strumpetqueen (strumpetqueen) wrote in gothicpoetry,

A Few Poems for You (Rose-Coloured Box/Almost Real/Again, With Medication This Time)

Rose-Coloured Box

How very anti-climatic- I confess, without looking at your face

All the things I felt and thought and nearly said.

And then you accepted this, and went on your way

To sleep, and from your pampered place- you were kept in a box in my heart

Forever, I told myself, then was horrified to feel my feelings slip away-

As slowly and as difficult to define as the way they had come.

And no arguing, darling little dreamer-girl, for we know what is best, they tell me.


Oh, I thank you for the experience, for the scars will win me friends-

But I don’t want them. I want you. Or rather, I do not want you;

I want to want you. But you are gone from the box in my heart

I once lined with rose-coloured cushions and silk, all to make you comfortable

In a captivity it seems neither of us can now bear.

You were held in it, yet I was the prisoner

And the silk rotted inside my heart and made me weep the tears I now long for.


I search the rain for sweet fantasies of you to fill my mind

Yet none come flying to my mind.

 It seems what I searched the seven seas for has come to me;

A friend. Yes, you are my friend, and I cannot think of you as more

And though holding you as a secret was painful, it is more painful yet to feel no such pain,

If you understand my meaning- and I’m sure you will, for you understand everything about me

Or rather, you made me, and thus you understand your own creation.


I don’t know what to do now, oh sweet one that I still hold dear, but no longer love-

For I had set aside a little time to cry to myself in, but now…

I have nothing to fill it with. Yes, I feel quite lost without my melancholy ways.

Right now, I am attempting to fill it with poetry.

I think this may actually be an attempt to awaken long dead feelings inside me

And so my time for crying may actually be filled with crying.

Yet I don’t believe it’s working. All I feel are the verses. I suppose it is a form of tears.


Oh, yes, the waves come in and they come out, and yet you are not beside me and-


- and yes. I am happy like this.

The poem 'Rose-Coloured Box' was inspired by...well, my experiences, and love, of a certain person who did not return my feelings. However, that's certainly not the theme of the poem; the piece is about forgetting my feelings and accepting her lack of anything more than a friendship with me. It's...bittersweet? Two people said it made them cry when I showed it to them. I don't know...>>

Almost Real


I won’t remind you of what didn’t happen

Because I know that even the possibility that they could have happened

Makes you sick.

But they didn’t happen, so you are happy, and I

Won’t remind you that they-


-why, they were almost real.


They did happen, in a way, in my mind

When the night and the hysteria had set in, and my mind was simply a mess of migraines and madness-

Those thoughts were real.

The angels and the devils and the snakes and the birds in my head agree

But we won’t remind you that they-


-why, they were almost real.



And now and again, when I toss and turn and wish to a God

Who isn’t real (not even almost real) that I hadn’t done this or that or something else

Those thoughts are real again.

Even though I don’t want them to be real anymore, nevermore, at all

Because I musn’t remind myself that-


-why, they were almost real.

Another aspect of the unrequited love I was talking about in Rose-Coloured Box. It illustrates the obsession I felt at that time, and my desperate attempt to keep it secret. The last verse seems to take on the points made in the earlier poem a bit...again, I don't know. Erm.

Again, With Medication This Time

Back of the hand pressed to the forehead, that’s how we do it;

‘Oh, oh, oh!’ I wail and crumple to the floor

And ever-so-ladylike, faint.

Someone call the doctor. Someone pity me!

Here come the sirens, oh lord, it’s her again

She does this every day

Never mind, come on, let’s get her to the hospital- again-


I choke myself to sleep each night, that’s how I do it

And I count the rosary beads in my mouth

Because I can’t take it anymore.

Someone get the sedatives. Someone pity me!

Here comes the nurse, hello nurse; it’s her again

Always looking for attention, such a bore

Never mind, come on, let’s just dose her up- again-


Oh, the madness sets in

When the drugs set out

In, out, in, out

Just like the waves

That Ophelia didn’t drown in

But I probably did-


Ahhh, and now a poem with nothing at all to do with love. This is about hysteria, or Histrionic Personality Disorder. I don't think I need to explain much more, so...yes *shrugs* Enjoy?
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