u/R3N666

Drips of deceit always taste the most sweet when they are sipped by the mouth of a lamb.

Innocent, small, and ignorant to the fact that the hand who feeds it is a wolf dressed as a man.

Thoughtfully made up in his Sunday best, the wolf disguises himself to blend in with the rest.

He harvests the trust and the glory all around him.

He forms a pack with his new brethren as they begin to surround him.

Not just any promise, but one sealed without words.

Fueled by a joint unspoken, want to disgrace the lambs without being heard.

Generations were bred as these traditions continued. The lambs grew tired and their views became windowed.

This molded some into wolves, and many became objects, but a few resilient lambs discovered their own magick.

The lambs grew older and their wool became stained black.

They transformed into something, born to swallow that pack.

Burning hot dread and broken morals spewed from their mouth, covering the now trembling wolves as their fur began to melt.

Left in the dust, the wolves were now only vermin.

A dull energy, so baneful, no creature could deserve it.

Inside, the sheep were still sheep, but now lost without a shepherd.

The damage on their souls had been done, and there was no way to fully recover.

They would never get the justice they truly deserved.

So they used what life they had left, so innocence of future lambs might be preserved.

(Feedback)

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/r5cck2l2GC

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/XqwqoF0nox

Drips of deceit always taste the most sweet when they are sipped by the mouth of a lamb.

Innocent, small, and ignorant to the fact that the hand who feeds it is a wolf dressed as a man.

Thoughtfully made up in his Sunday best, the wolf disguises himself to blend in with the rest.

He harvests the trust and the glory all around him.

He forms a pack with his new brethren as they begin to surround him.

Not just any promise, but one sealed without words.

Fueled by a joint unspoken, want to disgrace the lambs without being heard.

Generations were bred as these traditions continued. The lambs grew tired and their views became windowed.

This molded some into wolves, and many became objects, but a few resilient lambs discovered their own magick.

The lambs grew older and their wool became stained black.

They transformed into something, born to swallow that pack.

Burning hot dread and broken morals spewed from their mouth, covering the now trembling wolves as their fur began to melt.

Left in the dust, the wolves were now only vermin.

A dull energy, so baneful, no creature could deserve it.

Inside, the sheep were still sheep, but now lost without a shepherd.

The damage on their souls had been done, and there was no way to fully recover.

They would never get the justice they truly deserved.

So they used what life they had left, so innocence of future lambs might be preserved.

(Feedback)

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/r5cck2l2GC

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/XqwqoF0nox

I am a woken by the sound of my bedroom door hitting the wall behind it. My eyes fly open and my body goes cold. I am Frozen as my nervous system is forced to react. The rage in my chest is painful but it is eased when I hear the light patter of her feet.

The burning of the morning sunlight is replaced by the burning of my fresh tears. How can I feel such love while my chest is hollowed with pain? Before I have time to overthink this, Layla is on top of me pushing both of her elbows firmly into my rib cage. Her smile is soft and her curls hug the rosy sides of her face. Her hair is messy, but she still looks like an angel. My chest aches as the adoration I feel looking at her slowly transforms into a kind of guilt. I begin to run our day to be through my head. I begin to fixate on the mess around me. Layla kisses the tip of my nose and mumbles out a "Mama don't cry". Her words only encouraged my tears, reminding me of the sad sick mother that I was. With both my hands I covered my face quickly, rubbing my tears into my dry broken skin. As I pull them away I let out a loud "peek-a-boo". Layla lets out a amused giggle giving me just enough life to get out of bed while pulling her onto my hip. As we walked to the bathroom, I see a full diaper in the small trash can next to the toilet. As I look down at Layla I realized she had changed her own diaper. She has even thrown her old one away.” Ima big girl, Mama” she says with pride painted all over her face. I give her a nod, and set her down on the tile floor as I start the bathwater. As I listen to the water fall I enter what feels like a numb sort of trance. My mind begins to wonder, as I think back on the last few months. I can’t stop wondering how it’s even possible that I could have forgotten to potty train my own child. How late was I? Was I late at all? Did I miss the signs and how? I rack my brain thinking of when her last doctor's appt was, realizing I haven't made her one since we moved here last year. The guilt hits me again causing my body to ache deeper as I start to understand that my neglect has now spread to my child.

