wispy look,
but the soles of my feet dance upon arrows, the thread of my worship becoming thin
Like a spirit,
drifting through the moon kissed eaves, through the thorny thickets,
despair burning through the fingers, raining songs of abandon,
twin bloodless lips entangling, transparent ivory skin as lowly picketts
Like a ghost,
endlessly chasing through clouds of fog, through teary mist of blue,
chains of hopelessness rattling about my feet, a noose of sorrow around my throat,
I'll dance and sing and paint my face, but I'll never be good enough for you
Of your eloquent beauty, your crowning lilt,
Cursed am I, Narcissus in awe of his mirror,
... continued
trampled upon, dusty boots stamping into the earth,
as forgettable as a ticklish raindrop, a willowy sigh,
as forgettable as a face in a sea; forgettable since birth
A willow in a forest of willows,
wilting, weathered, hungry, slain upon it's brow,
dollops of dew on the satin leaves, humid sun stealing it's breaths,
the slender trunk, the climbing branches, the despairing bow
A dying star in a dreary skirt of midnight,
a flare in the coals, an ember swelling in a fire,
forget me not; I fear my face will disappear in your thoughts,
ravaging need, crestfallen tears, a hunger so dire
A violin in the thunderous orchestra,
off-tune and ugly, prying the strings from the curves,
the song a lament, notes as stifled droplets,
raining down as unnoticed beauty in quiet swerves
A face scattered to the shards of memories,
a siren's song lost, drowned, a succubus' hunger unfed,
cast away wood in the fire, ivory bones tossed to the wolves,
skin untouched, garnet lips untouched; I'd rather be dead
An eternal shadow in footprints,
A forever agony in my breast, I fear my life is regrettable,
as unnoticed as a stone in a brook, a colorless bird,
forgettable
Fingertips glancing over my skin,
You ignite a volcanic fire,
... continued
Your lips,
succulent and red as wine,
twin apples dancing tenderly,
gently grazing and biting against mine.
Your fingers,
silver tipped, dusting over ivory skin,
sweeping over the supple flesh,
indulgent, lovely, yang and yin.
Your breath,
ghostly ice, dewy mist on my ear,
milky swirls in the lifeless night,
brushing against the colors of tears.
Your eyes,
a quiet saunter, softly dismayed,
blues and blacks and greens erode,
dragonflies on the wing beneath the shade.
Your hands,
b*st**l noose, like fire in the pyre,
cruel frost, unrelenting mastery,
anxious, gripping, velvety, dire.
Your heart,
fleeting mystery, devil in the sky,
curtained by the spray of momentary stars,
evading, avoiding; never mine.
My lover,
ethereal, otherwordly, dissolving,
wraith in the darkness, ghost in the light,
haunted, afraid, articulate, solving.
My lover,
masquerading heart, masked benign,
dancing quarrel, hidden tryst,
swept away, torn; never mine.
luscious hair, cotton gloves,
painted lips, elongated lashes,
the beauty of a geisha, the grace of doves.
Umbrella casting shadows,
beneath the shade of a poplar tree,
in and out of the light dusted spaces,
while drinking sweet tea.
In the days of the Southern Ladies,
and the charming Southern Gentlemen,
speech was eloquent and hushed,
cloth kept together by intricate pins.
In the days of now,
I grew up a southern lady,
living to give light,
tossing all things shady.
I grew up amongst cotton fields,
climbing poplars, towering oaks,
taught to flick my eyes between glances,
and listen more than I spoke.
Words were a game,
a battle between two,
dancing like shades of ink,
beginning on a devised cue.
Beneath the glassy facade,
beneath the mirrors and the smoke,
a girl cries on bended knees in rags,
she sobs til she chokes.
Beneath the veil,
the billowy pasques,
the flamboyant orchestra,
unthreading, exposing the mask.
Southern ladies should never cry,
when they're in the grace of souls,
smile, play, and banter with words,
as they fall into a lull.
Masquerade of damnation,
a ball of sorrow, gowns of hell,
soles of feet tear and bleed,
as they cast their spells.
I was raised with manners,
to never appear frail or weak,
to give and never need,
to listen rather than speak.
My heart wrenches and curls,
in the chasm of my aching breast,
drowning in the blood of my soul,
yet no one would ever guess.
My pen cries for me,
as the ink spills from the tip,
I rest beneath the poplar trees,
and the happiness from me strips.
Magnolias, tulips,
flowering at my feet,
my tears rain on their petals,
the scent fresh and sweet.
Creole French, Creek Muskogean,
plays about their lips beneath the humid sun,
I hide behind this heated mask,
wishing to flee, wanting to run.
In the southern masquerade,
I dance, pirouette; my heart achy,
my feet begin to bleed, my fingers weep,
in the eternal dance of the Southern Lady
hair burying the pale shoulders,
grazing the ivory skin,
... continued
fingers wrapped in each other, eyes weary,
the heat of the sun beating into his brow,
... continued
Is it shimmery long spiraling hair,
thick fluttery lashes,
... continued
we huddle together in the heat of the train,
breath swirling into a pyre of mist and fog,
... continued