Ventriloquist

Poetry

Paint a smile on me with red paint
Like blood for thirsty vampires
On my alabaster, youthful skin
Pinch and turn the flesh of my cheeks
You are better than makeup in making me blush
Turn me into a rose without thorns
I know you are afraid but you never show it
I don’t want to feel responsible
Men are weak, but they never show it
I feel as if I’m a doll and you are the ventriloquist
You speak on behalf of my silence
I’ve been silent for too long
It could be that I’m already dead,
Maybe, I really, really am

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Silence

Poetry, Writing

The hidden beast remains untamed
Lingering away from chains
Between torn walls and tangled dendrites
A false refugee playing the victim

As the thunderstorm roars
Like your mother outside the door
Blaming herself- for you being broken
She’s a fuming kettle about to explode

You hide like a criminal under the bed
and count the days until freedom
Planning the ways to get hit by lightning
Thinking of methods to kill that monster inside you
Taking the role of incendiary
Burning those bridges
So that others can’t get to you

Close to the edge
It’s hard to see clearly
The fog is blinding
It’s not that you are okay
But they couldn’t ask politely

She prefers if you died on the phone lines
If you waited in silence
If you became silence

People are too lost they have ears but
they suffer from deafness
Your screams are pointless if no one can hear them