Suddenly, Layla's screams pierce my ears as I find her holding her hand under the now scolding bath water. My dissociation breaks and my heart starts to vibrate as I try to calm Layla and run the cold water on her hand. She's crying so hard, that her breathing has halted, her cries are silent and I see her face start to turn purple. A whirlwind of thoughts bombard my head. Is this normal? Do 3 year olds cry like this? I ask myself this as she finally gasp for air, only to draw herself right back into a long silent scream. This time she went purple almost instantly, as my eyes grew she hit the floor, losing consciousness. The room started to spin, as full panic took me. I grabbed Layla in my arms, and shook her, " wake up baby" my pleading turned into screeching "Layla wake the fuck up" I called out to her as I shook her once more, but this time I heard something, not her voice but a Crack. Layla felt heavy in my arms as reality began to hit me.

Her face was no longer purple, or her normal flushed peach, but a pale white. Her neck hung unnaturally to the side allowing me to fully understand what I had just done. I screamed until my throat was dry, and my adrenaline went weak.

The feeling of nothingness took over as I called dispatch, still cradling my lifeless daughter against my chest. She was losing her warmth as the EMTs at the scene took her from me shortly before pronouncing her dead. They told me, her death was not from asphyxia but from a fatal fracture in her neck and her spine.

Again, a whirlwind of thoughts came for me..

Had I really shaken her that hard? I don't remember it being very hard at all... What have I done? How?

Glimpses of spotty memories made only hours ago flood my mind. But they are more like feelings than memories. The adrenaline, their screams, the color of her skin..

Now forever imprinted into my mind

"Annie!" I hear a familiar but faded voice call my name in the distance

"Annie, come on, now, I'm back!" I hear the voice again but now it’s clear. It’s closer, So much closer, in fact, that I could feel a tickle in my ear.

My eyes flutter open and I am in my bed. In front of me stands my husband, he still has his camo cargo pants on and in his arm is… Layla. I look around me at a freshly cleaned room and steaming coffee on my bedside table. "You two made a bit of a mess while I was away, didn't you?" Andrew asks Layla as she giggles from his tickles and tiny kisses. "Got the bath running for you Love, go take your well deserved break" Andrew says and he encourages Layla to repeat "go relax mommy".

I do as I'm told, slowly getting up and entering my clean quiet bathroom. Andrew has left flowers on the sink, a small glass of orange juice and a freshly filled bottle of my mood stabilizers. My tears began to fall again as the pill dissolves with my last bit of juice.. At last, these weren't tears of agony, but tears of hope and relief.

I am a woken by the sound of my bedroom door hitting the wall behind it. My eyes fly open and my body goes cold. I am Frozen as my nervous system is forced to react. The rage in my chest is painful but it is eased when I hear the light patter of her feet.

The burning of the morning sunlight is replaced by the burning of my fresh tears. How can I feel such love while my chest is hollowed with pain? Before I have time to overthink this, Layla is on top of me pushing both of her elbows firmly into my rib cage. Her smile is soft and her curls hug the rosy sides of her face. Her hair is messy, but she still looks like an angel. My chest aches as the adoration I feel looking at her slowly transforms into a kind of guilt. I begin to run our day to be through my head. I begin to fixate on the mess around me. Layla kisses the tip of my nose and mumbles out a "Mama don't cry". Her words only encouraged my tears, reminding me of the sad sick mother that I was. With both my hands I covered my face quickly, rubbing my tears into my dry broken skin. As I pull them away I let out a loud "peek-a-boo". Layla lets out a amused giggle giving me just enough life to get out of bed while pulling her onto my hip. As we walked to the bathroom, I see a full diaper in the small trash can next to the toilet. As I look down at Layla I realized she had changed her own diaper. She has even thrown her old one away.” Ima big girl, Mama” she says with pride painted all over her face. I give her a nod, and set her down on the tile floor as I start the bathwater. As I listen to the water fall I enter what feels like a numb sort of trance. My mind begins to wonder, as I think back on the last few months. I can’t stop wondering how it’s even possible that I could have forgotten to potty train my own child. How late was I? Was I late at all? Did I miss the signs and how? I rack my brain thinking of when her last doctor's appt was, realizing I haven't made her one since we moved here last year. The guilt hits me again causing my body to ache deeper as I start to understand that my neglect has now spread to my child.

