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Original Poetry by Mary McIntyre-Terranson Once, when my soul was truly ensconced in the west So Present and Home I saw a Timber Wolf, who In the Infinite "wisdom" of those with thumbs

Wherefore art thou? It's been much too long Since last we met My lover awaits At my window The portal to another world In his heated embrace.

I'm scared of the dark, She says. In a wave of humble confession. No, I'm terrified of it.

You ooze confidence Seeping through that sleazy smile But I know just what you are Won't fool me anymore.

You are the scumbag king The narcissistic liar Manipulative coward Embodiment of Evil. The snake that slithered Hissing secrets That led to Eve's mortal mistake.

You look at me I avert my eyes It's like avoiding staring Straight into the sun. Like I will be blinded Should I look too long.

My mind may seem like a dark place to most Full of monsters, untold horrors That are present in my artistic expressions But I do not fear the same monsters that others might. I do not fear false monsters.

In a world where we worship False prophets and pop stars Instead of praising intelligence And peace makers...

I always get asked, "Why is your poetry so serious and dark? Why don't you write about something happy?" I could be wrong on this, but aren't poets supposed to be Somewhat angsty? The world isn't all rainbows and unicorns. It has real pain and suffering Sadness, disappointment, death....Sarah Palin.

You know that feeling Deep down in your gut That tells you When something isn't right? I ignored it.

I am that dying star Hurdling through space at unimaginable speeds Leaving a trail of light in my wake I will not let you see me fall...

A zombie courted a pirate wench Upon the seven seas Decaying smiles across the miles He only wished to please.

Day and night, I ref an internal fight. Nothing seems to win, nothing loses life. Of all the thoughts and all the prizes, I never once knew what a pointless life meant.

Chosen generation. It is time. Shout your victory and let it be Mine.



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Penny :

Posted By : Jonathan Griffin
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Date Added : March 29, 2010 Views : 322
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The day rose with clarity of vision,
Her smile a mask of plastic; her day job
Demands the facade.  Do you so possess
A superficial nature?  Otherwise
Life is repeated prevarication.
A routine of lies, closely intertwined
With reality, white has become black.
Modern Protagoras, what price offered
They to sell your nature and pollute the waters
Of your yearning spirit?  Was it worth it,?
The girl who donned that plastic mask cowers,
Trapped, imprisoned, who once roamed wild and free.
Majestic, soaring, before the walls crashed down
And she, forever gone, a spirit crushed
Without life, an eternal, plastic tomb.
“Sell yourself to sell our things and buy your
Things.”  The soul rots reposed with writhing worms
Feasting upon her spirit's atrophy.
Society demands it, lest she starve.

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