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Poetry by Olivia Bell

Love Letters
Published November 18, 2015


Fucking men.
Ruin everything, our myths, our society, our Friday night.
The witch who locked Rapunzul in that tower, what were her real intentions?
The world is a horrible place – she was probably just trying to protect her.
Her magic wasn't strong enough in the face of the Church, she had to
resort to building a tower.
What happened after the prince rescued Rapunzul?
If rescuing is indeed what he did, some may say he kidnapped her, the
witch for example. Did she spend Life subjugated to her prince, locked in
his castle rather than the tower waiting patiently while he battled dragons
like poor Penelope before her?
She probably missed the witch and her tower. Her independence, her
repose. Spending her days worried that her prince might lose his next
battle – the conquering king might storm her castle doors, rape her and
kill her offspring.
She would have been safe from rape in the witch's tower.


I used to despise Time.
Time marching on in his fascist pursuit of chronology and order, completely
oblivious to how the rest of us feel.
“I just need a moment to wallow in this immense sadness that I am feeling…
please?” Time doesn’t care. Get up. Polish your boots. We need to reach
eternity before nightfall.

Now I cannot get enough of him. Stockholm Syndrome.
I love Time. I passionately and desperately love my relentless commanding
I wake up earlier so I can be with him, alone, write, sketch, and think.
I stay up later so we can watch my baby sleep together.
I want him to elongate every precious moment I have with her, but everyone
knows that you cannot seduce Time, he is slave to no one's whims.
“Take the moments you are given, learn to appreciate them,” he tells me.
I know pleading with him is futile so I trudge along.

I want to dive into the past, manipulate time, morph time, transform him…
But here I sit marooned in the future, a cursed oracle.
My Apollo is hindsight rather than a spurned and lustful god.
Cassandra was able to see the future, but was cursed with the fact that no
one would ever believe in her prophecies.
That is what life is, constantly looking back across the landscapes of our
pasts, playing fateful events over and over in our minds, "walk the other
way", "don't get in his car", "don't cheat on that math test"
But our past selves merely jeer at us, never changing course.
And all we can do is watch helplessly as they waste away Time, while
already knowing the outcome of their foolish actions.

Love Letters

I knew a guy in high school who later on in life ended up spending a
considerable amount of time in the psych ward due to prolonged use of
A friend of his told me that at one point he had gotten so ill that he was
convinced that his ex girlfriend was sneaking into the bathroom while he
was showering and writing him messages on the fogged over mirror.
He would spend hours trying to decipher them.
I have always thought this was incredibly romantic.
Maybe she was writing him messages, who really knows?
I feel a pang of sadness when I consider writing messages like this myself.
I haven't met anyone yet that looks like they would know to check the
mirror for words. Love letters lost in the oblivion of fog and glass cleaner.

Olivia Bell: I attend university and am completing an after degree in
Education as I hope to one day become a teacher. I grew up on the West
Coast of Canada on a small gulf island on an organic farm garden, or what
my brother and I dub a pseudo “hippy colony”. I presently reside in the
prairies in Regina, Saskatchewan with my daughter. I have always loved
reading and writing and often scribble poems on scrap pieces of paper
throughout the day.
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~ Weekly Poems: Poetry by Olivia Bell ~
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