#yourstrulyteddycat

[thecrookedsuccubus]

Once, I wrote a poem About how you tasted And I wrote about how I felt. I sat and scribbled And scratched out words. Because as hard as I tried, I couldn't find the right ones.

I look at the art of others, And the way their verses Lift off the page, how They make your heart Heavy or soar, and I knew That try as I might, I could never write like that.

But I wrote about you And how you tasted,  How your lips were like Inspiration. To me,  You were the perfect poem, Flawless prose, a story That I hoped would never end.

So as many as there are Crumpled pages and Crossed out words, maybe Just this once, there can be A poem that reaches your heart And I'll be happy knowing That I helped create it.

[thecrookedsuccubus]

Some day is a question And someone is a name. If you must learn a lesson, Learn to never seek out fame.

Because when your face is known, Then your name is lost And you become "someone" alone At much too high a cost

Don't keep your dreams at bay Let them reach beyond the sun Because there, they'll find someday And around the world you'll run

So feel free to ask the question And give yourself a name You won't suffer misdirection If you've already beat the game

[thecrookedsuccubus]

Hey I don't know if you guys are becoming aware or have been aware but I have a few tags of my own so I'm gonna make a list of those. And I will probably put a link on my blog. Just sayin'.

DedicatedToDemons is typically my darker, angstier (angsty-er?) poetry or prose

Adventures in a Mental Hospital are poems about or personal posts concerning, well, the mental hospital I was committed to. It's also the name of my other blog that has nothing to do with poetry.

The Paper Girl is a collection of poems that are inspired by and dedicated to this lovely person who is the model for a character of my own design (the Paper Girl, go figure) Accompanying this heroin is another character, the Boy Made of Music Notes, who is based off this gentleman.

Crayon Ramblings are my inconsequential sleepy musings that typically don't make sense but every once in a while I strike something that might resemble gold.

And there's one more that I've used that has a few pieces dedicated to this beautiful mother fucker right here that I can't remember the name of presently.

So yeah, that's just a quick guide to better navigate my dystopian labyrinth of writing.

[this-is-not-our-dia]

Um, hey, I just wanted to apologize for my and my friends 'misappropriation' of your holiday, but I feel as if I need to defend my actions. I'm an aspiring make-up artist, which means I try to branch out and try lots of things that are popular right now. One of those things is "Sugar skull," and I'm sorry if you believe we were ruining you're Dia de los Muertes but we weren't attempting to recreate the traditional make-up. Just having fun. Next time we will be more tactful.

My apologies, I asked that last question before I read your explanation for your blog and now understand your feelings more. I responded before thinking and I am deeply sorry. I will consider origins and heritage before I act again, and I also wanted to say I don’t see the practice of Dia de los Meurtos as witchcraft. Would it be white privilege if I began celebrating as it was meant to be celebrated? On another note, what’s wrong with dreadlocks?

Yes, it is an exercise in white privilege to practice a holiday that has non-white origins. It isn’t your cultural heritage.

White people with dreadlocks, just google why it’s offensive, racist, and also an act of white privilege. 

-Alan

[thecrookedsuccubus]

There is a time-- After crying,  And before learning To breathe again Where there is still Droplets on your lashes And a storm behind your eyes When you have to decide If you're more than the rain.

[thecrookedsuccubus]

She woke up from a dream where she had kissed a boy she hated and it made her hate herself even more. She hated him because she always had, and she was already in love with someone else. Crawling out from under her blankets, she began pulling on her clothes despite the early hour. She needed to get of her bare skin, and focus on hating. At school there were too many people and not enough brains between them. And so she kept her head down until lunch. Someone yelled her name across the Cafeteria.  "Cat!" for some reason she searched the crowd frantically. The boy she hated was laughing. He was in her next class. "Hey you," she demanded, "Did you shout at me?" "Yeah. I didn't know it was you." He complimented how she looked, the wig she wore for Halloween. She narrowed her eyes, thanked him, turned back toward the front of the room and hit her head against the desk to remember that she hated him. It didn't stop the dreams.

[thecrookedsuccubus]

Crooked Letters on Crooked Lines

I've never much cared For blank pages Vacant like the stares I see on the streets

Give me printed lines Empty and expectant And perhaps a lyric Will accompany me

But for all the lines And all the lyrics- useless Tortured poets like me Are a dime a dozen.

Although every dozen Has a dime of hope For the music In the words.

Perhaps that's why I Sculpt and carve My crooked, crossed lines In the hope that Someone will hear their fill Then come and Write my story.

[thecrookedsuccubus]

I'm in a bit of a writing mood

If anyone would like to send me a starter or something they'd like me to write about I'd gladly accept the challenge.