Suddenly, Layla's screams pierce my ears as I find her holding her hand under the now scolding bath water. My dissociation breaks and my heart starts to vibrate as I try to calm Layla and run the cold water on her hand. She's crying so hard, that her breathing has halted, her cries are silent and I see her face start to turn purple. A whirlwind of thoughts bombard my head. Is this normal? Do 3 year olds cry like this? I ask myself this as she finally gasp for air, only to draw herself right back into a long silent scream. This time she went purple almost instantly, as my eyes grew she hit the floor, losing consciousness. The room started to spin, as full panic took me. I grabbed Layla in my arms, and shook her, " wake up baby" my pleading turned into screeching "Layla wake the fuck up" I called out to her as I shook her once more, but this time I heard something, not her voice but a Crack. Layla felt heavy in my arms as reality began to hit me.

Her face was no longer purple, or her normal flushed peach, but a pale white. Her neck hung unnaturally to the side allowing me to fully understand what I had just done. I screamed until my throat was dry, and my adrenaline went weak.

The feeling of nothingness took over as I called dispatch, still cradling my lifeless daughter against my chest. She was losing her warmth as the EMTs at the scene took her from me shortly before pronouncing her dead. They told me, her death was not from asphyxia but from a fatal fracture in her neck and her spine.

Again, a whirlwind of thoughts came for me..

Had I really shaken her that hard? I don't remember it being very hard at all... What have I done? How?

Glimpses of spotty memories made only hours ago flood my mind. But they are more like feelings than memories. The adrenaline, their screams, the color of her skin..

Now forever imprinted into my mind

"Annie!" I hear a familiar but faded voice call my name in the distance

"Annie, come on, now, I'm back!" I hear the voice again but now it’s clear. It’s closer, So much closer, in fact, that I could feel a tickle in my ear.

My eyes flutter open and I am in my bed. In front of me stands my husband, he still has his camo cargo pants on and in his arm is… Layla. I look around me at a freshly cleaned room and steaming coffee on my bedside table. "You two made a bit of a mess while I was away, didn't you?" Andrew asks Layla as she giggles from his tickles and tiny kisses. "Got the bath running for you Love, go take your well deserved break" Andrew says and he encourages Layla to repeat "go relax mommy".

I do as I'm told, slowly getting up and entering my clean quiet bathroom. Andrew has left flowers on the sink, a small glass of orange juice and a freshly filled bottle of my mood stabilizers. My tears began to fall again as the pill dissolves with my last bit of juice.. At last, these weren't tears of agony, but tears of hope and relief.

I was dreaming in the bed my father had crafted for me when I was awoken by my mother's peircing screams. They washed over me the same way ice cold water would have, leaving my body frozen where it lie. I wondered if it was fear keeping me or if something unknown had me bound me to this bed. Mother had told me that things such as monsters were only real in storybooks, but my childish brain didn't completely trust that as fact. I knew my father didn't believe that either due to all of the strange literature he had collected in the left top corner of our family book shelf. All these books seemed to solely revolve around odd creatures, demons, and other things I was told were only fiction.

I managed a hard swallow as I heard heavy, unfamiliar footsteps coming near my dark attic bedroom.

The steps grew louder as they came closer, and even the full moons light seemed to vanish.

Although I was blind to whatever or whoever had made way into my room. I could feel an overwhelming cold and heavy pressure weighing down on me.

