Penny For Your Thoughts?

4-25 lines + rhyme or free-verse + a word, thought, idea, person = 50¢ Poetry. Send me a prompt with your request of the former, and I'll write it! I will write as a gift, but do not use my work without proper credit- Thank you! [This is also a blog for my own personal poetry, and I own a fandom blog @aliceinhyrulebastion with an Ao3 of the same name.] Icon commisioned from @warmkettlesandflowerpetals!!

[50centpoetry]

Scar(r)ed

These are not the reflections of myself.

Yes, they are dark

And they shine

And look grotesque against the smoothness of an arm

A leg

A back

Yes, they are here

And they hurt

And they itch

And Jesus

They sting like a son of a bitch

But they are me

And I am them.

Unfortunate?

Yes

I’m no longer perfect.

However

That is not something for you to decide.

I am not my scars-

For they are an echo of the past, not myself.

You have no right to make me feel ugly for something time has left

For this is my skin-

Not yours to display.

-M.G.

[50centpoetry]

Harpy

Dreadful, shrieking,

black and sharp

Your touch leaves lava in its wake

That burns far more than the scars you mock

They scream; your eyes

And your filthy, simpering words

To others they ring like lovely siren songs

But you’re no sisterly bird of a feather

Each poison touch of painted nails

Stings like venom ‘neath my skin;

A million ants that bite and shriek

As I scratch

And scratch

Until I bleed

I’m nauseous

Dizzy

Sick and weak

I can barely stand on my own two feet

But I mustn’t forget who’s at fault:

The wretched vulture dressed in the finest of misery

Bejeweled in riches of glorious cruelty

That shall shred you to pieces when I call down the hawk.

(Taste your own potions, you wicked wretch, and drown under the weight of the nightmares you’ve fetched.)

-M.G.

[50centpoetry]

月への手紙 (#3): Melodies Out of Reach

There’s music in the air tonight

That lingers just behind my eyes

I taste the night so sweetly bright

As glissandos dance and sing and chime

It’s somehow inexplicable, my dear

But I hear piano keys in that voice of yours;

Just out of sight but still so clear

As moonlit-mirrors and open doors

Soft and warm

Cool and fresh

It’s a laugh of melodious memory

Silver and pure

Glass and ocean

It’s a promise to never let me be

Oh kiss these horrid scars of mine

Away with lips of starlight sparks

Heal the wounds with that crystalline shine

And sit with me when I’m lost in the dark

Please share your melody

Please answer my pleas

Please tell me it’s alright

Please keep the night alight

Please let me sing with you, moon child,

And dry these bitter, tuneless tears.

-M.G.

[50centpoetry]

Diplopia

Seeing double

Seeing two

Seeing both in black and blue

See the truths

See the lies

See the depth in ancient eyes

Seeing souls

Seeing sins

Seeing the trouble and beauty within

“Windows to the soul” they say

Gorgeous, glorious, expressive as words

Let me see your heart in swords

Let me see the heart that’s yours.

-M.G.

———————

Diplopia: the medical term for “seeing double”.

[50centpoetry]

翼 (壊れる)

There’s no use beating broken wings against your birdcage bars, my dear-

They serve to break you

Own you

Contain you

Coated in a poison made of your own doubt

The blood you spilt for them

Don’t give in

Let your wings (your heart) heal

Let your song (your weary bones) rest

For you will sing and soar again when it all comes tumbling down.

-M.G.

—————————

A complement to my earlier poem, Wings (翼).

There’s two sides to each story once the rage and hurt has cooled.

[50centpoetry]

(つばさ)

翼

Wings to bear the weight of Atlas:

Silver-plated, platinum core,

Yet alas, the weight has stripped me of balance

And I’ve found that I can stand no more.

Swallowing iron and copper-slick blood,

I’m drowning beneath the weight of feathers;

My lungs are filling with maggot-fresh mud

That cannot be scorned by roses or heather.

How foolish of me to even believe

That I was born to fly;

How foolish of me to even believe

That I was ready to try-

But a choir of voices emerged from my lungs to force me to open my eyes:

“Look towards the heavens, child, and count the echoing stars;

There’s secrets there you’ve yet to find-

But they will not erase your scars.”

(七転びや起き,

七転びや起き,

七転びや起き-

Fall down seven times, get up eight.)

-M.G.

[50centpoetry]

P-R-I-D-E

Taste it in red, beating beneath the skin in neon heartbeats bright as blood, carmine declarations and vermillion determination.

(A battle cry of a war that shouldn’t need to be fought for something so pure.)

Watch as it flickers in scintillating amber, a riot of color as bright as the sun and as warm as summer- the color of embraces, of hands in hands- in the chirps and whistles of firefly-love that spark throughout the night like stars.

(Undeniable, soft, warm; a sunset painted by God’s hand just like any other sky.)

