TheFluffyOtaku

My mommy still visits me When I am lonely or sad My mommy still visits me She says she wants to hold me in her arms. I believe her. When the sky goes to sleep When daddy and the lady lock the door, That's when she comes. I ask her again and again why I can't remember her But all she says is that she wants to hold me. That she wants me to be like her. She can't hold me like this She says, but if I do it, she can. Just drink this, or try that. It will only hurt for a moment. I understand what happened, after I had woken That my mommy took my body And left it to rot, but kept my soul in her arms. What a bad body, what a bad daddy. But

What am I? What am I when I cling to the sides of another? What am I when an opinion is more than a morsel? Is it bad to make someone from a mold, To judge by looking at the paper, at the cameras? A new bloomed soul sticks out in a field of grey, Its identity is hidden, plucked, painted, and put in a vase by the windowsill, only to see the curtain and artificial light. That is if its stem is not snapped before it gets the chance to spread. Woe to the flower who blooms under such conditions. Woe to the one painted and pressed. We're all the same. Are we not? We all smell so sweet. But what am I in this crowd of poppies, when we all sm

A man dressed in black Wearing a smile there to stay. That's how I knew I was to die today. Don't ask me how and don't ask me why, For if I told you the truth you surely wouldn't believe me. You'd tattle to mother and say I was batty Have me locked up, but that's not how it works. As he smiles, Im sucked into two large round spheres A window to my soul. Life confined in chains, tugged like a puppet By the one they call fate. Sorry mother, I hate to see you cry But from what I see, its time to say goodbye For all it takes it a tug at the string or a change in the wind, For my first life to stop and my second to begin.

The Bag There once was a girl dressed in red, A bag at her side she did carry Almost as if to taunt All agog they sat, staring at that bag For all that was inside Was a secret. What could it be? Three things did they know. A vile of ruby red, who’s aroma lingered sweetly And tickled their noses And danced around their mind. Then came a necklace of white, Which clung to her pale neck, Texture smooth as porcelain. Finally, they did see, As a curiosity came, A small box, with lock and key. What could it be? Once unattended, the bag the girl did leave, Overtaken with desire, An urge to know, time set free, lock and key What could be h