The unfinished creation of a character

What an intriguing curio this figment of my imagination has proven. A simple girl by looks perhaps, but something in that calm smile of hers reveals a sad lie. She encourages my mind to create all sorts of vague conclusions. I probably shoulnd't, but I cannot help pitying this seemingly joyful character. I can't quite decide, what it is that is so sad about her, but I know there's something. I think she hides it, even from her closest friends. How could I, a stranger, ever know for sure? But now I will have to know for sure. I simply cannot stand not knowing. I normally don't take too much interest in other people's misfortune, but this girl is mine. I made her, and she is not supposed to keep such secrets from me. She has no right! Besides, I only want to help. It just seems impossible to gain this poor girl's trust. She has been betrayed far too often. How could she ever be real, complete if she will not accept my help? If she shall not confide in me, I will never be able to define or guide her. I cannot bear the responsibility of releasing an unfinished character into this cruel and complex world !

Oh my, a sonnet.

I am hoping to get more "normal" prose added, but I have so many sonnets so here is one more:

All sanity has passed away
My pen is a bloody mess
It hopes to write just one more day
To describe my love in her fair, white dress
Industrialized love like acid rain
A bitter-sweet kiss from the past
I crave your love again and again
The drugs kick in at last
I lie awake all through the night
Longing for my kingdom by the sea
Trying to reach her with all my might
As when Poe found his Annabell-Lee
I know now that it is all a lie
On my tomb reads: All beauty must die

NB: I have quoted both Edgar Allan Poe and Nick Cave, and it is meant as tributes !

Artificial Love

One more from the old book.

A young, handsome man
With no luck at love
Sought, a pen in his hand
Aid from the gods above
And so it was, on a dark, weary night
That he asked for the gods and they came
His eyes were blinded by the strongest of light
There stood a girl with no name
But alas, it was a young girl of stone
Her eyes lacked that sparkling play
And there stood our boy, cold and alone
In the arms of a girl made of clay
The boy now writes poems of dread
To a statue with eyes not playful, but dead

The Story Of Pierre

I give to you a humble guy
Who goes by the name of Pierre
I know a lot of years went by
But here is what happened back there
So here was a guy with a pen at hand
An artist one might say
One night he got stranded on unholy land
So he joined the devil's way
He became an outlaw, a beggar and a thief
He was nearly crowned King Fool
But then he started to question his belief
For his world had truely turned cruel
He realised then that he was stranded in hell
His only hope was a distant church bell

A Wild Beast I Seem

Yet another sonnet - Plenty of more where that came from  ...

A wild beast I seem
Trapped in a solitary cage
Pure love is a dream
When all the world is at stage
I long for love with all my might
But I know it will never be
Thus roams this hideous beast the night
From the cage I can never be free
From the day I refused her rose to take
A monster with no beauty at all
Oh please my lord, for heaven's sake
Is this curse a just call ?
Trying to hide my cruelty and pride
I have become dr. Jekyll / mr. Hyde

Sonnet from last night

Here is one of many sonnets that will be added :

She keeps coming over to visit me at my place
But her intentions simply will not show
Always a soothing smile on her face
But it could be false, for all I know
I know so little when it comes to this game
And I who seem to know it all
I find joy at the mentioning of her name
Even though joy is a feeling I can scarcely recall
But I have learned that being drunk
On something as sweet as love
Is far worse than the junk
In all the bottles that I shove
Down my throat - Red, red wine
Helps me forget about this girl of mine

The Red Dress

The red dress:

The red dress. That self-concocted idea of the perfect woman just waiting for me to buy her a drink. And when I do eventually pull my guts together and ask her, I pray to God, that I have not started putrefying. Nothing ruins a first impression as the smell of death. When I finally do happen upon this wonderful lady, I think I am going to try and hide the whole dead-thing. I don’t think it is such a great icebreaker, and by the way I am doing just fine. I am dead, but other than that I am doing quite fine, thank you. Am I? They all said that I most definitely was not dead. Well, that is just not true, but maybe I will be able to play the game without blabbering about such boring subjects as, whether or not I am actually dead or alive. Only shrinks would find my constant persistence intriguing. A date would most probably just find it boring, and terribly sad. It just isn’t that easy hiding it. When one is in fact dead, it seems to pretty much overshadow all other variable subjects of conversation. I got completely swallowed by the fact. So much, so I actually forgot to panic, that I was suddenly deceased. It never struck me as a scary thought, mostly because I was so taken in by this transition. The concept of being killed into a fit body. Kind of like being born into a new world, only a lot more grim. That might not seem like such a flattering comparison, but it is the best I have got. I have tried to speak with people about this condition that I seem to be “suffering” under, but the only person, who remotely understands, is undergoing quite a transition herself and her mind is a study comparable to mine. I think I might try and explain it further to my brother, but I don’t think this fits with his idea of creating a constructive environment in which one might display a creative side.

