Neferet's Lost Love

I hate that I have to wait for you
All though it makes me want to kill you more…
It kind of makes me wonder,
What am I waiting for?

My heart starts pounding
My eyes start to swell
You think that I don't notice
But it's you who cannot tell

You forgot vampires have a keen sense of smell…
I see her lipstick on your lips
I smell her on your skin
My eyes are wise to all your lies, ‘cause you're not that discreet

I ask if you've been with her
I have so much to say,
But where do I begin
You avoid my questions, you do it so well

I think your under her spell
I said for you to toy with her and break her
I'm starting to think that you care about her
You are driving me insane

I'm a total mess, Am I even alive
Or invisible to you…
I can't take this pain, The pain you put me through
That is why I must kill you.

You say you don't love or care about her,
You will, once you're dead…
You're standing in the hall with her
Standing there without me

You talk as if I'm nothing
Or that this feeling isn't there,
But you know what?
To me, I don't even care.

I'll forget you once you're dead,
Though it seems impossible to me.
If you would've given us a chance.
Maybe you would see,

You were the rainbow,
That brightened my day.
Though you will die soon and I'll be alone, but
I won't feel that way.

You came into my room and asked,
"Are you well", "I'm doing pretty well"
You came up to me and kissed my lips
I could smell that tramp on you.

You said, "I love you, Neferet"
I looked at you for one last time and said,
"And I you, but that is why you must die because I don't love you"

I shoved my sharp claws into your chest and saw your face grow pale.
I felt the cold stream of tears roll down my cold face,
I kissed and smelled you one last time to remember you.

Your eyes started to close, you looked sad.
I slowly lowered you to the floor.
I held your head in my lap and I stroked your hair and said,
"I am sorry my love, but remember no women takes my place"

I snapped your neck to end your suffering,
But I was still angry. At her, so the next day,
I hung your body on the school wall, for that tramp to see
That I love you always have and always will,

So much that no one will have you except me.

by Jay'Reeona Collins

Comments (2)

In this elaborate poem, the poet deals with many matters under the title Ars Poetica! it is full of clear ideas on poetry!
This poem is wholly rebarbative in its present form. I love Cocteau dearly, and have done since my teens, but he seems to be a poet at all times except when writing poetry. I have wrestled with these unpromising materials in what follows. Have I tamed the poem yet? Martin. Preamble A rough draft for an ars poetica. Let's get our dreams unstuck. The grain of rye free from the prattle of grass and far from the speechifying trees. I plant it – it will sprout. But forget about the rustic festivities. For the explosive word falls harmlessly eternal through the compact generations and except for you nothing denotes its sweet-scented dynamite. Greetings: I discard eloquence, the empty sail and the swollen sail which cause the ship to lose her course. My ink nicks; and there and there, and there and there, sleeps deep poetry: the mirror-panelled wardrobe washing down ice-floes, the little Eskimo girl dreaming in a heap of moist negroes, her nose flattened against the window-pane of dreary Christmases, a white bear adorned with chromatic moiré dries himself in the midnight sun. Liners. The huge luxury item slowly founders, all its lights aglow. And so sinks the evening-dress ball into the thousand mirrors of the palace hotel. And now it is I, the thin Columbus of phenomena, alone in the front of a mirror-panelled wardrobe full of linen and locked with a key. The obstinate miner of the void exploits his fertile mine – the potential in the rough glitters there mingling with its white rock. Oh princess of the mad sleep, listen to my horn and my pack of hounds. I deliver you from the forest where we came upon the spell. Here we are, by the pen, one with the other wedded on the page. Isles, sobs of Ariadne, Ariadnes dragging along Ariadnes, seals, for I betray you, my fair stanzas, to run and awaken elsewhere. I plan no architecture. Simply deaf like you, Beethoven, blind like you, Homer, numberless old men born everywhere, I elaborate in the prairies of inner silence and the work of the mission and the poem of the work and the stanza of the poem and the group of the stanza and the words of the group and the letters of the word and the least loop of the letters. It's your foot of attentive satin that I place in position, pink tightrope walker, sucked up by the void, to the left, to the right. The god gives a shake and I walk towards the other side with infinite precaution. Jean Cocteau.