Purple Poetry

Purple Poetry (Full Version)

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Mritha -> Purple Poetry (7/7/2011 17:25:39)
Commentary Death You know that feeling when all hope is lost? When your will to live is gone? I have it. My sister in all but blood, my only love, was murdered by the ones I once fought beside. With her, they murdered my joy. My hope. My life. I never learned why that war began; I only knew it was wrong. I stopped fighting; I refused to be a part of the death. So death found her. I am alone now. So alone. I wish death would come for me; I don’t want to live without her. It comes… It comes… It comes… No…it does not. This is not death, this is more agony! It is so brutal, so painful. I want it to end! Why did this war begin? What started it; could it have been prevented? I will never know. It left me here-- To suffer alone. I wish I had not been born, then she would have never met me. I would have never felt this agony. The hate directed at me is so strong; I fear it. My bond sister would have never taken part in the war-- They would have never killed her. A kind soul looks at me with pity; he knows I cannot be saved. He raises his blade and whispers, “I’m sorry.” No, do not be sorry; the end is near. Thank you, kind sir, I could never thank you enough. The end comes… It comes… It comes… Thank God… It came.

Mritha -> RE: Purple Poetry (1/27/2013 10:24:18)
What am I? They say I am full of love and compassion. I have always sensed the hurt in a stranger's voice; it calls to me in desperate need. I soothe their pain, I quiet their cries. But the ones I love most, I fear I hurt more than heal. My words twist in their heart and circle in their mind without me even knowing. I see the pain I inflicted in their eyes; I hear it shaking in their voice. Strangers recognize me from afar, they come for healing. A gentle touch of my hand, a comforting embrace with my arms, it is this they crave. Their confident, they call me, with lips like that of a sealed vault. A slap to the face is what is given to my love. Like with the strangers, I do not think or plan, it simply comes without pause. Why, I ponder, is this so different? My eyes so kind, my words like expensive silk. My smile lights up the room, they long to hear the laughter in my voice. My soul is pure; my spirit is full of light. I fear what I see when I look in the mirror. I see the rage in my eyes, the laughter of the dammed I hear gurgling from my throat. My soul is tainted and black, my spirit is tormented. Was there a flaw in my creation to cause this malice? Why do I know just what to say to bring forth the greatest agony? I am told I am an angel, but I fear I am a demon. Please tell me, I must know the truth. What am I?

Mritha -> RE: Purple Poetry (9/3/2014 20:45:30)
One Ride Down Round and round in an endless circle of fate, trod wooden horses with glowing eyes of hate. Impaled through the spine, with a cold rod of steel These captured equines, lack beating hearts that feel. The music calls like a lonely siren's song, ensnaring unwary minds all the night long. All that is required, to damn your soul to hell Is a single ride, on a theme park carousel.

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