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Witless Little Toy

All art, Other, Poetry

Witless Little Toy

Dearest Toy of Tragedy: You are no longer meant for me.
Rub away the loathing, folded over your sight.
Wash away what happened, that
 Remarkable winter night.

A landscape slowly rose; harsh with ups and downs.
Ominous-looking mountains, was built high
Above the sky.

So rubber-gloved hands of pity, gently filled up the holes.
All for their chance to see this;
The sight of a used up Toy.

Stitched up. Sterilized. Suddenly, paralyzed.

Foolish little toy, how could you not see?
They are salaried souls; they just take
 What they need.

So now open your eyes, O you Witless Little Toy.
Don’t ever let them drain you,
Do not give them that joy!


Important words of nothingness

Other, Poetry


Important words of nothingness  

As the newborn sun, rise above the borderline
Divided and between truth
and pathetic Lies
I see these fingers, red and shaky
I want to know, baby you taste
So tasteless
My madness shocked, a smile on tired lips
Cover itself until it’s nothing but a face
Of this ironic oblivion
I drank what was not yet mine to taste
O the skin, such a silly grin and its
Big holes of reality

We both stopped laugh when the iron fell
And as the concrete took my fall
The last thought, I showed you all

Tourniquets, desperatly tried to cover up the gap
mocked by the weak, crawling
can’t see

Drenched white teeth and my baby can tell
You are the birth of laughter
and a hole in my hell

This is my Lorelei

All art, For Sale

“Stone, stone, ferry me down there”

I feel totally worn out after been spending the whole weekend doing homework for Swedish class. I’ve been writing about Sylvia Plath and I also did an analysis¬†of¬†her poem called “Lorelei”.

I’m not sure why I chosed this poem, but it was something with the way she turn death to something beautiful, and the human world to something based on lies. Memorable words for sure. ¬†

This is my Lorelei.

It is no night to drown in:

A full moon, river lapsing

Black beneath bland mirror-sheen,


The blue water-mists dropping

Scrim after scrim like fishnets

Though fishermen are sleeping,


The massive castle turrets

Doubling themselves in a glass

All stillness. Yet these shapes float


Up toward me, troubling the face

Of quiet. From the nadir

They rise, their limbs ponderous


With richness, hair heavier

Than sculptured marble. They sing

Of a world more full and clear


Than can be. Sisters, your song

Bears a burden too weighty

For the whorled ear’s listening


Here, in a well-steered country,

Under a balanced ruler.

Deranging by harmony


Beyond the mundane order,

Your voices lay siege. You lodge

On the pitched reefs of nightmare,


Promising sure harborage;

By day, descant from borders

Of hebetude, from the ledge


Also of high windows. Worse

Even than your maddening

Song, your silence. At the source


Of your ice-hearted calling —

Drunkenness of the great depths.

O river, I see drifting


Deep in your flux of silver

Those great goddesses of peace.

Stone, stone, ferry me down there.

– Sylvia Plath