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Best Poems Written by Miranda Bell

Below are the all-time best Miranda Bell poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Me

I understand the hearts of romantics,
The rapture of their words written on a blank piece of paper
Wrapped in pink ribbon to send to a lover
who only existed in the throes of imaginary adventure.
How the girl with the tattered spirit like a moth-infested closet
Sprouted wings in a butterfly-like metamorphosis
Only to find a hole in the dusted wings that sent her sailing to the floor in a
frightening free-fall only followed by her teardrops.
How she dusted her knees and asked the teddy bear to kiss it better who only answered her
with the silent glint in his button eye.
How she patched herself up and continued flight.
How she broke her knees and heart in repetitiveness.
in a love unrequited.
I am the girl, I suffered, I mended.

The silent crisis deafening the city,
The boy with a glass pipe in his hand for an easy thrill
lying in his own vomit across the street,
The grandmother weeping in the coldest room for hope and a time without need and addiction
with a window seat to the neighboring event.

I am the boy that chases the dragon with a fearless anticipation,
Ignorant to the addiction that chews at my brain and teeth,
I scratch at the deposits in my arms and legs with a compulsive uneasiness
to put on the sober face.
I fall on my knees in church,
Swear I believe in God and the Holy Ghost,
Pray to Jesus when it's unbearable,
Beg for the redemption of my fifteen year old soul because I know that my sins will reduce me
to the burning pyre.

Adaptation, addiction abstinence, and absolution are all part of me,
I ask not of what the addict needs, for I become his heroin
in his time of relapse,
My cravings turn to pity for the men in withdrawal.

Beaming bright and beautiful,
My wings glow with the illumination that Mother graced me with long ago that I never
believed was
mine.

I am the warrior standing at the podium with words as my only ammo,
Facing my biggest fear.

Again the stares of inferiority.
Again the whispered thoughts against me.
Again the prejudice.

The knowledge overflows my being of terms I never analyzed completely,
An analysis of my inferiority to the people gazing at me with glazed eyes and polite smiles,
The understanding that wealth is the status quo as I stand in my old clothes and shoes,
I have nothing better to do than feel uplifted.

Again, the knowledge bubbles up in an outlet of laughter as it soars through my spirit
like a lighthouse's beam
over the ocean.
They may be wealthy, but I am far richer.

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How?

How do you prove LOVE?
Isn't it said that Love resides on faith and faith alone?
So when he asks me to prove it,
what shall I say?

How do you tell someone you don't love them back
whenever they're right in front of you,
crying,
Because they've known you for eternity?

And how do you reject the ring
She takes from her finger?
The Claddagh that she adores so much?
What do you say?

These are the things I ask when I stare at the ornament on my finger,
terrified of what the future may bring.
Do I marry the one I can't stand,
Or await the boy from so far away?

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Today. Tomorrow.

What would you say if I asked you to move in closer?
Lean into me.
Let me be so close I can see the dust on your eyelashes
and smell the fresh cut grass from outside.

Lean in closer to me
So I can pick out all the shades of brown in your eyes.
Let me be so close I can feel your breath
Against my cheek.

Hold me a little closer so I can FEEL your smile
Roll through my body like the waves of a tsunami.
Keep me so close so I can count every glint,
Every sparkle in your eye.

Speak to me of dreams and emotions
So I can fade away into something beyond this idea of reality
Where there is no one but you and I
And the nothingness around us.

Stare at me again with all of your intensity
And hold your gaze.
Allow me the time to wink at you
And smile in childish fulfillment.

Cling me to your skin and wrap your arms around me
And tell me how you feel.
What you see.
So I may know that tomorrow is worth striving for.

