Krisandra Writes Metaphors

I started writing because there's a lot of shit in my head. So much shit that it's too full for a sewer. I like to think broadly and deeply. ☯🌻📜✍🏻🍂🕉 These poems are like treasures to me. Please don't plagiarize. ©KrisandraWritesMetaphors Email: [email protected] My main blog: sproutandblossom I face and body paint, checkout my Facebook page: Kristopian Creations Default Image: Euphoria ll by PeonyPepper Digital Art

[deepthoughtsandmetaphors]

The Murder Mansion: a dream I had

A weird dream I had last night: The Murder Mansion There was a huge abandoned mansion in the middle of nowhere. It was surrounded by a deep forest. There was only one road to safety, and at the end of the forest there were open fields, nobody to help you. It was the 1800s, 1900s and 2000s throughout the entire dream. The 1800s was the beginning. There was a woman lost in the forest. She came up to a door hidden behind vines. It led to a huge room with a grand staircase. It was dark and cold and lifeless. She started exploring the darkness. As she was walking up the staircase, she peered down a long dark hallway. There was things lined up on the wall. Bodies lined up on the wall. Bodies of women, in gowns, blood splattered on them, bruised faces. Dead. She screamed and ran for the exit. As she was running, the ground moved. Her body hoisted up and settled into a trap. Arms and legs strapped to a wooden bed. An old gentleman revealed himself through the darkness. He was wearing a black suit, monocle dangling from the trousers. Black hair, evil face. He lived for this. He craved this. The screaming of helpless women. The darkness, the agony, the blood. Murder. He started laughing silently. Stupid and lost females come through here, and they always end up dead. He walked up to the captured woman. He could smell her fear. She knew this was the end of her. He got so close to her that she could feel his breath. He ripped her corset, revealing the private parts of her. He started to feel her up and grab her breasts, enjoying the last scent of her. She trembled and cried beneath him. He slashed her throat and stabbed her heart, blood splattering everywhere. Her screams echoing through the lifeless halls. This was his prized collection. A collection of dead women. It smelled rotten in this place. He never cared to clean his messes. Capture, rape, kill, collect. This was his prize. He hoisted the body and stamped her to the wall with the others. They all looked like crucified Jesus. Different colored gowns. Milky skin. Whenever the women had company, he would kill them too. The males weren't treated as prizes though. They were set up like dolls in different rooms. He did this to women too when there was no room on the walls. Dolls in an abandoned mansion. Some of them looked like they were sleeping in beds. Some of them looked like they were cleaning up a mess. Some of them looked like they were preparing a meal. If anyone tried to escape, he would find them and kill them. No one ever got far before he found them. No one ever reached the end of the road to safety. You had to run fast, for miles. I remember being killed by him once. I remember being hung on a wall. I remember time fast forwarding. It's been 100 years. 1900s. I am awake. Somehow I'm not dead anymore. I remember trying to escape and almost being captured again. I remember the dead faces. The ripped gowns. The blood. The gentleman didn't seem to be around. I remember running for my life. Messy hair and dried blood. I remember finding help. A male and female. I begged them not to go to the mansion. They would be killed. They wouldn't listen. They didn't believe me. They thought I was crazy. They saw everything and screamed. Tried to escape and hide, made it out the door...but the gentleman was ready. The trap was set and he murdered them. I saw everything. I watched people come and never escape for years. I watched people hide. I watched people scream for their lives. I watched the beautiful mansion come to life and die over and over again. Body after body. Murder after murder. I watched people try to trick the gentleman, but never succeed. I watched it all. Another 100 years. 2000s. I remember leaving and never telling anyone about it. I remember a man helping me. I remember sleeping on the floor of his apartment. I remember what it felt like to be human again. The gentleman is dead somehow. I don't feel his presence anymore. The murders have stopped. They find the mansion. They walk inside. So many dead bodies. The ground moves again...revealing 100 floors...an elevator...more dead bodies from before. Halls and halls of death underground. They clear the mansion out. They make a book of the deceased. The tale goes down in history. The me that is dreaming wants to read it..wants to know if it's a true story. I write on Facebook saying it was entertaining. Yep, it was entertaining. Also terrifying. The end. 😹

[verygaygirlfriendfoxmulder-deac]

me whenever a drawing doesnt go my way: that’s it. i lost all talent. i’m no longer able to make art. i peaked. this is it. this is the end of days

[onlinecounsellingcollege]

Hang in there. It is astonishing how short a time it can take for very wonderful things to happen.

