Blog Poem @ MindSay 
Dixie currently feels:
Hurt
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Blog Poem #3
"Hated"
This is a poem for everyone out there...
Everyone who hates me, read this and glare.
You can't stand to see me smile,
You hate it when I'm happy for a while.
When I'm there, laughing, having fun,
You want to shoot me with your gun.
You can't bear to see me happy,
You only like it when I feel crappy.
What exactly is your problem mate?
What is is about me that you hate?
Is it my laughter, my humour, my mind?
You can't even bring yourself to be kind.
You see me enjoying myself, and I see your frown,
You yourself are elated when you see me down.
Fine, sometimes I may swear, and sometimes I may moan,
Sometimes I may be violent, and objects will be thrown.
That's only one side of me, you bilateral onlooker.
One-sided, prejudiced, envious motherfucker!
Well just for you, I'm going to grin,
Smirk right in your face, and show you, you won't win.
Dixie currently feels:
Alone
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Blog Poem #1
I'm hiding my emotions from everyone,
I hide behind my fonts and smileys and fun.
The red arial, size twelve. Hides all,
Except the days when I sob, cry and bawl.
Those days are the days when I let everything flow,
I post photos of cuts and leave it all on show.
I'm shit at writing poetry, but everyone says I'm not,
I'm so bad I have to use rhyming dictionaries, a lot.
But poems just sound so wrong when they don't,
A rhyme on the end of each line, or flow it just won't.
I was just laid in bed, holding her under my chin,
She still has your scent, but its vigor is thin.
I hold her too close, my smell is now overpowering her,
But I don't think I can let go, I need to keep a hold of her soft brown fur.
My structure of syllables and prose is just fucked,
Try as I might, my talent's just cooked.
It'll never be whatever it once was,
I've turned it all against myself, because...
I don't even know the reason myself,
I took too much time over your shelf.
If it falls down then we'll all get a pain,
Right in the skull where it'll fall to blame.
Blame the one who didn't tighten the rivets enough,
A defective spanner, she didn't tug it so rough.
Poetry is the worst form of expression in the world.
I don't think I'll try this again... My frustration is heard.
Dixie currently feels:
Dead
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Blog Poem #2
"Scabs"
Whenever I was hyper active,
Enjoying the way I'm supposed to live,
I'd often remark on pointless things,
And smile on the joy that my randomness brings.
I once often remarked, my brain was gooey,
The sky was bluey, glue sticks were gluey,
My brain was so screwy, my Converse were shoey.
The best thing I ever said though:
"My scabs are chewy."
And that's not a lie.
I'd picked one from my knee and gave it a try.
It was crunchy at first, then soft inside,
The surface was squishy, all the blood had dried.
Scabs are only a barrier, a mask, if you will,
They cover the wounds and they will be clean, until...
Until I rip them off again,
I want to see what's under them.
The wound hasn't fully healed.
It's bleeding now, just like when I:
Drove the cold blades into myself,
Sliced off my flesh and cut out some trenches,
I start the war, I fight the war,
I make my own barracks, eat my own stew.
I raise my own weapon, but not to my enemy.
I raise it to myself, and bring it down fast.
Ah... Relief at last.
I've made this once happy poem into something I shouldn't.
Keeping myself happy, content, I knew that I couldn't.
My scabs are all gone now.
I've scraped them away, pow.
All that's there now are the remains of the mark,
The small red indents where my silver blades park.
Where they dance upon me,
Take their fill of my skin, see?
There's one there, one here, one just near my elbow,
One down in the middle, and this one here... Oh...
...Maybe I shouldn't show that one to you.