                             Anyway, this red dress seems to haunt me. Is the red dress the best metaphor? The poor ballerina might work better for what I crave. Well, not exactly the poor ballerina, I don’t want this broken down girl. Besides I have already had my share of ballerinas and we all remember how that went. And just for the record, the ballerina in question was not poor. On the contrary, she seemed to be wearing a stunningly scarlet dress. That is certainly the last time I considered the red dress. But I don’t want the perfect woman. I don’t want this sweet, caring Belle, who always knows what to do and say. And how would a person like that even cope with a traumatising character like me. No, it would be better to spare the poor girl of my horrible past. A combination of the red dress and the poor ballerina would probably work. Help me, I need words. It just seems easier to work in these sorts of Jungian arc types.  And I am really considering this one very carefully. What do I want? I could ask, what do any guy want, but that would just be wrong. “Any guy” is probably not dead. I think, no I hope that I am the only dead person with these concerns. I just really can’t figure out my so-called “type” right now. It is not like we are in any hurry. Besides, this may just make a great teaser for all who reads this. I can imagine a depressed, 14 year old girl going all Twilight-romantic, thinking “What is this guy’s type? ”, while she is blinking those big puppy eyes at the ceiling and cuddling her little sisters teddy bear.  But then again, if a depressed, 14 year old girl ever did read any of my stuff it might just lead to a sad overdose on painkillers, and I really do not want to think myself responsible, so fair warning; all depressed, 14 year old girls, stay away from this and please hand over your sister teddy bear, because she surely needs it more than you do, and you should stay away from romantic stuff. It will just end up breaking your heart, when you finally do lose your virginity the first time you get drunk and dumped by the popular guy from your class. Alright, enough with the parental-like warnings and the stereotypes. That was mainly to distract my thoughts as I tried to find my arc type. And also, it was something that I really wanted to throw out there.

                             I have found that love is like wine. Not red, juicy and intoxicating; simply intoxicating. It is like this: The doctor tells you that the occasional glass of wine is healthy. That it is supposed to lower your cholesterol or something like that. Well, you drink that occasional glass of wine. Sometimes you down an entire bottle. You get drunk and then you do crazy stuff. But you keep telling yourself that the doctor recommended it. That it is supposed to be healthy. Soon, the occasional glass becomes less occasional. You find yourself remembering those few, occasional moments without wine, but the memories are just too painful so you go ahead and down another bottle. And so a few happy years goes by, drunk and without a care. Then the doctor tells you that the occasional glass should be just that; occasional. He takes away your wine, gives you some drugs, so your body will repel the wine, and suddenly the wine is the enemy. It hurts. At that moment, you realise just how thirsty you really are. You stop taking the drugs and you ignore your doctor, and you go on with what you know deep down is healthy. The doctor said it was healthy, so.

The funny thing about a poisoned glass of wine is that you do not realise the poison until you drink the wine. And one day a girl in a very, very red dress might just have tipped something into your wine. Of course, you are far too drunk to realise anything, so you go ahead and enjoy that first glass in such a long time. And how sweet it tastes, and the numbness that spreads through your lips, as they part with the glass. It is indeed a good wine. A French wine from an excellent year. But then you start to feel a sting in your chest. It spreads, and before you realise it, you are dead. The red-dressed temptress of my past used a very peculiar poison. It took a little longer, and when it had finished, all my vital organs were still alive and functional. And this is truly a contributing factor in the search of my cause of death. It might even be the actual cause. I think it is. I had been dying for a few years, but this was the final blow. I was murdered by a ballerina clothed in red, who spoke such flattering words of comfort. And so did I. She spoke of my incredible insight into the human mind, when only know, do I realise how limited my insight truly is. She spoke of an attraction, but how could an attraction of hers ever arouse for me?  I shaded my intentions in panicked words of calm. If only ever I had retained the insight to realise her true deception. And so the words of a greater man eclipse my murder:

                             “I lie with her and her with me, and in our faults, by lies we flattered be.”