A/N: I am very very very sick right now. :p My telephone is possessed, it frightens me. Anyhow, those two facts having nothing to do with the poetry... I hope to have at least a dozen or so poems in here eventually. These actually aren't bad, as my poetry ranges from terrible to decent. (Isn't that an incentive to read?)
PS: The second poem isn't very Emmy-friendly. So if you're reading this skip the second one Emmy. You will throw up. I know it will make you sick so I'm warning you ahead of time!


Blood drips from the walls
As I tread through the halls
Your heartstrings grace harps
On the ceiling played by
Cheruebs plastered there
They smile through golden hair
hiding the demons painted beneath
Hark! Hear the requiem,
notes painted on chord canvas, calling.
It is calling you, we have
played it so that you may
come and die before us, So that
we may learn how it is done.

"The Artist"

He grasps the knife in his lithe hands
Many years of practice have given him the skill to do what he now does
I smile in delight to see the way he swings his hand and arches the knife
In one exsquisite yet forceful thrust
Up through my ribs.
The blood pours out in a gushing stream
Like a great red fountain it escapes me
As I fall to the ground, my nose catches the smell on my garments
The smell of sweet red life that withing me flowed only moments ago
"The blood is the life" he shouts and bows before my body and blood
Getting up slowly, he wipes his knife on the hem of his shirt
"Do you like my work?" he asked
My eyes began to glaze, but I managed to stutter, "God, yes."
"Yes I am good at what I do," he replied.
"It is indeed a pity that those who witness my skill never tell.
So I must go on, proving it to others. So that all can see the beauty.
Do you see it?"
The blood choked me and I could not reply, but he could see it in my eyes.
The artist always finds the beauty in his masterpiece.