Biography of Felicity Slaughter
I started writing poetry at the age of 13, against my own will, in fact. It all started as basic middle school english class poetry assignments. But once I began to write, I found not only my talent, but my passion for poetry. I found a way to put into words the beauty and also the tragedy I see in the world. My writing methods since my first poems as a young teenager has changed dramatically, thus effecting the quality of my writing; and to me, no poem is ever really finished. I am forever tweeking and correcting my old work. My poems reflect emotions about personal experiences, observation, and in some cases, pure imagination. I've gotten nothing but love from everyone who is near and dear to me, and I'm forever in debt to those who gave my writing a chance. I owe my friends who supported me the world, and the only way I know how to do that is through words. So I shall continue, and never hold back.
Felicity Slaughter Poems
I am hungry for you. I am hungry for your lips. They're soft,
The Water Lily Pond
As I sit on the bank just thinking, and look into the rippling water, I listen to nature,
Time And Space
My life is spiraling out of control Twirling and twisting more violently than a rampaging tornado.
A Sweet Surrender
A kiss. Just one. That's all it took to make me float on air.
I feel as though I am being punished for not taking my own life yet. So now I cry myself to sleep.
Tug Of War
It wasn't this hard last time Last time I just walked away Away from a life I never had This is the life I never had.
A woman Light olive skin Supple and smooth Longing to be caressed
Cigarettes And Ink
Shaken and tossed, completely ignored. I am alone and forgotten. It seems I'm invisible.
Happiness fills me, heart and soul when he is near.
Who Am I?
Do you see the real me? I don't think anyone can, and I've been striving to speak up.
Heavenly bliss, or the firy pits of Hell? These are the wonders of death.
Black roses lay dead at my feet, the moon is shining a dismal glow on the hilltop on which I dwell.
Black roses lay dead at my feet,
the moon is shining a
dismal glow on the hilltop
on which I dwell.
A sad song is swirling around
me, sung by Mother Nature herself
I envy her.
Forever raw and real, always