Details | Miranda Bell Poem

Ode To Sony

Eighteen years of sorrow and abandonment.
Eighteen years of drowning in my own tears and the pity of the pathetic bystanders.
Eighteen years, and it finally comes to me in a sweet epiphany:
MY life starts here.
And what a better way to begin a life than to share it with another?
With a woman no words can describe, no matter how beautiful and exotic
(it would be an insult to say I could,
 for she is anything but definable).
I have an eternity to look forward to with this woman who I pale,
literally,
in comparison.
The woman with the dazzling eyes and perfect smile.
I can forget about regression
and progress to achieve everything I never believed existed in the world.
At least, 
not anymore.
I hear in her voice the sincerity I have craved my entire life.
It's a wondrous thing when you can admit,
wholeheartedly,
that you can literally hear love bubbling up inside the crevices of someone's soul.
She has opened my eyes and ears,
spirit and heart,
when I needed a rescuing no one but her could have offered
with words unrelatable to a past that's eaten holes into my heart.


And she calls herself lucky...

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Always and Forever

You found me
wrapped in the arms of someone undeserving.
Swallowed up with self-hatred
and throwing standards to the wind.

I found you
in the bottom of the bottle of honey wine
on a chilled Samhain night,
pouring my soul into your ear with reckless abandon.

You lost me
from fear and a wave of emotion you couldn't understand,
so you ran away with the swiftness of the wind,
leaving me lost that cold December night.

I lost you.
Threw myself to the wind you flew away on
and wrapped myself in the frozen tear drops.
Promised I would never look back.

We found us
on the day you said goodbye for good.
You threatened to run for the last time,
and I caught you in my spider web.

You found me.
I found you.
Now we're lost together
in Always and Forever.

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Climax

Souls kiss.
Breathless.
Complete me
when we touch the skies.

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Cenna

She's like a river that cuts it's way through a valley:
Smooth, but ever changing.
Her waters are murky,
So you can never see what she posesses.

She's like a thunderstorm that rumbles into the night:
The wind are her embraces,
but the gleam of the rain on the grass
are her tears.

She's like a sunflower in the summer morning:
Her head is always turned toward the sun,
but droops with the sadness of the everyday
Strife.

But what about me?
I am nothing but the poet that watches her from afar
and admires every aspect about her.
The one who has fallen for her.

And in my years of watching this angel grace my screen
I have figured out the color of love.
For my color
Is Cenna.

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Lenore

I feel her skin pressed against my own
In a primal cry to the only gods that will listen,
Burning bright and warm from the Cajun sun
Nevermore.

I taste the metallic familiarity of her kiss
Mixed with the fragrant musk of cigarettes and mint
With a passion no man alive could ever bestow upon me
Nevermore.

I smell her.
The scent of brown vanilla and oil rising from her body
Creating euphoria no drug can supply
Nevermore.

I bask in the glorious sight of her
Glowing in the dim light cast from the lamp and television
Shading her curves in the most forgiving light
Nevermore.

I quiver at the sound of her deep voice
Vibrating along every fine hair that graces my skin
In a beat only she and I know
Nevermore.

Details | Miranda Bell Poem

The Plague

I am the angel with the wings over her eyes,
Thriving in a land full of happiness and rose colored tints.
If my pupils were to meet the greetings of fluorescent lamps,
I would see the reality of it all.

The reality of the plague standing bare-chested in the mirror;
Her opalescent eyes gazing back in a tear-stained blue,
The rolling hills of her porcelain skin tinged with pink
And the mahogany hair in sweeping curls below the collarbone.

There is no beauty in this angel.
Only the wings distinguish her from the demon within
That rages with fervor unknown to the modern man.
The angel is only but a mask.

What would Mr. Peacock say?
His darkened romanticism is the only antidote.
Only his gothic swirls of the pale Ligeia
Could ever allow the plague to subside.

Details | Miranda Bell Poem

Sea of Pretties

When I look at him,
It's like the warmest of summer days 
with the harshness of winter.
He's plastic, it seems.

He's like an immortal,
free of all mortal blemish 
behind his gleaming screen
or the camera lens.

I wish to be closer, I feel it in my bones,
But the sea parts us 
Unmercifully.
The damned natural barrier.

But when he sees me, he sees the gorgeous picture,
Oh, blasted lucky picture that graces my image.
The photo that looks nothing like me.
The charming picture.

I look thin and beautiful.
The typical man's idea of beauty.
The one that shows me with daring rebellion,
But portrays what I see as vulnerability.

So if he sees me, he won't know me.
I'll just be a passing body in the crowd.
Another sillhouette
in the sea of Pretties.