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you, a garden.your flesh like smooth-lilies,
eyes like cosmic-daffodils.
there is the garden of your soul,
which i have often wandered-
plucking at petals and
blissfully unaware that beauty lives
only when observed through gentle eyes,
and withers at the slightest touch of
this is not fucking.with her-
i am confused,
my soul full of light-black contrasts
forms with no line
heavy value with no colour
deep strokes in graphite, charcoal
the blackest-whites and whitest-blacks
a thousand grays
warm through cool, but never
crossing the spectrum into reality
subconscious murmurs, whispers
thick moans dripping with lust
this is my body and my mind
rough outlines of thoughts
and your hands so soft
against the mountains of my spine
i feel your warmth,
your lasting heat
your fingernails so gentle against my shoulder-blades
making 3d planes on my framework
i move with you in my soul
“and the holy dove was moving too”
this is not fucking
this is making love in the spiritual sense
i am wrapping my arms around your eyelids
clutching at your desires
breathing out your next breath
inhaling your carbon dioxide,
this is nirvana
we are together now
not fucking, no
this is not just the union of two bodies
this is the ov
i am conflicted.and i am lost in a reality of
“maybe” spoken by head, and
“yes” spoken by heart.
i am but orchids pushing through the sidewalk cracks-
or the cause of an untimely change in direction.
i am the gasping of lovers ripe with lust,
and smoke ring o’s of those stuck in til’ death do they part.
i am ill,
ripped in opposite directions;
i am a living paradox.
how is it that friendship turned into false love?
“no” unhesitatingly spoken and
so quickly withdrawn, agony in each “i’m sorry.”
in my desire for the anecdote to my loneliness,
i paved a road of inevitable collapse.
what is it that i thought could come of this,
what did i so foolishly submit myself to?
why do i always follow my head instead of my heart?
i am done fitting myself into this sharp-edged box of my own creation,
done with my self-inflicted unhappiness,
done with overthinking the simplest things.
i am following my half-soul,
my bruised insides s
the city song.it burns it’s harsh breath through my lungs. bitter grinds of tobacco and old coffee sting my throat- their taste spreading to my fingertips and tingling violently; i have seen wolves and dark shadows in the corners of my eyes but screams are now tormenting my subconscious. when i listen to the music of the winds in cities black with pollution i can hear women pleading for mercy and cruel laughs of evil men. they deliver images of rape and abuse through my dreams.
when will the world show the angry creatures lurking under porches and young children’s beds? they hide but move swiftly and their reign is becoming apparent.
i can see people walking with their clothing strewn low and their hats turned backwards; their breath is of highs and lows and all that creeps in between the lines. self-discovery is self-mutilation and it difficult for most to come to terms with their true vile nature.
a gunshot rings in the night- it is not just a sound but an implication of death and fear
The Lost PrinceThis is about Louis-Charles,
hear his story through
it took up his entire life,
but is only a minute to you.
He was young and he was kind,
his nature innocent.
He took not one person's life,
but now he lies discontent.
He was taken from his mother
when red, white and blue;
had taken people's minds and burned through.
He and his parents were secluded,
in a room built for two.
He screamed for his governess,
and she could only save little Lou.
His mother's hair is spread
over the base of a guillotine,
his father soon will follow
with fear barely seen.
Little Louis is all alone now,
taken away from his governess-
and all she can do is sadly vow
to never let them surround him in darkness.
She quickly bounds up the roof,
her feet wrapped in gauze.
The guards have not yet found any proof
for the firework's cause.
She's bringing you light little Louis,
she'll never abandon her post
because you asked for beauty,
and you're the one for which she cares the most.
a pathetic poem for you.
your hair is black as night
and though you have no wings,
you always seem to take flight.
your pores are dripping with light,
i soak in all of these things
(i scream in delight).
and unlike you she was dark,
her passion low- she brings
memories of pain and of leaving marks.
she was like a shark,
you like spring
you brought me out of those cries and barks.
you taught me how to sing.
it feels like strings are cutting off my circulation- jerky movements that don't cease (i'm side to side up to down thrown towards the sky).
i'm a puppet to my addictions.
your raw-edge-hands are tracing the outline of my frock dress. old-skin rough-callouses unwanted hands. i remember them and i think of glass and ash. your hair was red and so was your bed, that i knew so very well. i remember your contrast-form on the sheets. you were dreaming but you were dead- drunk and passed out. i wept. my age was young, at only one when you gave me love for grown-ups and prom and under the starlight with candles.
i guess i'll stop trying to make it sound beautiful. there is nothing to bring light to. this darkness brought no light.
sometimes my words aren't pretty- sometimes they aren't sweet. (right now they're filled with pain and loss and defeat.)
i see you sometimes in the shadows and under the moon. the wind is running its hands through your hair. you look tired. (go to sleep daddy, please go to sleep now.)
it's hard to remember when all you want to do is forget. (when your dreams are filled with only love and regret.)
stop it daddy, it hurts.