Feel the rays of it dripping down your back in liquid gold, the color of rings around fingers and laughter bright like chiming bells as fireworks announce the start of a new year, of champagne-bubble-kisses pressed between smiling lips or in glitter-painted faces bright with happy tears.

(Stars, stars, stars- all of us, here to shine, here to glow, here to ignite.)

There’s emerald and jade and glittering jewels of a wealth that simply cannot be ignored, gorgeous and rich and just as endless as forests upon forests of ancient stories that will not be touched by the flames of hatred.

(Grow and move, spread your leaves and your petals with absolutely no shame, no fear, no grief.)

Laugh as the ocean pours around you, a roiling rainstorm that tastes of salt and lighting and leaves fulgurite in your eyes as you scream your love language to the sky and the sea, the world’s best secret-keeper.

(Flow and move and heal, soaring through rough seas onwards and upwards.)

Feel the color of a navy sky as it bleeds from beneath your ocean-stained fingers richer than any berry, indigo-deep and sweeter than blueberries as you pluck sweets directly from the clouds just as the day melts into twilight.

(Effervescent, warm, sweet; the taste of joy and fond summer memories dissolving on your tongue as your heart sighs giddily.)

Wear it in a crown of violet, royal as any god or goddess who bleeds in ichor, irises and crocuses singing in your wake as beauty and power drips from you in shades of comfort and victory.

(Regal, regal, regal: wear it as your crown in jewels brighter than the sun.)

This is your PRIDE-

Don’t let anyone snuff it out, this heartsong of yours.

Be unabashed, be true; be YOU.

-M.G.

[50centpoetry]

月への手紙 (#2): Speak None, See None, Hear None.

You’re warning me of something, o quiet, faceless boy.

I fear not you, but of the secrets you bear behind a smile I can’t remember.

I’ve heard your voice, can hear how it does not waver nor spark terror down my tired spine, gentle and light and just clear enough like shrine bells, and so I know you speak nothing of cruelty.

I remember each and every curve of what you say, and yet as soon as I wake it is as if I no longer speak the same dream-language, dumb and deaf to what you want to tell me.

(Speak no evil, speak no evil, speak no evil)

In my dreams’ eye, I see you-

A flicker of a toothed grin

A flutter of feathers

Ink dark

On moon milk silk

And that is all I can ever write of, unraveled into meaningless words of moon-sick nonsense.

They say you simply can’t dream the face of someone you’ve never met before, and it grates against my patience.

(See no evil, see no evil, see no evil)

I see you

Hear you

Speak to you

Write pointless words the sun eats away

And yet you, o guardian, o gatekeeper, only give me a sad, patient smile and say

“It’s okay,”

And sigh like a passing summer night.

“I can’t hear you, but I see you; you’re going to be alright; trust me..”

(Hear no evil, hear no evil, hear no evil-

Does the same thing apply to omens of good?)

-M.G.

[50centpoetry]

月への手紙 (#1): “Hello.”

Just who are you?

You linger in my dreams, ageless and indescribable, a scrap of a memory I couldn’t ever fully remember until I messily scrawled it down one day and read it, squinting in the morning light.

Am I going mad?

Others have called me crazy, a dreamer, hopeless, and I’ve begun to sink into those heavy thoughts as I’ve seen naught but flickers of a face, a snippet of a voice, a soft breeze of words.

Am I just dreaming?

Are you what I want, or who I want to be?

You are both the echo and the answer, senseless and timeless, just out of my clumsy, childish reach, desperately wishing for something tangible.

You are ocean water steeped with moonlight, quiet laughter and eyes I feel but cannot see, silk on bamboo and the taste of rain and saltwater, the feeling of hands almost around my own but somehow miles away-

I know of no one who can be described as such.

Perhaps I’ve only made you up.

Perhaps I’m just hungry for something (someone) kind.

Perhaps I’m just moon-drunk, addicted to fairy tales and stories of angels.

Perhaps a soulmate isn’t exactly quite what I’ve hoped it to be.

Whatever you are, my dear, I ask only one thing of you:

Please don’t ever leave me.

-M.G.

[50centpoetry]

That’s A Wrap!

And that brings us to the end of the 2019 50CentChallenge! 

For those who followed along, thank you(!!), and I hope some of you will join me in writing for March 2020! 

This was a lot of fun. :D

And of course, a big thank you to the lovely @itsyaboikawa for the mood boards, especially after I’d bother her at the odd hours of the morning/evening after my bouts of the inspiration for the day. 

See you all next year!

[50centpoetry]

3/31/19: [Etiquette]

[n: The rules for proper and polite behavior]

I walked outside today and tasted rain upon my tongue, mixed with sunshine and warmth. It kissed my skin and I laughed, dizzy and pleased.