Still unable to move, I tried to breathe as the weight pressing on my small body quickly began to increase.

It became incredibly painful, so much, so I eventually lost consciousness. When I woke up, I was not in my bed. In fact, I wasn't sure where I was, but it looked and smelt familiar in a way I couldn't quite put my finger on. In front of me were large polished pieces of wood, and as I turned around, I saw what looked like ginormous books..

Then it hit me, and the icey feeling in my veins returned. The smell was the sent of our family bookshelf. I loved the smell of an old book. It comforted me, and I knew it was a smell I would never mistake. Especially these old books. I knew them well.

I squeezed my eyes shut and quickly spun around, confused and drowning in my own panic. When I finally stood still again, I reopened my eyes to see a dimly lit kitchen and dining room. It looked like my home, but everything was so large I didn't understand how it could be.

Until the morning was able to fully illuminate the home, I just sat there trying to find out what was happening and why, but the sunlight flooding the dining room left more on the floor to be discovered.

My mother and father both lied dead only feet away from the book shelf where I stood. There was no blood, and their eyes had been stolen from the sockets. I gasped and grabbed at my own eyes as they flooded with tears. I ran to the back wall of the book shelf and hid myself in the shadows.

Everything hit me at once. My family was dead, I was completely alone, and most confusing of all was my house, had not become giant, nor my now lifeless family like I had first thought...

I had just become unbelievably tiny.

I am a woken by the sound of my bedroom door hitting the wall behind it. My eyes fly open and my body goes cold. I am Frozen as my nervous system is forced to react. The rage in my chest is painful but it is eased when I hear the light patter of her feet.

The burning of the morning sunlight is replaced by the burning of my fresh tears. How can I feel such love while my chest is hollowed with pain? Before I have time to overthink this, Layla is on top of me pushing both of her elbows firmly into my rib cage. Her smile is soft and her curls hug the rosy sides of her face. Her hair is messy, but she still looks like an angel. My chest aches as the adoration I feel looking at her slowly transforms into a kind of guilt. I begin to run our day to be through my head. I begin to fixate on the mess around me. Layla kisses the tip of my nose and mumbles out a "Mama don't cry". Her words only encouraged my tears, reminding me of the sad sick mother that I was. With both my hands I covered my face quickly, rubbing my tears into my dry broken skin. As I pull them away I let out a loud "peek-a-boo". Layla lets out a amused giggle giving me just enough life to get out of bed while pulling her onto my hip. As we walked to the bathroom, I see a full diaper in the small trash can next to the toilet. As I look down at Layla I realized she had changed her own diaper. She has even thrown her old one away.” Ima big girl, Mama” she says with pride painted all over her face. I give her a nod, and set her down on the tile floor as I start the bathwater. As I listen to the water fall I enter what feels like a numb sort of trance. My mind begins to wonder, as I think back on the last few months. I can’t stop wondering how it’s even possible that I could have forgotten to potty train my own child. How late was I? Was I late at all? Did I miss the signs and how? I rack my brain thinking of when her last doctor's appt was, realizing I haven't made her one since we moved here last year. The guilt hits me again causing my body to ache deeper as I start to understand that my neglect has now spread to my child.

Suddenly, Layla's screams pierce my ears as I find her holding her hand under the now scolding bath water. My dissociation breaks and my heart starts to vibrate as I try to calm Layla and run the cold water on her hand. She's crying so hard, that her breathing has halted, her cries are silent and I see her face start to turn purple. A whirlwind of thoughts bombard my head. Is this normal? Do 3 year olds cry like this? I ask myself this as she finally gasp for air, only to draw herself right back into a long silent scream. This time she went purple almost instantly, as my eyes grew she hit the floor, losing consciousness. The room started to spin, as full panic took me. I grabbed Layla in my arms, and shook her, " wake up baby" my pleading turned into screeching "Layla wake the fuck up" I called out to her as I shook her once more, but this time I heard something, not her voice but a Crack. Layla felt heavy in my arms as reality began to hit me.

