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Best Poems Written by Chelsea P. Stone

Below are the all-time best Chelsea P. Stone poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Chelsea P. Stone Poem

The Mask of Truth

She played with pride and vanity in the mirror
with crimson rouge she painted a mask.
No tear would fall, for she forsook weeping,
because in her mind her beauty was the truth,
whereas the lie remained unending
but she believed a pretty face is always beautiful.

If a pretty face is always beautiful
then surely in soft tongue speaks the mirror
Whose hollow compliments are ever unending.
Now it is never safe to take off that mask
So the mask morphs into the truth?
No wonder you can hear the quiet weeping.

She cannot bear the sight of weeping
since an ugly cry ruins the beautiful
and she can never accept the ugly truth
so quickly she must hide from her foe, the Mirror.
What if torn from her face is the mask?
She fears the insults will be unending.

If the insults are truly unending 
it is the beginning of a lifetime of perpetual weeping
fate, not glue, has sealed her face to the mask.
At least her prison is beautiful,
or so says the honest mirror
since the damnable thing supposedly reflects truth.

How dare that vile thing speak the truth!
The pain caused has been unending,
if she shatters the mirror
Will it stop her weeping?
No, she was cursed to be beautiful
by her smotherer, the Mask.

Chokes her slowly does the Mask.
A noose is only equal to the truth
and a blue face is never beautiful
And now the threat of death is never unending.
How can she mourn with weeping?
Since she put her own disguise in the mirror.

She could not bear the mirror's sad truths
and her mask's deceptions were unending 
so weeping became her friend and she pretends that lies are beautiful.
By: Chelsea P. Stone

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Don'T Sink Me

Why did you, friend, tell me your secret?
I mean you know I can keep it,
but are you trying to break me?
Don’t you see the broken girl I see?
I can’t handle any more problems
since I already hit rock bottom,
but you want me to carry your load,
traveling down that nightmarish road?

You expect me to be your Atlas,
don’t you know that’s so thoughtless?
You know the troubles I’ve seen
and you know I could never be mean
so you push this burden down my throat
while your own free conscience goes afloat.
I can’t stand by to accept this ball and chain
for more tears to fall down the shower drain.

You say I’m the strongest person you know
that’s because you never see my face of woe.
After our nightly goodbyes, I close the door
only to resume fighting my internal war.
I want you to know I feel guilty inside,
your suffering too cannot be denied.
It’s just what’s damaged cannot mend
and certainly cannot be your best friend. 

From you I must run
oh, how my anxiety has won!
I wish I wasn’t the coward I am,
but I know the flood behind the dam.
This known outcome was written in the skies
from this experience become wise,
friends unstable as a paper plate
shall never hold your deadweight.

Details | Chelsea P. Stone Poem

I Say You, But I Mean Me

I call you out on all your faults
and your terrible misdeeds,
while executing my assault
you trample under the stampede.
I tell you that you’re a fool
and not a beautiful one at that.
My damn stupidity fuels
aimed guns and brutal combat.
I make you carry all my regrets,
because I’m a bitter soul;
I view you as my biggest threat
and at Christmas I give you coal.
All my anger needs a compass
since it lands in the wrong direction,
but I rather feel the numbness
than the pain from the correction.
I watch you burn at the stake,
limbs engulfed by flames.
It’s better than watching me break
and reliving that solitary shame.
I can never say why I act this way,
I’m just hoping you’ll accept the blame
since you are some pathetic prey
in my sad self-loathing game.
By: Chelsea P. Stone

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Golden Pedestal

They put me on pedestal
so I know I can’t fall down
and if I’m not impeccable
I guess I’m just their big letdown.
They say they want me to be better
than they ever were;
I’ve got to be a go-getter,
not just any amateur.
How can I live up to this ideal,
when that’s so far from the truth?
My nature must I conceal,
am I a misunderstood youth?
They say they know who I am,
before I even do.
I nod quietly and say “ok, ma’am”,
instead of how dare you!
I’m not allowed to fail,
or ever make a mistake
Since I know what failure entails:
a daughter to forsake.
On those particular days,
I can feel the noose around my throat.
What they want feels like a maze;
they love to watch and gloat
as I wander through its walls
so lost and filled with doubt,
I’m just their little doll
and I’m never getting out.
By: Chelsea P. Stone
2/16/2017

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My Little Lifeboat

My little lifeboat is sinking-
oh no, I spot a hole!
Which gets me to thinking
was it ever really whole?
The water is becoming rougher,
the port begins to crack.
Now it seriously suffers,
that straw broke the camel’s back.
The sea is very thirsty
and it needs its drink now,
my little lifeboat begs for mercy,
but the sea has made its vow.
I try to patch each problem
as if it can be mended,
because dying on the ocean’s bottom
was definitely not intended.
My little lifeboat made a mistake
and it is paying a hefty price.
I can hear my little lifeboat break
as I watch its beauty slice.
The sea swallows its victory
as a victor should
my little lifeboat knew its destiny
before I ever could. 
By: Chelsea P. Stone

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Wicked Children

Forbidden love tastes the apple so sweet, 
since devil’s issue must be born in sin, 
they bring God’s punishment with their deceit 
and lovers flesh they dare savor as kin. 
Fool’s temptation is too hard to resist; 
the flower’s beauty attracts every bee. 
Impure innocents should never exist. 
Devil’s seed! Lock the attic, turn the key. 
Can pure love purify their wicked touch? 
They must suffer for paramours’ mistakes. 
Why cannot they kiss what they love so much? 
Doomed and damned to feel their broken hearts ache. 
Grown in the shadows, locked from heaven’s gates,  
are children born to live a sinful fate.

By: Chelsea P. Stone
Based upon V.C. Andrews' novel Flowers in the Attic.

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Desperate Distractions

I'll take any drug
to heal my pretending shrug.
I'll drink any drink 
to give me courage not to think.
I'll run far away
so there's no time to see my decay.
I'll cry out in tears
but there's no hiding from my fears.
I'll find God
maybe then I won't be so flawed,
because I want to be whole,
because the truth eats at my soul.
If I just touch His garment's hem 
then I won't painfully condemn
the monster I hate the most:
the torture that is my haunting ghost.
By: Chelsea P. Stone

Details | Chelsea P. Stone Poem

Pathetic Or the Bright Side

The line went flat
as I heard the final beep,
my body tried to combat
the swirl of limbs into a heap.

His warm body on the bed, 
a fate I refuse to speak,
still processing he's dead
and a future now turned bleak.

My mother tries to tell me, 
"Honey, these wounds will heal,
someday you'll agree
there's a purpose for life's faulty deal."

Now, I try to take her words to heart
and tolerate her potent positivity,
but for that I am too "smart"
blinded by my natural negativity.

My mother calls it the bright side, 
but I honestly call it pathetic,
because a fake smile doesn't mask dad died
or make my lonely walk down the aisle poetic.
By: Chelsea P. Stone
Note: On my story of grief and loss.