Puppet you control, retaining an emotional string.
Destination powered by manipulation you bring.
Intoxicating whispers, luring with each breath,
Seeking only to bring upon my emotional death.
Malicious enslavement, with your invisible chain.
Egotistical with every word, relishing your reign.
Pursuing a carrier, for adoption of the blame.
None being true successor in tug of war game.
Chafing strings taunt, never to be free of yoke.
Bitterness claws at my throat, nearing to choke.
Soaring resentment, too burdensome to restrain.
Entangled; lone in journey, wrestling in vain.
Pleading silently to lift the oppressive weight.
Exhaustingly, preoccupied by my impending fate.
About the Creator
Kami R. Taylons
I love writing with a poetic flow, radiating from my soul, as words unite with a mesmerizing sway. Forever in motion, seeking to lure new captives of my literary art. Inviting readers to drift away with me, upon the waves of poetry.
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Fall From Grace
Slipping my hand to separate olive brown curtains but a fraction, enough only for a sliver of sunlight to penetrate a corner of my self imposed prison. My eyes rest upon needlepoint as a pang of loss stabs, as if I was plucked from my old life and discarded into my present life. My amber eyes trace my stitchwork, 'Amelia' stitched lovingly in calligraphy with gold embroidery thread. A pattern, once so proud of designing, now lay forgotten on my favorite sitting chair. My name floated above a beautifully shaped feminine hand done in a satin stitch, with viny morning glories wrapping around each digit. Vines transitioning nonchalantly into dangling gold chains dripping with small teardrop emeralds, as though the stem weeps through the Victorian French filigree, magically transforming into precious stones. Sighing, with a heavy heart, as my eyes sweep my beloved hand carved walnut Victorian antique chair, upholstered in gold and gingerly sprinkled with ivory flowers, yet awaiting my return as though shaming me for being away so long. Grandmother's Edwardian cut crystal lamp's beauty hides under a dusty layer, the lone survivor of a set, she purchased as a newlywed, rest upon a vintage walnut end table on top a champagne crocheted doily.
By Kami R. Taylons30 minutes ago in Chapters
Not Spoken
Open my mouth wide, but the words die on my lips. Wanted to know you.
By Rachael Anraabout 5 hours ago in Poets
Swan
“During the Metal Age, humans took photographs of everything beautiful, which was everything, yet machines did not even wear shoes. The Fauxna thought of a better way. They colored all of the light rose, for a corrupted source cannot be verified.” - Origin Parable, 011
By Nicky Frankly5 days ago in Fiction
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