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and I still keep running into parked carsMama,
your baby girl's swimming
in dead of the night
hair, scarred knees,
overgrown weeds, and
orange and yellow wheels
that hug my toes
I'm running into
trying to get
my kite to fly
and hiding under
listening to you
I'm rummaging through
boxes of secrets
that Daddy tried
solving puzzles with pieces
I'll never uncover
in these thoughts
swimming like drowning"You've infected my brain."
"Did it hurt?"
"A little. It's like a hand is gripping my chest.
I find it difficult to breathe. Words get stuck
like a jagged Dorito in my throat. It feels like
my brain's been replaced with cotton candy
and all my muscles have turned to noodles
showered in a cloud of the heat we create
when we collide with a bang bigger than
the discussion of the one God made when
He dreamt of two star-crossed lovers bred
by brothers closer in thought than miles."
"My head hurts."
"I see I've diseased you as well."
"Oh, so this was your doing?"
"Well, I can't imagine anyone intentionally
allowing me access to their brain. I don't even
let me into my own half the time. The brain is
a dangerous playground for thoughts to breed
anthems and creeds and leagues of disease to
breathe into a generation just wet to the knees
in this world. And love, I'm swimming in all of you."
supplicationenter into the lands
you've been granted
but not freely;
a price you've paid
as a way was paved
passed my every memory.
barren rose bushes
attempting to grasp
their last chance
scars beg for
arms push outwards
"Let them heal, please,"
I press into
bringing my arms
into my breast
and try to silence
the dull pulse
in each gash.
I cannot see
what you see
in these lifeless
with clouds and thunder
threatening to drown
and evaporate every
my only requisition
upon this journey's end -
that your eyes
are not scarred and scabbed,
becoming impossible to see
the roads leading us home.
bittersweet realitiesnever have I heard
words so endearing
my chest made
a melody its own
upon his declaration,
"I want to make
music with you,"
a brilliant sliver
of lost hope
has stirred from
slumber in my
and is eating the
of this night
a dollar for happinesswhich circumstances
determine the joy
possessed in each
bottle of bubbles
I retrace patterns
in every memory
unable to recapture
I make spheres
out of sorrow
and watch them sink
rolling around like
marbles in the sand
of my mind-
leaving traces of
no one was able to see
little girl in the hallway
with doors locked
come outside -
I've a dollar
and a smile
the world as a canvasmiles traversed through void
white, black, grey
and it's a tapestry spilling from my fingers
and it's an ocean pooling at my toes
because there is an odyssey at the back of my throat
and it's breaking through my lungs
you're to blame for:
this melodic chaos,
I could spin a thousand sonnets through
webbed fingernails and carve lovesongs into
papyrus in plasma, but remember this if
you are my words
bones will break and
stars will die
before you or I;
our love captured,
in tree trunk rings
lute players, poets
will know our names,
we will twine our arteries
and become a ballad
though, it may attempt
in earnest vain
to rip us apart
and devour our beauty
dirt- our home;
not our boundary
leagues of saltwater filter into
cartilage, and the moon is not our
problem, no star is silent for the
static behind my eyelids,
cling to my clavicle and play me
a tune of my faltering nitrogen
forever will be
EasyOur love was easy like butter.
Together we could've
greased up the universe.
Your heat sliced through me.
I gave without complaint.
I melted for you:
in front of her,
in front of him,
I melted for them.
Truth be told
I only wanted to melt for you.
Time passed and I
grew cold and bitter.
Your face contorted
when you caught me
on your tongue.
I tried to rekindle the heat.
I built a fire and stoked
it with your lust.
I started to melt
and so did you.
But, you didn't want to
be lathered with me.
I caught you.
I watched in disbelief
as you slipped through
You were gone.
We were gone.
But, like butter,
you left oily traces
on my hands.
Now all I do is fight
to scrub you off.
remember thisGemini, i've found it -
the missing weight from my every
valley, that was pulled from me while i was
unborn. "Abducted," i'll say,
travelling back through spirit-lands
to watch our beginning, to witness
i've fallen into lightless quiet.
As i begin to breathe, i feel a pressure
released from my ears
and i can hear a cadence of
concurrent blooms. A gentle buzz
hums along, carried by the scent
of begging blossoms' celestial seed, and i
dare to look; removing one finger, then two,
then ten from my prying eyes
to see us there.
We are feathered and flowered.
Our thorny bird-bones have no gaps
and our mahogany-skin is unblemished, free from
lovers' daggered-hearts and taloned-touches;
none has made their home of us -
we are not hollow,
are not gutted.
"Remember this," God whispers -
pushing us between his lips and palm,
imprinting secrets on our heart and bones.
His chest begins to heave as he rips
our ocean-veins apart. A scream
wavers until it breaks and becomes
narrow and distanttwilight perfumed herself with dew
and hummed along
with my dull, thudding,
i breathed her in, holding her there,
not wanting our song to end.
our echoes were narrow and distant,
like waters in a riverbed,
and she lulled me to sleep while caressing my skin.
i tell her
(time and again)
that i will watch for the end with her;
but she quiets me
with a kiss
and i rest under the weight of my
apathy of oleanderi.
you are so beautiful
crowned with nightshade
you are a toxin
to truly nervous systems,
and a drug glorified.
sweetest parasite, loveless oleander,
I love I am sorry
the way for
you steal. my idolization
Mirrors and BloodThere she sits in front
Of the mother lost.
Her crazy eyes dart back
And forth between them and walls.
Overgrown nails and white, bloody
Knuckles grip tight on the table.
Why? The mothers voice hisses
Full of the pain she still bears.
The insane one tries to speak,
But only a squeak escapes chapped lips.
Why'd you take my babies!
Mother has jumped up now.
She's ready to attack and
Lunges straight at the insane.
