by Kimberly Richardson

Created on: November 18, 2009

My own misery, falling deeper and deeper

Down the rabbit hole when I was too careless to ignore it.

It comes and goes and still I want it,

This feeling that somehow I was once I child

Who read books with pretty pictures, searching for your name

When you were too kind it give it to me, candy

For the intellectual, causing one's tongue to turn blue.

I look horrible, my own clouds forming within my mind

As I struggle to find someone who will love me

Rather than throw me from the highest cliff and proclaim it to be of the gods.

I want to find it useful to breathe

Even if my breaths are tinted with violets.

My skin, brown and mottled like a mushroom

Feeds me when the darkness comes too close to see.

I dress myself in a gown of webs, sticky and soft

My hands becoming gloves with powder and dirt.

I walk through the graveyard, to find the place where he was once was

And sigh when it is no longer an effort to do so.

I want to smile, my own spit covering my lips

Tasting the food I ate when I was banished from my own garden.

Is it always like this?

Do I want to even know what you think of me?

Or, perhaps, I am this way because I can

Because I know you are around the corner, licking your chops and crunching bones.

Lycanthropy never worked well on my soul.

This is it, the final moment

Under the Moon's evil glare

When I know that I am still walking

Searching, searching, exploring, hunting

Desiring, contemplating

Exacting, destroying, everything.

To be perfect is nobler than to be simply here.

So now what. Why are we even looking for the same thing

The gold that does not exist, the animal lost to Darwin,

The diamond too heavy to even touch,

The demon whose identity was spoken in hushed voices.

And now, for the final word clarity.

A chance for my own eyes to see, my mouth full of white

To speak with a voice I had been chosen for.

The Muse of Darkness, She Who Loves Me.

Her black eyes watch my every move, and I oblige

By dancing to my own beat, deep within my head

Given to me by the children who were thrown aside

For their parents to achieve something greater.

This Muse of black, corruption, and decay,

It in she that I will forever be grateful in living out my life

A play to perform, to collect the roses with thorns,

Realistic blood, giving my head a chance to swim

While my body falls to the floor, no tears are offered.

Learn more about this author, Kimberly Richardson.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.