The Brown-Haired Beauty Poem by Justin Reamer
The story is a long one,
As I've told you many a time,
I have told you once before,
So I need not make it rime.
I'm not going to tell you again,
That dreadful little narrative,
But I will tell you something else,
That's nonetheless imperative.
The story with the maiden,
Has come back to me,
She is coming back to me,
Just like in Solemnity.
Her face is wondrous and beautiful,
On that outside shell of hers,
She looks beautiful,
When she's walking amongst Douglas firs.
However, when you really get to know her,
You notice her beauty is a facade,
Her face a porcelain mask,
Her body made of pulleys, levers, and rods.
She takes off her mask,
And there lies an evil beast,
She is about to kill you,
And have an elegant feast.
She will feast upon your flesh,
Always liking the feeling of your pain,
And she will drive her claws into your spine,
Making your nerves go insane.
She knows how to hurt you,
And to manipulate your emotions,
She knows how to humiliate you,
When you make a lot of commotion.
She has worn her facade for a while now,
Never showing it out in public,
She has not tormented me,
Until she heard One Republic.
Now, she is back again,
And she is reaching for my throat,
For whatever reason, I know not why,
But she's finally come out of the moat.
She continues to beckon me,
Which did not happen recently,
She had done this once before,
With my death coming indecently.
She beckons me with her hand,
And her beautiful angelic face,
Her face is so innocent,
That it leaves without a trace.
Yet, she comes to torment me,
Something I cannot bear,
'Tis going to make me insane,
If I even begin to dare
She is like the devil,
Clawing my back at every turn,
And each time she claws more,
The pain begins to burn.
The Pain has not been there long,
Neither has the Memory.
But when I see her face again,
I go back in trajectory.
Upon my back she stands,
Trying rip my throat,
And she tries to drown me,
By throwing me off the boat.
The Memory came back to me,
Which life had been devoid,
And now, as hard as I try,
'Tis something I can't avoid.
What does she want from me?
What could she possibly need?
Does she not get the point?
Or does she not take heed?
Life will be a little hard,
But it's something I can ignore,
But the way she looks at me,
Makes me ever quite sore.
She can always leave my back,
Whenever she dare please,
I just need some healing time,
In order to be appeased.
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Comments about this poem (The Brown-Haired Beauty by Justin Reamer )
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
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Edgar Allan Poe
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Edgar Allan Poe
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
(2 June 1840 – 11 January 1928)
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