Her bloody and pale knuckles
Try to grab her throat.
In vain. All in vain because
You can't strangle your reflection.
To A Page And Its PenSsshhh...
Your throat is dry,
Hold your paper tongue,
It cuts. But fold,
Now is not the time.
Now is for tomorrow,
Tomorrow for today.
Can you understand?
You with you paper ears,
The words so softly wrote
Between the lines of life?
The bustle of the city
Drowns out beneath the crackling,
Your stained paper fingers.
All that matters
The pen, the ink, the sword.
Live by them friend,
Know when to slice,
When to bend,
When to crumble to dust...
...and when to simply fly away.
little stirrings XXI: sleeper
The pages were empty from
scribbled words lifting off, drifting
toward a book of memories,
trying to catch up;
to become now and not later-
my chair rocked endlessly
while I, gimlet-eyed, pierced the calm
in a latitude of horses.
on marrying medusaso she
told me, hair water-
falling down over her
ship's deck shoulders, that
she would like to be
with me: we
could write stories, said
air; the ground splitting
beneath me into warring
factions and i
had been standing on the
17th parallel for
too many years now, as the
pressure escalated up, up, and
"you won't be happy,
with me," (her stainless steel
nails dig deep into
my serotonin skin as she
takes her place beside
me from the
fall) "no, you
assures me, "but then,
again, you never
but with me, she
slurs, rolling perfect
-ly spherical marble
eyes and running her
skeletal fingers through the
swirling cascade, you could
write a story; you could
be a story.
and see, poet, i
had always longed to
be a heroine and, failing
that, a work of
ships, she and
i: sent them out to
stormy sea and
sink as she
A letterLast I walked here I saw the chthonic
crafted into selflessness
and you were telling me about a string
you had set inside the walls, poised at the borders,
tore it out; the house collapsed,
spirituality hummed inside the suicides.
This would speak to us: to be fluid
before the dynamic ultimate, and comfortable.
I wanted to save you from the reaching
but my sickness digs channels before me,
the carnage: a neatly linear causality. My
gut feeling is that we're at the end
of something beautiful,
earthy but self-indulgent.
too narcissistic to swallow the
fear building up in the corners of my mouth, writing poems.
To the same degree, there would be no greater thrill
than to throw this to the sea in pieces.
The pressure: cycling, and the cursive: running easy.
You should have been able to stop it.
The emptiness never taught
you how hard it is to love nothing but power.
When I get caught, I won't be a dove thrashing in
a net spun from the finest yarn because
last I w
PersephoneI fed her
and she cried
at every frozen sunrise
for 180 days.
With cracks in my heart
caught in my hair
I counted 180 more.
starsi pray that someday soon, in a lonesome winter, your bones will cease to ache.
regrets will no longer break your morals like glass figurines,
you will not ask God to pardon your sins.
you will forgive yourself.
i hope, for your sake, that your butterfly-flutter eyes
will only be dampened with tears worthy of shedding.
your glory will shine out of those 2 crystal windows
and you will finally know what freedom feels like.
one day, in the midst of a dreary december, i wish for your wings to open wide
and carry you to heights far past any you have ever experienced.
your lungs will become blooming forests
with snippets of poetry carved into the tree trunks.
you will no longer be broken, but instead, crack into miniscule pieces
of yourself until all of the grace & goodness
buried deep within the crevices of your flesh
is soaked up by the atmosphere.
i am awaiting the day that i can finally lay next to someone i call lover
and point up at the stars to show him
fragments of you scatte
La vie continue[Verse]
So go ahead,
and leave my bed,
without telling me that you're going.
Walk out the door,
and care no more,
let me lie in bed still unknowing.
About what happened last night,
apart from empty bottles by my bedside.
A constant pain in both my head and heart,
and a pillow where someone cried.
Another drunken memory of the recent past,
and it was over way too fast,
well, la la la.
I'll wake up sober without a care in the world,
and you'll be just another girl,
well, la la la, life goes on.
I'll play your game,
don't leave your name,
I want you to remain a mystery.
So hide away,
and let me play,
the game I think is best for me.
The hours passed by and still
I'm searching just for a number to call.
Is this the torture for what I did?
Should I just forget it all?
in all you're hidden,
it's like you don't want me to know.
And all I see
is a smile that makes me,
wish you weren't the one to go.
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung words
Together on row upon row again
Of blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.
‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;
Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?
Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,
To point with honesty failed verse of thine.
No real poet discards upper case words;
Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.
You seek to free verse of those stern letters,
Sever away bleak capital fetters,
But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,
Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.
Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;
It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,
To make our dull words sound great all the time,
Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,
Heralding a poet’s summer prime.
Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;
Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,
The subject not gilded in raiment fine;
Your bold ink font, crystal waters divine
Tastes bitter to the ton
Un roti de Cupidon"Patron.. je suis pas sûr que ça soit une si bonne idée..."
Un bruissement d'ailes presque froufroutant sur sa gauche le fit se retourner d'un bond, mais il ne put percevoir qu'un bref mouvement du coin de l'oeil. Ils étaient rapides, bien trop rapides. Jamais le vieux ne réussirait. De nouveau ce bruit soyeux, semblable à des ailes de tourterelles, mais bien plus proche. Dans son esprit il pouvait les voir, tournant au dessus de sa tête comme autant de vautours prêts à la curée.
Le bruit assourdi des détonations résonna et tout autour d'Emmanuel une pluie de plumes commença à virevolter tandis que cinq bruits sourds accompagnaient la chute d'autant de corps autour de lui.
"Ramasse les, petit. On a encore du boulot."
Avec une grimace mi admirative, mi dégoûtée, le jeune homme se mit au travail, enfilant des lourds gants de cuir pour se protéger. Son sup
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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