Her face was no longer purple, or her normal flushed peach, but a pale white. Her neck hung unnaturally to the side allowing me to fully understand what I had just done. I screamed until my throat was dry, and my adrenaline went weak.

The feeling of nothingness took over as I called dispatch, still cradling my lifeless daughter against my chest. She was losing her warmth as the EMTs at the scene took her from me shortly before pronouncing her dead. They told me, her death was not from asphyxia but from a fatal fracture in her neck and her spine.

Again, a whirlwind of thoughts came for me..

Had I really shaken her that hard? I don't remember it being very hard at all... What have I done? How?

Glimpses of spotty memories made only hours ago flood my mind. But they are more like feelings than memories. The adrenaline, their screams, the color of her skin..

Now forever imprinted into my mind

"Annie!" I hear a familiar but faded voice call my name in the distance

"Annie, come on, now, I'm back!" I hear the voice again but now it’s clear. It’s closer, So much closer, in fact, that I could feel a tickle in my ear.

My eyes flutter open and I am in my bed. In front of me stands my husband, he still has his camo cargo pants on and in his arm is… Layla. I look around me at a freshly cleaned room and steaming coffee on my bedside table. "You two made a bit of a mess while I was away, didn't you?" Andrew asks Layla as she giggles from his tickles and tiny kisses. "Got the bath running for you Love, go take your well deserved break" Andrew says and he encourages Layla to repeat "go relax mommy".

I do as I'm told, slowly getting up and entering my clean quiet bathroom. Andrew has left flowers on the sink, a small glass of orange juice and a freshly filled bottle of my mood stabilizers. My tears began to fall again as the pill dissolves with my last bit of juice.. At last, these weren't tears of agony, but tears of hope and relief.

Drips of deceit always taste the most sweet when they are sipped by the mouth of a lamb.

Innocent, small, and ignorant to the fact that the hand who feeds it is a wolf dressed as a man.

Thoughtfully made up in his Sunday best, the wolf disguises himself to blend in with the rest.

He harvests the trust and the glory all around him.

He forms a pack with his new brethren as they begin to surround him.

Not just any promise, but one sealed without words.

Fueled by a joint unspoken, want to disgrace the lambs without being heard.

Generations were bred as these traditions continued. The lambs grew tired and their views became windowed.

This molded some into wolves, and many became objects, but a few resilient lambs discovered their own magick.

The lambs grew older and their wool became stained black.

They transformed into something, born to swallow that pack.

Burning hot dread and broken morals spewed from their mouth, covering the now trembling wolves as their fur began to melt.

Left in the dust, the wolves were now only vermin.

A dull energy, so baneful, no creature could deserve it.

Inside, the sheep were still sheep, but now lost without a shepherd.

The damage on their souls had been done, and there was no way to fully recover.

They would never get the justice they truly deserved.

So they used what life they had left, so innocence of future lambs might be preserved.

Drips of deceit always taste the most sweet when they are sipped by the mouth of a lamb.

Innocent, small, and ignorant to the fact that the hand who feeds it is a wolf dressed as a man.

Thoughtfully made up in his Sunday best, the wolf disguises himself to blend in with the rest.

He harvests the trust and the glory all around him.

He forms a pack with his new brethren as they begin to surround him.

Not just any promise, but one sealed without words.

Fueled by a joint unspoken, want to disgrace the lambs without being heard.

Generations were bred as these traditions continued. The lambs grew tired and their views became windowed.

This molded some into wolves, and many became objects, but a few resilient lambs discovered their own magick.

The lambs grew older and their wool became stained black.

They transformed into something, born to swallow that pack.

Burning hot dread and broken morals spewed from their mouth, covering the now trembling wolves as their fur began to melt.

Left in the dust, the wolves were now only vermin.

A dull energy, so baneful, no creature could deserve it.

Inside, the sheep were still sheep, but now lost without a shepherd.

The damage on their souls had been done, and there was no way to fully recover.

They would never get the justice they truly deserved.

So they used what life they had left, so innocence of future lambs might be preserved.