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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so quickly withdrawn, agony in each “i’m sorry.”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.
popsicleSummer forever frozen
An orange popsicle
Sold from an icebox
dry and vaporous
atop a tricycle
Four tingling bells
rung by the little man pedaling at the back
announcing the coming
Framed in trees
always green in the light of the sun
Lancelot Price 2014 August 26
No crappy songs on a loudspeaker loop
just the sweet sweet cold refreshment
I will always live there.
Memories I was excited. Plastic continually crinkled in my fidgeting fingers. Dad couldn’t open the door fast enough. Stark black handle against the white screen door. Click of the handle. Creaking protest if the hinges. Metallic clinking of keys against the shiny metal doorknob. My little sister whining behind us. I danced impatiently from foot to foot on the dirty and worn welcome mat, tucked between my dad and the screen door. I could see my breath. A softer creak as the back door swung inward.
The tile floor groaned under our weight. I darted past Dad, kicking my boots off. Behind us, the screen door closed with a SSSSSSSSS, clunk! My feet slapped on the tiles, past the white refrigerator with the freezer door I could still fit underneath. Soft, blue carpet of the dining room. Light splashing the wall from the small, stained-glass chandelier. Wallpaper I watched Mom put up. The wooden table, covered in scratches and aged. Past the hall a
Diminuendo“Why did you quit band?” My friends would ask. Some were betrayed by my decision, some saddened.
Every time, I would change it: the director was disagreeable, I wanted to do other things, it took up too much time, etc.
Every time, I would think of the moments, the emotions I thought I could handle.
But they became too heavy, too much, too painful.
i. Air conditioned rooms were a luxury after hours under the summer sun, even if the room was just a small practice room. We had new music to learn after all.
I was excited, why wouldn’t I? New music were like new books, new adventures.
Then the sheet was plopped onto the stand in front of me.
It made no sense whatsoever.
“Let’s play it together!” The bubbly teacher would say, her tone more appropriate for kindergartners.
I looked around the room, wondering why I was the only one who couldn’t get past one measure.
“Maybe I wasn’t as good as I thought..”
Cheryl Huges Bio
Character Name: Cheryl Hughes
Age: 22 Height: 4’ 11”
Weight: 120 IBS
Able to pick up weight up to 200 IBs (2X her regular strength) Increased speed(30mph)
Stands erect, Fast pace walk
Has a slight French accent.
Friendly, Outspoken, Tough, Grim, Compulsive
Reading, practicing at the shooting gallery
Pocket Watch (Birthday present from her father)
Moe Huges (Father) +
Helen Huges (Mother) +
Chester Glasgow (Uncle, Mothers Side)
Slade (in beginning)
History: Cheryl’s Mother died during childbirth. Her father raised her until age 15. Trained for a few months at a gym. Able to bench press 100 pounds. Father is dead due to nuclear explosion on bring-your-chi
YesteryearWhy do we long for the things we left behind in the past? Of roses plucked and tucked away within the pages of a favourite book, only to fall into your lap years later when old stories and memories seem larger than the promise of future.
Is it wrong to turn back and wonder and linger a bit on the past? To breathe in the air of yesteryear, graze lonely fingers upon the walls that have seen and heard it all, and steal a moment from time.
Our old melodies are the sweetest… happy, yet bittersweet. When love is young, and so is the world, every small heartbreak feels like the end of the road; yet the only thing that doesn't end is regret… of words left unsaid and deeds left undone.
Child, ChildOnce there was a little girl. She was small, with long brown hair and deep-set brown eyes and always smiled at everything. Her mother was an average sized woman with long brown hair and not-so-deep brown eyes, whose entire world was her daughter. Her father was an average sized man with short brown hair, and wild, wide gray eyes.
The little girl’s father had some problems he couldn’t handle, however, and the mother took her daughter away, to live on their own in a small apartment. They didn’t have very many things, because they were rather poor, and the little girls mother worked very hard to make sure her daughter had enough to eat and a few toys to play with. But even though there was no television or expensive toys, the girl was happy to live there with her mother. She knew that since her mother loved her more than anything, it would be okay. They had a routine: every morning the little girl would eat breakfast, go to preschool or grandma’s house, and her mot
confessions full of jack 20I do not go to the hair dressers that often and I get my nails done only once in a while. Don't get me wrong; I do comb my hair every day, and care about being presentable. I do cut and file my nails regularly and put on nail polish if I feel like it. I just do not go to a place of business to get these things done to me. People think it is because I think badly of women who visit those places often. More than a few people have commented "Yes, you are not vain," to me after I told them I do not have such an habit; thinking they are actually paying me a compliment. I do not connect all hairdresser visits with being vain. Maybe I might connect it with conformity; conforming to the society's standards of how a woman should look like. But I am aware how hard it is to ignore those standards while trying to survive in this system. Women are expected to look nice. Well, no, not just expected; it is demanded of us. And it takes time to look nice. It takes even longer if you try to do it all on
Sara's Stories: Nanook On The RoofSara's Stories | Episode 8: Nanook On The Roof
It's been a good while since I've posted a memoir story, and I thought of a good one.
Back in 1997 and 1998, I had to stay at a daycare while my parents were at work, and I would often bring a favorite toy of mine to play with and help me feel less lonesome. One day, I decided to take my plush Nanook the Husky (an original Ty Beanie Baby) with me to the daycare. All was going quite well for me and Nanook... until I went outside after lunch.
There was a boy in my class who wanted to borrow Nanook so he could play with him for a few minutes. ...I was actually rather reluctant to do so from the start, but to be fair to him, I said yes, as long as he would properly return Nanook to me when he was done.
Soon after I lent Nanook to that boy, he began tossing Nanook in the air and then catching him as he came back down. But unfortunately, he began walking close to the side of t
On Gender Dysphoria“Why do you always dress like a boy?”
Confused, I looked up from where I was pulling my shoes on. “I’m sorry?” I asked, frowning at my mum where she was washing dishes at the sink.
“You,” she said, turning to me and leaning back against the bench. “Why do you always insist on dressing like a boy?”
“I… don’t,” I replied hesitantly, still confused.
“Yes, you do. You’re always dressing like a boy, or wanting to. Why?”
Thinking for a moment, I remember Shaylah’s sixteenth birthday party, 60’s themed, which I’d wanted to attend as a classic gangster. Then, I remembered last weekend, when I’d gone to the Sugar City Comicon, dressed as Femlock, then looked down at myself now, wearing a black dress shirt and slacks for Film Friday of the school’s Spirit Week, probably the best, most entertaining week of the year. “Not really.”
“But you do! Why c
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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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More