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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so quickly withdrawn, agony in each “i’m sorry.”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.
the birds sing a note, or twoI am awake on this dark London night; so dark. Everyone beyond could be dead, the beginning and end of the world. Moonlight on grass and roofs and brick-walled buildings. I lean my head on the cold glass of the window, smelling tea and cologne and fresh rain.
Still dressed in tights, mascara on my lashes and perfume clouding my hair, I sit on the windowsill and converse with the dark-haired boy in the room below. No packing tonight; left for tomorrow—tomorrow, when the world wakes up. Not now.
In the room less than a hundred meters away my sister paces, curtains drawn, thinking alone, telling no one. In the room next door the Russian model cries tears that mixes with her lipstick, stained red. In the room below the boy pauses in his sentence and doesn't continue.
Bright lights in Hong Kong glimmer in the dark harbor and at home there must be the sound of piano songs as my brother plays. Midnight ticks by. I close my eyes and think of mornings with rain and history lessons, of aft
Snails!I was 8 years old and a generally average child. I was with my family in our backyard cooking out. It had just rained and all of the snails were out. Being the little explorer I was, I decided to walk around my yard and examine these little slimy things. Now, I'm not someone who believes in love at first sight, but this was a perfect example of it. I was so fascinated with the snails and my surrounding family members were completely confused as to why. Eventually, my 11 year old brother saw this as a keen chance to be a bully. He grabbed one of the snails I had and the container of salt we had laying out and tried to salt the poor thing. "Donovan no!", I yelled as loud as I could. Just then, my father grabbed the salt out of my brother's hand and began to chew him out, "YOUR LITTLE SISTER REALLY LIKES THESE SNAILS AND YOU SHOULDN'T BE TRYING TO TAKE THEM FROM HER, YOUNG MAN!", he barked. Needless to say, my slimy friend lived to see another day.
After all of this, snails became a big d
My Awesome LP IntroductionHello, all.
I'm Jen – Jencity, though I'll answer to either. My base stats are as follows: mid-twenties, American, Pacific time zone, college graduate.
I graduated earlier this year with bachelor's degrees in English and religious studies; I focused, primarily, on 18th century and pre-Christian literature. I used to fancy myself a poet, but I've since come to know better. In my free time, I pose as a freelance writer and editor. I've been writing and editing for pay for... two years? Maybe three now. None of my own work has been published, though I have edited work that is now in publication.
Comics are a passion of mine. I grew up on old X-Force and Excalibur comics. (Yeah. So hardcore nerd that I bypassed X-men altogether.) I'm currently working on writing a comic script of my own. The biggest challenge I've found in that is funding the artist. Because, I mean, money.
I'm sarcastic and usually pretty straight forward. I hate pussy-footing around. If I have an opinion, I give it
From May's book Loving John"After a late lunch, Linda launched into a long paean to the joys of living in England. When she was finished, she turned to John and said “Don’t you miss England?”, - “Frankly”, John replied, “I miss Paris."
From May Pang's book Loving John
So I tried to masturbate the other day.
I could not get off.
No matter how hard I tried to get into it.
Then I thought of you.
Came so fast I couldn't even comprehend.
The healing process is going to be a doozy this time.
Amongst the Stars is my Safe HavenAmongst the Stars is my Safe Haven
I remember sitting on the trampoline, the one that isn't there anymore. Sitting there in the dark, feeling alone, but surrounded by people. I'd wish on every shooting star there was. The nights seemed so clear, like a pool of water you could practically see yourself dancing in. The fire the rain offered. I always wished for foolish things. A puppy, to go back to Disneyland. I only realize now, I made one faithful wish, one you could only find amongst the wiser, for my family to be together forever.
It seems so long ago, yet so close to heart. The pain of it breaking only numbed by the box of memories. Yes, one so delicate one shouldn't drop it. It contained the mysteries of life, it contained your regrets and mistakes, but most importantly, it held your heart. The heart is a place you have to earn you way into, you can't simply be there. But once a heart breaks, the pain is unbearable.
I remember now, waking up with a cold sweat, breathing heavily. Ha
An AnecdoteThere once was a girl who grew up in a library. She read thousands of books over the course of her life, and loved every one. Fiction, non-fiction, she loved them all. Every time she stepped into a library or a book store, she instantly felt at home. All those stories, clamoring for attention, aching to find their way into the hands of willing readers and transport those readers for a brief (or extended) period of time, making their day brighter. She helped whenever she could. She was always reading, always lost in a story.
This girl loved school. She loved learning, anything and everything, and she soaked up the knowledge her teachers gave her like a plant soaks up sunrays. At the end of her sixth grade year, she was voted most likely to be a librarian. And she embraced that title, making it her first email address, and labelling all the books she owned as part of her library. She allowed her family to check out books from the library, provided they wrote down the name of the b
Bad-Ass In A Blue Suit Seriously, if I had a good picture of me in my suit, I'd include it in this blurb; as I do not have such a photo, you'll just have to trust me when I break out into song and sing that, "NOTHING SUITS ME LIKE A SUIT!" I am a firm believer that clothes say a decent amount about a person, and this cobalt-blue suit of mine is perhaps the greatest example within my own wardrobe.
Honestly, the physical form of the suit is perfect; the collar is not ridiculous and flaring, there is no strange shoulder padding or imbalance, the pants are simple masculine slacks, and it fits me just right; in black, it would look just like a regular suit. The color, however, stands out like... well, like a suit on a college campus; there's nothing like it in sight. It's that strange new perspective on an old favorite, a classic idea with a modern and refreshing twist. I like to think about my writing in a similar manner; returning to the older style of more be
Yoko steals George's biccies"As we were listening, I noticed that something down in the studio had caught George Harrison’s attention. After a moment or two he began staring bug-eyed out the control room window. Curious, I looked over his shoulder. Yoko had gotten out of bed and was slowly padding across the studio floor, finally coming to a stop at Harrison’s Leslie cabinet, which had a packet of McVitie’s Digestive Biscuits on top. Idly, she began opening the packet and delicately removed a single biscuit. Just as the morsel reached her mouth, Harrison could contain himself no longer.
Everyone looked aghast, but we all knew exactly who he was talking about.
“She’s just taken one of my biscuits!” Harrison explained. He wasn’t the least bit sheepish, either. As far as he was concerned, those biscuits were his property and no one was allowed to go near them. Lennon began shouting back at him, but there was little he could say to defend his wife (w
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.
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More