body art hand witch

Bygone poetry: Silybum Spire

We all have memories from the past that we long forgotten. Some of them doesn’t return in any shape or form, because we disposed of triggers that lead to those memory paths. And we all have done this for the good or bad purposes.

Yesterday I’ve done perquisition in my computer and was very pleased with the results. I thought it was deleted, but I found some old poetry that I wrote in the past. Or at least I tried to. Don’t get me wrong, I wrote poetry before, one of my first writings was poems in my native language. If I remember well,  “Silybum Spire” was my first attempt to write poetry in English.

I always was fascinated with witches. There is something inspiring to me in this folk subject. So… Two years ago, I was listening to My Ruin – Terror song (and the picture of this post goes with the mood) I wrote this poem:

Silybum Spire

I’m a down to Earth creature
But they see me as Saturn’s descent
And that would be serious insult
If I would care
Like I ever care

My heiress, my bleeding princesses
This world could be ours utopian playground
But we choose to shake with fear from every sound

I lost my breath of life
And now I depolarize
With strong will to survive
And bizarre need of fright
I’m my own matrona might

See no hell, hell is here
See no hell, he is right in front of you,

My wide love headquarters
Can only contain two
Two lovers like one
Where is the best half only you

I have no visible matter
And what only matters comes from nowhere
So how about just leave it there?
Why you have been dragged my body, Miss Nightmare?

Femme Fatale
Not even close
I’d rather be deformed centipede
Or nutter that totally lost her head
But not you glamorized empty shed

Polluted grounds
Broken vows
Only interested in earning pounds

I’m passion
Passion transforms
In the light I can’t perform
I can’t sing
I can’t dance
But what I can do – I do like no one else can.

I’m not lonely
But wish you were here
You with your gun, I’ll be with my spear
Hate me or love me
None of these options bugs me

Just talk, dream, scream about me
I’ll get sick, break bones and laws for you
You’re my purge,
You are my true, pebble, unbearable
Change that
And I’ll definitely change you back

See no hell, hell is here
See no hell, but you clearly could,

Women are not women anymore
Women are dolls, men are given them poles
Strip, kiss almighty fist
And then ask for more
Although you want everything gone
Gone from your memory drone
But you obtain pain and bottle of bourbon

Hell, hell, hell,
Let’s have a vacation in hell!

With martini cocktails, nasty smells
With bearded ladies, lawyers on stilts
And don’t forget unbaptized babies
Hell can provide all sorts of thrills

Should I bother a little bit
Or more?
The answer to all –
Silybum spire is my core.

Most of the people are ashamed of their previous works and creations. They say “it was childish to do”, “I’m way more advanced now”… Well, yeah, but why to be ashamed of something your mind and hands have created even it was in the past? Why past is so shameful? Don’t be like that. I was like that. I used to try to write a diary but soon I failed. Then later I did it again. I bought the most beautiful notebook that I could find in stores but it wasn’t even filled up to halfway. You know why? Because I had this weird thought in my mind: “What if someone will gonna find it and read it? It’s not professional enough”. What a stupid thought that was! You’re doing everything for yourself. You’re doing everything authentically. Don’t be ashamed of any word and don’t erase anything. Nostalgia warms.

So, for now…
Be good and good luck!Save


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