Fiona

She
wasn't sure what she wanted, but was certain
what she'd get.
She was
the mirror watching herself
and wrote her own part in the play
called life.
Moving was staying
alive and that
annoying whisper of faint memories was
quelled by continuous action.
A collector of
things she did not want,she'd
leave everything behind to stay
ahead of herself.

Disorderly personality

Being

A paranoid, schizoid, histrionic,

Narcissistic borderline, antisocial,

Anxious, dependent and insecure

With fits of mania

And streaks of depression

Has its advantages

Nobody can tell

Me

Who I am

The Flutterby

On jungle-paths, don't ask me why,

I see this creature flutter by,

so colourful beneath the sky,

so pleasing to the human eye.

A butterfly they call it, though,

a name I simply can't bestow,

as blunt an crude as it is slow

and nothing like this thing I know.

But if you take the fl- in fly

and add to utter as you try

to put the b before the y,

you'll end up with a flutterby.

This name I feel is much more right

for someone who can catch the light,

create from just the colour white

a beautifully coloured sight.

A flutterby in guise and grace

which fleetingly will flaunt its face

and fly with ever-changing pace

to greet the sun and summer days.

Declamation

I distrust

the moralizing preachers

with woes of chastity

to disguise their hopeless

lust

for endless orgasms

and knowledge.

I deny

the tyranny of angels,

their prophesies of what is

to become

of us some day

and when we die

we're one of them,

or not.

I despise

the scapegoat of religion

and the arrogant cry for afterlife

and hidden meanings

as if the wonders of the world

are never good enough

for somebody.

In the telling of the tale

I ask for water from your well,

and for the stories it might tell,

but if you want it to end well

it best be told by a Martell.

You pour me coffe and your tea,

but this is water foul to see,

and nothing looks so good to me

as shots of purest Hennessey.

You give me splurting ginger ale,

fermented leaves all harsh and stale,

though I have heard that any tale

which starts this bad will surely fail.

I drink my beer and bid for wine

altough the taste of Ballantines 

could tell me stories of divine

that I could proudly claim as mine.

My mug is empty, I implore

of you to fill it up with more

of just whatever  there's in store.

You say you've heard that tale before.

But this you have not heard, I beam

This story ain't the way you deem

'cause nothing here is like it seems

and logic is for happy dreams.

So pour me Irish Whiskey, and

a dash of every Scottish brand

and watch as randomness expands

and blends in perfect circumstance.

Bliss

A beauty stands right in front of me.

I just have to say: "It seems

as if it was time we met, you see,

you feature in all my dreams."

I want to, but surely won't.

I can't do it so I don't

I just have to raise my voice, you see.

I just have to turn my head,

a twist of the neck away from me,

but I shy away instead

pretending to have a choice.

I can't even raise my voice.

She lives just around the block, you know.

I just have to cross the street

and walk maybe thirty yards or so

if I wanted us to meet,

but it's nearly ten o'clock,

and she lives around the block.

I could call her on the phone, I guess.

I just have to breath and dial.

I'll say that I got the wrong address.

She'll laugh and we'll talk a while.,

but what if she's not alone.

She might not pick up the phone.

So nothing will come of this, I deem.

I just ask about her name

so that I can put away my dream 

when she asks me first -the same.

I answer: "My name is bliss,

and something may yet come of this."

Call me

Call me some day

if you can find the time,

and let me do the talking

I will pay every dime,

'cause I so need to speak,

and I so crave to say

one "hello" to a person

at least once every day.

Call me some time.

I can wait by the phone.

Even carry it with me

in the streets on my own.

My number is twelve

forty-four thirty-eight,

and I'll wait through the night

if you must call me late.

Call me someone

if you feel a bit sad

'cause my life is so empty

that yours won't seem half bad.

I plead you. Just call me.

I am all alone.

With no other friend

than my cellular phone.

99

I'll stand below your window

and there I'll truly spend

the time by calling out your name

a hundred days on end.

I'll wait for you in anguish

through every weary night

'cause I could never let you go,

but then again I might.

Untitled

I am so many persons, but

there’s always just this one,

and I have many faces though

the mirror gives me none.

The further that I travel from

this wretched status quo,

the faster I return to be

the person that I know.

I cannot change! I’m stuck with traits

that always reevolve,

and when I try to see myself,

the image just dissolves.

I’m organized as fluid points

set arbitrarily.

I’m characters combined to form

a shapeless entity.

The emptiness, it pulls me in,

it bites and beats and screams,

’cause what I know is not what is

and nothing’s like it seems.

I cry to you: "Who am I then,

who catches light this way?!

For am I just a fraction of

a passing solar ray?

Or am I more a hapless shape

of energy delayed?

Or did I happen as I am,

yes, was I even made?

You wear your best expressions while

I ponder in dismay,

and all you can is smile and shrug

’cause what is there to say?