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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so quickly withdrawn, agony in each “i’m sorry.”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.
Best Damn WomanWhen I was younger, my home life wasn't really conducive to having friends. My only friend for most of my life was my cousin. We were only a few months apart in age, but we felt like twins. Finished each others' sentences, would text the same things to each other at the same time, could sense when the other was in pain or just needed a pick me up. We invaded each others' lives and were the last person we each said "I love you" to at the end of the day.
A little over a year ago, she was killed in a car wreck along with her husband. But there are times I still get those feelings. Still want to grab my phone and send a text. Sometimes, I've actually sent the text and then I wonder who the person is on the receiving end. They've never responded. Not sure what I'd do if I did get a response.
I miss her more than I've ever missed anything. Even her faults. Like when she'd take over my house and force me to do something I didn't want to do. Joining dA was one of those take overs.&
Confessions of a Dom 1As a little girl, I was taught not to trust men. One of the first things I was taught was how to use them. It started with old hollywood movies as soon as I was old enough to understand. When I was around 5 or 6 my mom told me to watch closely as John Wayne's co-star seduces him. Oh I paid attention to that fine ass woman alright, but yo, John Wayne knew what was up on how to get them. I didn't want to use men, I wanted to be like them because to me they were a symbol of strength and I understood that at an early age. I still learned all the strategies my mom expected me to learn from women of old hollywood movies because when you're a kid you don't understand right or wrong. I didn't dislike being a woman, but I just wanted to command as much power as a man in society. Gender seemed irrelevant to me because anything that turns you on is acceptable to me as long as there is consent. There is nothing wrong with being grossed out by fetishes either because the opposite side of the spectr
Confessions of a Dom 2No one can handle the truth, but it is not because we do not want to know it, there is just too much pain. It is in the realm of fiction where we compromise with our escape into fantasy with our need to tell the truth that no one can handle in reality. People are priceless. Objects have value. To own something outside of our own bodies is an instinct that every living thing obeys without question. Ownership can be in everyday things we don't even think about. Even the act of consumption is an act of ownership, which is where I suspect that is where the current term for "self entitlement" comes from. I was born self entitled. It wasn't a choice. I didn't feel self entitled, but I had the power to command. A presence if you will. Its something that is hardwired into my physical existence that I have spent my whole life trying to control.
All doms deal with an anxiety of controlling the power they have because a true dom never explicitly wants to force someone against their will. A real d
3700 FeetEvery Tuesday afternoon, Don sends out an email asking who plans on coming to soaring lessons the following day, and every Tuesday evening I email him back and let him know, yes, I will be attending. On Wednesday, he either confirms if flight instruction is still on, or if it’s been cancelled, usually it’s because of weather. We won’t fly in the rain, and ridge soaring--flying on the wind rising from the valley--is still too advanced for me. I always make sure to checkthe windsock before heading on to the glider field. When it’s sticking straight out, will a full six rings showing, the wind’s blowing at least thirty knots an hour and no one goes up.
It’s actually a relief whenever I get a “WEFI Cancelled” email. Today, I'm hoping for it, even though it's sunny and close to 75 degrees, with a high cloud base. This late in the season, it's likely to be the best soaring weather we’ll have until the spring.
Still, I leave the office at
:Do Something Nice Today:There are 7 or 8 clinical offices. Each one is either carpeted, or linoleum with a giant, torn-up and pilling area rug. Each one has at least 7 or 8 bought-in-bulk chairs, a teacher’s desk, and a whiteboard. Clinicians switch offices more often that I used to think – it seems like these days, more and more of them are “moving on,” and more and more noobs are being hired. Some of the office changes don’t make sense. Nearly non of them belong to their “original” owners – that is, to whomever had dominated each room when I got there – and most of the time, the switches seem random. No one appears uncomfortable with this, which is odd because most of the students are very vocal when something tangible bothers them. I like to think it doesn’t bother me much, either, but it hit me surprisingly hard when the clinician in charge of me moved up stairs. It was supposedly a logical change: her dog is coming starting in November an
this is all i'm able to produce "Okay class let's start the year with some introductions. I'm going to go around the room randomly and you're going to describe yourself in a word!"
Oh. Of course. Our eyes met. She smiles. She's going to pick me. She's going to make me go first. I can't describe myself. I don't know how to.
"You there. You can start!"
Her smile grows even larger. She doesn't ask for my name, so I won't give it. One word to describe myself. There's only one going around my mind.
Mrs. Marry MartinMrs. Marry Martin was the oldest woman you would have ever met. She would have been one-hundred and fourteen years old on Thursday. She lived on Wilbur Way with no one besides her single pet cat, Tiger. I don’t think Mrs. Marry Martin ever took a liking to me. I am seen years old as of last week. I live with my sister mom and pet dog, Cole, on Wilber Way. Mrs. Marry Martin would never come out and play with me. She would sit in her upper bedroom, staring out the window, watching me and the other children play all day. I would always stand on her door step and wave to her. But she never paid me any attention… Now she doesn’t even sit at the window…
Mrs. Marry Martin was the rudest woman you would have ever met. She didn’t give a damn about anyone else except herself and that stupid cat of hers. I live across from her with my daughter, son and his pet dog, Cole. My son, Timothy, would make his way over to her home every day at four O’Clock sharp to ask
My spiritual journey
I was raised in a family of devout Catholics. No other religious ideals could filter through their closed minds. And for a time no other religious ideas filtered through mine either. I went to church, prayed daily, and loved Jesus like any other young child fed by a religious spoon. I was locked up in Christian ideals and yet felt so much was missing. For much of my young life I was chained to the church, honoring all the principles and religious laws. This was what my parents wanted, like many parents do, they want their children to be brought up by religious standards. Anything else was seen as blasphemy. For much of my young life I was a dedicated Christian, never questioning the teachings, never looking beyond the curtain. I was a religious conformist like anyone else. But around seven or eight years old everything changed. I discovered Magick not magic, not stale abracadabra pull the rabbit out of the hat magic, but the real thing with candles, and incense, and
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.
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A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More