Frances Hodgson Burnett (via onlinecounsellingcollege)

[cwote]

Don’t be so hard on yourself, okay? :))

[sproutandblossom]

A year of love & pain

October He sits at his favorite coffee shop. Orders tea with milk and honey, the way he always does. She walks past him, the scent of lavender dragging behind her. Blue eyes, pearly white smile. She orders tea with ice. She glances at him. This is a woman he wants to talk to.

November They talk everyday. He asks her out. He exhales her name and waits to hear her voice. She says yes. He starts ordering his tea with ice.

December He kisses her under the falling snow. She tastes like blueberry cheesecake. She’s like a delicate flower that he gets to hold. She is a hurricane that’s filling his lungs. She keeps her heart behind closed doors. She’s been hurt too many times before.

January They build a snowman together and drink lots of hot cocoa. She smells like warm lavender. They’re wrapped in a thick blanket. She runs her fingers over his arms like the old type-writer in her room that she’s always hunched over. He pulls her close and plays with her hair. They make love for the first time.

February She stays home on Valentine’s day and doesn’t answer her phone. Her dad calls you the next day and tells you she almost drank herself to death. She says Valentine’s Day isn’t for her. She says that love died long ago for her.

March He still takes his tea with ice. Her voice turns cold, losing its warmth. He doesn’t understand. She smiles at him with a cigarette between her teeth. He gets a haircut and she doesn’t like it too much but that same night she grabs his hair and he screams her name.

April No phone calls. No texts. He goes to her apartment to see if she’s okay. He smells another man’s cologne in the air. She grabs his arm and shoves him out the door. She is telling him to fuck off. She says he was never good enough, that he was a better fuck.

May He drinks coffee instead of tea. He locks himself away in his room. He tears pictures of them apart. He takes scalding hot showers, trying to rub her lavender scent off. He checks Facebook. Taken, but not by him. He curses her new boyfriend and cries himself to sleep.

June He still smells lavender even though he’s holding another girl’s hand. Her eyes don’t glitter the same as hers. Her touch is sloppy. She thinks she’s a good writer when she really just gets drunk and writes bullshit. She’s not her. She’s not her. She’s not her.

July He cuts his hair. He cuts his hair until there’s nothing left because he knew how much she loved to touch it. He dresses differently and gets tattoos. He smiles when he can, and cries when he needs to. He drinks coffee now. Sometimes he sees someone that looks exactly like her. His stomach twists. His heart throbs. Please come back. Please come back.

August She posts a picture of her and her new boyfriend. He blocks her. He still has dreams about her. He still thinks about her. He doesn’t feel like ripping himself apart. He knows that he will someday love again. He learns that loving himself is not the same as narcissism.

September There are flowers growing around his ribcage, where there once was dust. He is true smiles and honest giggles.

October He sits at his favorite coffee place. He wonders if she remembers the day they first met. He orders tea with milk and honey. He can’t smell lavender anymore. Everything is okay. This is a new beginning.

[deepthoughtsandmetaphors]

Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck. Fuckaroo.

[deepthoughtsandmetaphors]

4:20AM (it's just a coincidence ok) This town has rotted away at all of us. It's a fucking miracle we've survived this long, so let's put down the paintbrush and splatter our walls with our hands like we don't give a damn. Do it in the brightest of colors and make the zombies blind, let's paint our frowns into smile lines.

[deepthoughtsandmetaphors]

If you realize that you don’t like who you are now, you better get yourself a new garden to replant yourself in, little flower. You need to find a new place where the sun shines just right. ^~^

[deepthoughtsandmetaphors]

The world of Tumblr writers; NEWB!

Hey hi hello. I am new to the world of poetry on tumblr. Please welcome me to the community! I am hoping to attract a larger audience! Please follow me. :)