Crazy Countess

4 Comments

Crazy Countess


Crazy Countess

 

I'm cold, not hungry, but, still cold, and sick,

I'm fumbling towards an insanity that is still colder and thick.

I don't know what language I speak,

I don't know how to stop the blood I keep.

The blood that drips from my flesh like a river of red,

like a wild, raging river that I can't tread.

I am the crazy countess,

my reign stiff, strong and boundless.

Try to break me, you can't,

"Break the cycle" you chant.

I am stronger than you are,

stronger than the freshest star.

Where are my children, and those who follow?,

they are shown to the East,

away from the beast,

they are shown to the west,

away from an imminent theft.

I turned those who follow, away, away from all I lack,

they mustn't follow me now, not with this monkey on my back.

A faithful servant, a dead peasant still,

the voice inside remains cold, sick and shrill.

Rain from my eyes,

the bleed of cry.

Why must this contain the flesh of bone,

the breakage of stone?

I don't know, I don't know....my insanity, my madness without method,

my chances are slim, my shoulders are tired and my soul decrepit.

©2002 KMS

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Will28 commented on Crazy Countess

06-16-2009

Good write. I enjoyed reading it your words almost invited the next line. The crazy countess sounds familiar didn't she bathe in peasent girls' blood? Or is this about someone else?

LJ05 commented on Crazy Countess

05-23-2009

okay this poem is deep and seems like the author confused, or trying to understand something. it is a good poem

TamiG76 commented on Crazy Countess

05-22-2009

WOW WOW WOW WOW WOW WOW WOW WOW WOW WOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Oh my goodness!!!!! Karen this is freaking AWESOME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I LOVE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You totally ROCK!!

Panaramicpoet commented on Crazy Countess

05-22-2009

your writing has incredible depth . .and feeling. . .its sad but gripping. Keep writing. I hope to read more. Thanks for sharing.

Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

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