the evil within
isn't a sin
see my smile
wait for a while
just under your skin
see my evil grin
shall we begin
take you apart
where should I start
cutting every limb
your screams
my symphony
every note my whim
each sob a whimsical
little interlude
to the next crescendo
no time for secrets
and innuendo
my masterpiece awaits
as I fashion
my grotesque
from your flesh
to my visons I must attest
your pain sounding
as Mozart to thine
own ears
for many a year
I will work you my craft
so dear
upon chisel, scalpel, axe
mount you on display
eyes forever staring
challenging and daring
for into you
I placed much caring
each day I stare longing
silently belong
to my work so fair
caressing your silken hair
I wonder how long
you'll be there
as my heart starts
yearning
emptiness returning
missing the music
we once shared
turn and keep
on walking
wishing you were talking
returning upon
the cool night air
venture to the alleys
on art my heart
doth dally
oh when shall I
make my next
maiden fair
from them I'll take
their life
in the cool
night air
About the Creator
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More stories from Kaloriinn Mason and writers in Poets and other communities.
Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley7 days ago in Fiction
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