It rained in cherry blossoms, pink and light, dancing through the sky without a drop of dancer’s etiquette I’d ever learned. I watched and beamed, these very words writing themselves in the scripture that is my mind.

I’m glad to banish the winter, to shun the cold, to step outside into the sun and not want to run away from the world. There’s a beauty to being able to stand still and watch the universe run around you in some wonderful algorithm made by the old gods whose names have changed and shifted over time.

Sometimes, it’s wonderful to breathe and laugh when you sneeze instead.

Sometimes, it’s wonderful to feel your wounds healing instead of stinging as you tear them to shreds.  

Sometimes, it’s wonderful to live instead of just existing.

It’s time to take the next step forward after a long journey-

After all, the story’s just beginning.

(O Persephone, I thank you for your sacrifice of loneliness, for your time spent above the earth, for your flowers I know you grow for your love so far down below; but for your sake, I hope you’ll find that time goes quickly.)

-M.G.

[50centpoetry]

3/30/19: [Scrumptious]

[adj: delightful, excellent, or delicious]

Revenge is a dish best served cold:

Scrumptious, refreshing, rejuvenating.

Taste the tongue that spilt those lies

Taste the blood and eyes that cry

See for yourself the mess that you’ve made.

You carved a bed out of the sea floor,

Broken, cold, ancient, old

Now lie it-

Stones in your ribs-

Until it punctures that darkened heart of yours.

(Oil slick, putrid sick, shimmering and viscous- ugly thoughts and ugly words will be your weapon, dear, in lovely shades of belladonna black.)

-M.G.

[50centpoetry]

3/29/19: [Comminute]

[v: to reduce to minute particles; pulverize]

Sometimes

The world is cruel

Sometimes

You can’t play fair

Sometimes you need to take your heart

And squeeze it

Until everything from the strings to the blood is comminuted beyond recognize

Naught but ash  

And then

Maybe then

From the ash and the scars, I can try

(I can Rise)

Again.

(’Like wildfire..... it starts in my chest/The silence grows louder, ringing out in my head-’)

-M.G.

[50centpoetry]

3/28/19: [Polyglot]

[adj: speaking or writing several languages]

Do you hear the sound of silence?

Can you speak the language of dreams?

Can you write the script of nightmares?

Can you sing the shapes of darkness?

Listen, my child, listen, my dear-

Can’t you sense the terrors near?

You can’t hear the screeching squalls

Of fear as it scratches down the walls?

Echoing and creaking up ancient, wooden stairs

In time to your nerves as you feel the coldness there?

You can’t?

You won’t?

Are you saying I don’t

Hear the same things you do?

No-

You tell me I’m the odd one?

No.

No, don’t leave me alone-

Don’t leave this pitiful, make-believe polyglot

Alone in the dark of their mind to rot.

(痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い- It hurts.)

-M.G.

[50centpoetry]

3/27/19: [Litmus Test]

[n: a decisively indicative test]

The easiest way to find someone’s heart is to find the things they call ‘beautiful’.

It’s a Litmus test, flashing bright red as heartstrings the minute the words leave their mouth, lovely shades of truth that lifts at the corners of their lips in the faintest of smiles.

Their uncontainable joy covers their words, their face, bright neons in the colors of their souls.

Always listen for the things someone calls beautiful, for they will be a dead ringer for the gate to the inner chambers of their heart.

(Roses are red, violets are blue, truth is liquid silver that paints me the picture of you.)

-M.G.

[50centpoetry]

3/26/19: [Decoct]

[v: to extract the flavor of by boiling]

The alchemy of a lie is rather complex-

One part hatred

Two parts silver tongue

Easy to fail and explode in your face

Instead of fixing the mistake you wished to erase

And yet

Somehow

You’re a master of your trade

Decocting white lies down into bone-deep scars

After the last time you lied and I fell for it (you)

(Fool me once, fool me twice)

I realized that it’s the product itself that you live for:

An addict hiding in the skin of a magician.

(The first time is the most addictive, I hear- so what’s it like? I see the blood speckling your lips already, and I know your tongue must be positively dripping in salacious anticipation.)

-M.G.

[50centpoetry]

3/25/19: [Bower]

[n: a shady place in a garden or forest] 

Have you heard the rumor, child, of fairy circles in the wood? 

But of course you know the legend, dear, lest a shoddy step erase you just as it should. 

You musn’t touch the toadstools 

Nor play in pools of ink, 

For nymphs are known to bite and drool 

And nøkken drown you in the drink 

So stay away from bowers, child, 

Unless you wish to fade, 

For Seelie courts care not of mort 

As they sing you merrily to the grave. 

(Don’t look behind you when walking in the forest, don’t listen to the trees; the whispers you hear are siren songs and hymns of death float in the breeze.) 

-M.G.