The Haters Make Us Famous

And hate they will, 'till we're no more,
So we try our escape, and bash on death's door,
We drown ourselves in liquor and lyrics,
In desperate attempts to charge their blurred ethics,
And in last attempt, our hearts subject to none,
But then something says WAIT, we'll be keeping this one.

poem by Dayna Mortimore
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Long Night

You're
Alone;
And you're cold and it's dark and you are
So hopelessly and desperately alone
And
There is no one beside you so you whisper,
You whisper out loud;
'Is there anybody there?
Someone to
Hold my hand? '
And
The Darkness comes out and traces your
Fingers;
Its breath is in time with yours as it
Lays down beside you
And it's then that you realise that you've
Never really been
Alone.

poem by Dayna Mortimore
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Last Lullaby

As sweet angels mutter last lullaby,
The last lonely child begins to cry,
And the widow hides her hurt inside,
As the violin brings treason to try.

And I stare in to these bambi eyes,
The children, of such sweet defy,
And the women stand, side by side,
As the world pulls to an end.

Goodbye, last lullaby,
I sing my children to sleep.
For the image of such steep destruct,
May burn the mind, so sweet.

The destination, almost reached,
As the last of my children fall asleep,
Tis the end of forever, eternity, despair,
Far upon inner suicide,
A demons watchful stare.

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poem by Dayna Mortimore
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Sweet Child

Beauty of a dove,
Integrity of owl,
Courage of the mouse,
The silence in a growl.

Sweet innocence,
And darling mind,
I stare in to these bambi eyes,
Of what may come is that of the past,
I beg of you, spare me to last.

Sweet child,
Whisper to me your secrets,
Love me darlin divine,
Sweet Child,
Bless me with innocence,
Tell me no such lies.

Whisper to me sweet lullaby,
And bless me, harmony,

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poem by Dayna Mortimore
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Scotch Is A Secret

If drunken is a verb, then death is one too,
For they both induce violence, and if not, radical truth.
If a last wistful breath is what's seen as a plea,
Then please, gentle secrecy; let me fall down to knee.
Whiskey is a worry, and vodka is a vice,
I may once taste sweet blissful beer, but only once or twice.
Preach for the obvious, the sacred; the life;
Hypocrite be an innocent; a daughter a wife.
Let us all hide our secrets, behind the worrisome wine,
Charming be the chardonnay, as we taste flask flat beer fine.
Let the priest sip clandestine champagne,
And let all be right with the world,
Let a liar be justified a fight,
And a mute have the option of word.
If all of this be true; and the alcohol stable a fire;
Then let scotch be kept my secret,
And I, a truthful liar.

poem by Dayna Mortimore
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If There Were No Afterlife

Don't lie to me darling,
Is there an afterlife?
Or is this sad mortal thing,
This thing we call ‘love'
Is it all I can do to be your wife?
If this short time,
Is all there is for truth,
What's the point in prayer?
All I want is you.
And if there is a hell,
A hell for you and I,
That can't be really be hell, now can it,
So in that hell I confide.
But if the earth were heaven,
And you were here no more,
I would choose a damned life any day,
For heaven without you is none.
If tomorrow I were hanged,
Would you meet me in the afterlife?
And if there were no afterlife,

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poem by Dayna Mortimore
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The Canvas

Oh how she loves her canvas,
The stories that it tells.
Oh how she loves to paint her thoughts,
And etch a perfect spell.

Oh how she loves her canvas,
The memories that it holds.
Oh how she loves to trace the lines,
And tell if new or old.

Oh how she loves her canvas,
Her stability in an unstable world.
Oh how she loves to fret away,
At all of her unfurled.

Oh how she loves her canvas,
A standstill of art and truth.
Oh how she loves the feel of it,
To reminisce her youth.

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poem by Dayna Mortimore
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The Canvas (Part 2)

We last left off with such the fright,
She paints—but gasp! —that's not quite right,
For every story has a twist,
And every painting is done on her wrist.

She paints with—sorry? —with little regard,
To what may bleed and what may scar,
But oh, she paints a lovely spar,
Despite the way that most things are.

Some find it funny and watch as she flees,
Others feel sick the moment they see,
Because a painter, she can't have much of a life,
If all of her painting is done with a knife.

This painter—in fact—she thinks she's alone,
Because of the burden of problems at home,
And then there's her mind, a nasty old place,
It's mostly the cause of the paintings she makes.

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poem by Dayna Mortimore
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Writer's Disposal

Hurt and tense are writer's slaves
So she'll slash through page by page
Burning holes with vivid tongue
Still the feeling strikes as young

Through and through this time again
Misery welcomes her like a friend
Slash and slash and through and through
She spells her feelings as if they're new

Instead of skin she beats a page
A healthy cure, sure, lest she names
These demons, the things that she writes about
That she names other names to give them doubts

Things like this she knows all too well
Her hurts and pains often etch the spell
Before she even thinks to open her eyes
She's solved her feelings with a metaphor for cries

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poem by Dayna Mortimore
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Open Casket Affinity

The fire he sees
Is brighter than any other he's seen before
It's brilliant and bright and it burns deep and red and all at once he's in love.

It's only then he sees the girl it belongs to.

And then he reaches out;
His fingers dance over the flames;
But
The fire dulls and so does she

And she
Was nothing like the grim expression she wore;
She was life itself.
She was living, breathing, brilliant life
It was just a shame that she was no longer living.

But she breathed
She breathed and spoke and walked and slept
And she looked at him

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poem by Dayna Mortimore
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