Olga's Poetry & Thoughts

On Halloween Eve I attended a feast Where friends were disguised as brilliant beasts Amid all the rags of black, grey, and plum My red dress blotted the floor with red rum I was the Queen of Hearts for one night Flattered by men who blushed at my sight I was a caricature of women who rage I was a damsel from the Victorian age Though I was proposed to by all the males I rejected them at the swish of my scarlet red nails There was one man, in the corner of the room Who caused my intrigue to tenderly bloom He was not a clown, a cowboy, or an ape He was a skeleton in a flowing black cape This sort of blasphemy I've never seen To dress as the Reaper for Halloween He transformed a holiday of fun and fear Into a reminder that death is too near He left to the garden, and I followed and whined And told him his costume was way out of line He turned his head and I shuddered at his face Which was a skeletal, bleached disgrace "Sir, I demand you unmask your brow! ...

No, he didn't treat you like a friend, Because he neither cared for you nor took care of you when your heart bled. He didn't treat you like a lover, Because, like a werewolf, he turned into human form only in the sunlight, and he escaped before you could see, in its entirety, the beast that you had spent the night with. He didn't treat you like a God, Because he neither feared you, nor respected you. He didn't even try to disprove your very being. It was not even worth it. He was the one you called "home," honey I'm home, home sweet home, A home with a welcome mat stained with reminders that you are not his home, but his backyard, an old tire swing just for fun. You love thy neighbour, and forgive thy enemy, and bleed when his heart bleeds, But he does not exist. Opposite to a god, he fears himself, and disrespects himself, He is homeless, for fear of getting caught in the honey at the door, when he says, honey I'm home! Like a poor ...

I looked into the mirror and did not believe That this was actually me Just a heavy black cloud with teardrops for eye sockets, pouring down my chin The rolls of misery drip drip drip drip Mascara streaks, not streaking, no, but eating Eating my cheeks once so perfectly dabbed with rosy blush Eating them away like acid, Soot Black Puffy eyes so sad So miserable So Monstrous. Is this actually me or is this some fictional creature in a dream? Like a ghost from the Shining like the dead woman from room 217 like a death eater swallowing souls of the innocent like an undead soldier Like Death. Is it possible to look like death? Because that is what I saw. If death had a face, it would be that of mine in that polished mirror with the mint green walls on the sides and water on the countertops drowning my textbooks, drowning my sorrow, spilling onto the floor and just pure misery etched into every crevice of my face, every pimple like a canyon of b...