Tuesday, September 6, 2005

The 'Guns & Roses' Kind Of Wish

Photography by AloneSt on DeviantArt.com. This poem belongs to the Voice of Dementia collection.

They mock at her; the rose outcast,
Cackling when she skids.
Her acid tears stain her heart,
How they drain her, those aphids!
All she speaks for their idea of fun,
"I really wish, I had a gun."

Their words; daggers, rip her heart,
Deception curdles her blood.
They snatch each happy flowering thought,
Push her through dirty mud.
All she speaks when they are done,
"I really wish, I had a gun."

Often she'd pause between sobs,
To study her own reflection. 
"Get a life! Get a face!" they say,
She recalls the suggestion.
Says when she reaches a decision:
"I really wish I had a gun."

Stinging thorns poke within,
As a flower bud goes through change.
She bears the burning of her skin,
Blooming, it feels strange.
Each amendment, painfully done,
How she craves to have a gun.

Transformed, she steps out today,
Confident, leaving a trail behind.
Beautiful, stunning the ugly beasts,
Who wish time would rewind.
When they try to reason,
BANG! She lets them have the gun.

Ruthless to foes who taught,
Beauty is not in the beholder's eyes,
She soothes the naive fighting change,
Trying to embrace the same lies.
When they try to impede her run,
BANG! They get a piece of the gun.

She's got the power, she's all that,
Her wish granted, she'll defeat all.
Each step firm, as hard as a rock,
She's all new, she won't fall.
If they ever try to block the sun,
She'll make sure they get the gun.


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