The name of this poem is "A Token: Mysterious and Drowning in Anger" it has a PG-13 rating. The poem is also not dedicated to anyone, and criticism is allowed.
21:27, February 15, 2015 (UTC)
No-one is allowed to copy from this, you may use the ideas that you may receive from reading this. If you wish to use part of this poem in a story or for anything else on the wiki, politely ask me before you copy the poem.
How often does it come to call?
How often does the sea breeze spray?
How often will she fall?
How many times will he ask her to stay?
Then tell her that she is to leave,
How many times will she have to greave?
Will she leave him forever?
She sits in the room, it is so cold,
It is now, so much darker.
In her hand, his hateful words in bold.
On her face the pain of staying with him,
In her heart,
Her hair, how he hated it, short trim.
She thinks of her heart; she only imagines it falling apart.
He walks in, key in hand.
He walks in to ask her,
Where had she been?
He tells her to stand,
Then drops her to her knees,
She cries out, and he lashes out at her,
What of this had she not already seen?
Her knees begin to shake, and still the scream…
Still the scream won’t come,
Yet, when she awakes, she thinks it a dream.
Then, when she looks at the picture of herself,
She remembers how she must be mum.
She remembers at time when she had health.
When she didn’t have to worry about him.
He turns through her mind, so horridly.
Yet, she still calls out to him.
And he scolds her so disapprovingly.
Can’t she do anything right?
Can’t she find new words to write?
So near to her from afar.
Then, when he is dead, she says, I will be free.
How can she not worry?
How can she not, herself truly see?
How: the truly beautiful things she now will carry?
Why does she know?
Did she have to learn; Trust is often broken?
What now will she show?
Will the next approve?
Or will he be unreal as a mysterious token?
Yet… There she stands…
The gun and razor in her hands…
The current has not yet washed away.
He still comes back, like the tide late of midday.
The gun goes back in the drawer,
She will wonder,
Will another be able to love her?
No, she takes the razor,
and she takes up the outside’s cold air.
She cries as she walks briskly to the water.
And in the chair she carves a message to the hater.
She sends a message to those who will find it later.
And slowly she slips into the water,
colder than the dead of night.
Yet this, this she thinks feels so right.
She swims in above her height,
There she realizes she wasn’t quite right.
Yet she can’t swim against the drowning waves.
The waves beat her down, and she can’t swim.
The current keeps dragging her back in,
the man she didn’t want to see again.
There he is again, like the tide, out, and in.
He sets her on her bed.
The tugging, the pushing,
The shoving, the screaming,
The fighting, the crawling,
The hurting, the bleeding,
The sickening, the hating,
Oh the tension that is snapping,
How could this be happening, he wonders.
Wonders just as the thunderous boom
The boom that echoes in his skull.
It is now, that his head is so clearly full.
Full of understanding.
On the floor his face is landing.
All the while, the hater.
How could he hate her?
And there he falls, his mind now empty.
She visits him in the cemetery.
An empty, mysterious token.
Something that she had not spoken.
The things for which he was mistaken.
And there, the time is coming.
The date is set.
Will they forgive her?
Or will they hate her too?
Somehow, among it all, she is let go.
Where will she go?
How can she go away from what she knows?
What will she do?
Time passes for her, and she sees not its vantages.
She still reapplies old bandages.
She cries herself to sleep.
But she still remembers how the water was so deep.
And there, in her house by the sea.
No-one saw when she waded into the water.
Forgetting the late hater.
Not remember to swim when she came to her height.
Yet from under the water:
The lantern amidst the dark, was bright…
How well did it feel to have been right…
She wondered what it would be like.
There they say she wades in the water,
never sooner than later.
Always with enough time to see the cold, dead skies above her…
Skies: Floating… floating into the open, the dark and unknown…
Swimming without pattern into the deep,
Deep, deep sleep,
The sleep of a September that she will never forget to always remember.