Theme Prompt - SoliloquyI was thinking about my poetry and some of the stories I’ve written and I realized something interesting. When I write, I bare a small piece of my soul and am usually speaking to someone in particular. At least when it comes to the poems that resonate the most with me when I re-read them. There are a few that I just have no feeling for at all and, if I didn’t know I wrote it, I wouldn’t attribute to myself.
I’ve written poetry to my father, my aunt, my grandmother, my ex, and my friends. Some with good intentions and feelings and some not so good. I’ve written alternately hopeful and sad, longing poems to a nebulous person that I hope to meet in the future. I’ve worked through my emotions for everyone and showed how I truly felt about them all. The gratitude and love for my friends, the sorrow and love for my family, and the love and, subsequently, anger and regret for my ex. Yet I’ve never really tried to work through my own feelings towards m
11.- La Niña Esperanzada:
Erase una niña, que siempre soño
con un amor. No era un principe azul, era mas bien alguien solitario que no brillaba fisicamente como en cuentos de hadas, el brillo de sus ojos era algo que muy pocos veian. Le puso nombre, rasgos y caracteristicas. Lo soño durante tantas noches, lo imagino durante tantos dias, que ella podia reconocerlo si se le apareciera. Dias pasan, años pasan, pero la esperanza no. En el decimotercer cumpleaños de la niña ella solo deseo, al soplar las velas, que su amado llegara. Su Tristan. Su Tristan de ojos azules y rizada cabellera castaña oscura. Porque sabia que el estaba ahi, viviendo con la luna y navegando con el mar. Dias pasan, años pasan, pero la esparanza no pasa. Cuatro años y la niña solo era niña en su interior, ahora era Elena y nadie ya le decia niña, mas alla de la seda y su maduro seno se encontraba un corazón, un coraz
Food allergies and a chicken boneBack when I was still not well and back when my mind was still poisoned I was sitting at one of the plastic tables in the main room. It was dinner time and I was all alone. Most of the other children had all gone down to the cafeteria. Unfortunately I had mentioned that I had a food allergy, so they made me stay there. I had even told them that pine nuts wouldn't be in anything that they would serve. But they wouldn't listen. They never did. So I just sat there in that dimly lit room staring down at my plate. A clump of chicken lay forlornly in front of me. I had tried to eat some of it, but it was terrible. Just as I had expected.
Eventually I got bored of just staring at my food, so I stuck my hand into the meat and fished out a bone. First I scraped all the bits of chicken still left on it. Then I rubbed it against my shirt until it almost shone. I was so strangely fixated with this bone that I decided to bring it back to my room with me. But that was going to be difficult. There wa
Undefeated Air squeezes itself down her throat and into her lungs before bursting back out. “Push it, push it!” She’s just breathing. Surviving. Running a suicide. Her feet slide past the free throw line and she taps it with her hand, her knees collapsing below her and her back arching above before she springs upward again in order to run in the opposite direction.
Coach Monaco fancies making her and the basketball team run “suicides.” He established this back in November on his very first day coaching these girls. It was purely nervous energy that carried her through each one. She has a tremendous supply of that. Why wouldn’t she? It’s not like she ever knows what she’s doing.
Do you know what a suicide is? Perhaps you should consider yourself lucky if you don't,
Once NecessaryFrom a young age, she always looked the same. A tangled mass of blonde, hazel eyes glued to the print of a story. She was once asked why she was always reading and the answer was simple. Print was easier then People.
She learned in a hard way to hide her legs. Dead and dried skin cracked it's way along her calves and shins, stopping at her dried knees, only to turn into Braille on her thighs. Jeans turned into necessity and the skirts and dresses she loved were pushed to the side and she forgot that she even liked them.
The calming effect of reading was negated by a series of horrible math teachers, all speaking in a flurry of a language that she had chosen to take but could never learn how to say. Her grades plummeted and she left the class, only to become the person kids stared at in the halls.
Her mind grew fast, her body grew slow. Bigger books, longer novels. She watched as the people around her showed their colors and she was afraid. Afraid of what they would say and what would h
Grandpa Dad’s cell phone rang, breaking the peaceful silence. Nobody moved; we waited it out. Grogginess held us all in her loving claws. The voicemail ring sounded, and the room lapsed back into silence for a whole five minutes. Voicemail rang again, annoying me.
Who just calls at 6 a.m. anyway?
Slight fear stirred inside of me, but I quelled it. It wasn’t possible. We were safe and sound in a hotel room in Ohio, save for my little sister’s stomach and Mom’s intestines. Dad dubbed it “screaming diarrhea” because Mom screamed when she sat on the toilet. It made for a very long trip back from visiting family in West Virginia for spring break, but they were all safe and secure as we were, maybe even more so. Grandpa was doing much better, and at 94 with pneumonia, he had spent the first half of our week-visit in the hospital an hour away. He talked to us the night before, and was awake and eating breakfast when we left
2014-062 ReturnThe way I work these prompt-a-day musings is to look at the prompt early in the day so it can wriggle around in my head for a few hours before I try to write something in the late afternoon or evening. As I write I think of an image to go with the words. Sometimes the image comes first.
"Sojourn", yesterday's prompt, is such a common biblical theme that I knew right away where I wanted to start writing. And I had just scanned in a roll of negatives from the Yashica-D. There was one badly overexposed image that had a surreal "just passing through" feel to it I thought would fit well. I worked it up and posted it on deviantArt so I could use here.
As I thought about today's prompt, "Return", the idea that kept wriggling around my head was "coming home". I looked through my gallery for an image that would convey the idea of not simply house, but home. I picked this one from a year and a half ago.
God grant you blessings on your way and a home to return to.
StockholmAnother world appears at night, as if the shadows reveal what the sun hides. I don’t say one side is more or less true than the other, I’m merely pointing out that if you’ve never sat alone at a train station at night, you cannot understand of what I speak.
And since you haven’t, you’ll just have to imagine it. I’ll begin by painting the setting, to set the rules, so to speak. We’ll bring forth the board, so the single piece has somewhere to be.
A train station. Theoretically, you can travel to any corner of the world from here. But that’s equally true of any other street or grove. The difference is that the station is designed for travelling; to be a starting point or final destination is its sole purpose. A fun thing about travellers is that they always think they know where they’re going, although no place is ever as they remember or anticipate. Thus the restless ones, seeking new adventures, as well as the lost ones. The lost on
3.March.2014Tell the story of an event (a dinner, a game, a film) in three different ways, depending on who is telling the story.
THE HOST: The once cozy, lived-in home had turned into a place that resembled a model display. There was not a throw pillow out of place in the painstakingly organized living room, and not a speck of dust dared reveal itself to be upon the impeccably dusted tables and shelves. The windows were washed so completely that no one would have been surprised if an unfortunate bird met its untimely end upon the crystalline glass pane. The kitchen was, though bustling with activity, as pristine as ever, the stainless steel surfaces reflecting light onto the dark granite countertops whereupon the food for the evening sat, ready to be placed.
The hostess herself, however, was of another demeanor altogether. Her strikingly haggard appearance was the antithesis of the environment, with her disheveled chocolate hair thrown into a ha
an honest letter.
if i only had one minute left to live i would cry because you weren't here with me.
although, maybe i would just remember you and hope you had the best life possible. you deserve it, you know. you always try to boost my self-esteem, but you don't love yourself nearly as much as i think you should. i don't know, i just think you deserve to be happy- so fucking happy that it isn't even funny. what can i do that will make you content? even the most random thing, i'll do it.
you help me much more than you could imagine. even though i smoke and burn and cut and cry i always get through it, but if i didn't have you i might not be so lucky.
so, i guess what i'm trying to say is thank you for making my life worth living.
The Parlour IncidentOne day in July, I believe it was, I found myself sitting with several acquaintances in Christopher's parlour. It was one of those deliciously lazy afternoons which only the summer in her full glory can bring. The room had a wan, listless light to it, relaxing the other guests and myself as we languidly chatted over tea and crumpets. The air was also sluggishly heavy, dulling the senses to a slowly-blended calm engendered by the heat of St. Othniel's southerly climate.
At length, after much stimulating conversation, Christopher stood, producing a book of sheet music.
"What do you all say to a bit of music?" he asked.
"Certainly," I answered.
"Oh yes, please do darling!" Tabitha exclaimed, "he's quite the maestro."
Christopher laughed, shaking his head.
"Now, now love, I'd not go that far."
He strode over to the piano as the other guests urged him on. Ida entered the room bearing a merrily steaming teapot and more crumpets.
"More tea sirs?" she inquired, shooting sideways glances at her
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More