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HeartstringsI felt like a vice
That verdict like a scar
Wrap around my breathing muscles
And crush them
Like glass, splintering into my ribcage
Tumbling through my organs like a cancer
I felt like a noose
That verdict like a scar
Snake around my brain
And squeeze it
Like clay, shaping life into a clever little mold
Draining into my body like a hurricane
And I felt
Like an axe
That verdict like a scar
Slither, ever so quietly, into my life line
Like a snake, sneaking up to his pray
And killing him
Injecting venom into my life steam so quickly
I thought I had died
But little did I know
That was just the bite
Feathersmy words were tiny wooden airplanes
speeding through the universe
as fast as dust.
they strung themselves up on
wires made of fear, attatched
to Venus by the thorns
of the thistle that killed me so long ago.
they searched for a landing place in
Her mind, but got sidetracked
when Her lips spoke the word
Viewpoints.We create ourselves
And we are merely
The products of
Who we perceive ourselves to be
Perceive us to be
So who am I?
Bullshit LiteraturePeople don't write poetry anymore.
No one lets the moon's silver soul slip,
from the end of a fountain pen,
into the only Earthly existence it will ever hold.
Alas, even I am writing this
with a keyboard.
DiseaseSometimes I inhale too many different emotions and they stack up inside my rib cage, tearing at my lungs and weighing me down like bricks. I want to scream to get them out but the wider I open my mouth, the further into my body they sink, determined to intertwine themselves with the fibers of my body. I want to move, flail, dance to get them out but it's like sewing them into my stomach and I'm so overcome that I can't speak or move or think and all I can do is sit and wait and feel these emotions until they sink away into my feet. They're beginning to pile up now, and some days it's hard to walk because they're so heavy, filling me past my knees and it makes me wonder, what am I going to do when they replace the nature echoing inside of me? Because emotions can't be all I have left, I'll lose my mind and my control and be forever a slave to those little airborne parasites that stitched themselves into my airways so long ago.
I Gave My Heart To JulyI gave my heart to July,
In the hopes that he would tug on my heartstrings
And extract my wildest dreams
With his delicate twine fingers
From my mind.
I gave my heart to July,
During the end of this disquieting June
So hopefully he would be able
To smother the fluttering in my ribcage.
I gave my heart to July,
And poured my soul out to him
Laying its indigo ether
On a simple porcelain plate
For him to feed into the dusk.
I gave my heart to July,
And he knew I was his,
Even though we danced seperately,
I in his brother June,
He in the depths of the cosmos,
Waiting breathlessly for his reunion with mother Earth.
I gave my heart to July,
Knowing full well that many other young, desperate girls
May do the same, have done the same,
Because I prayed that he would see deep into my essence
And discern my want for a change,
My prayer for a future.
Noble TreesIf a tree were to walk into an office building
What would he say?
Would he moan about how his roots
Have been destroyed, torn, tarnished?
Would he cry about how his brothers
Have been murdered carelessly?
By axemen, by humans.
Or would he sit, silently,
And pity the fact that humanity
Had been shamelessly murdered?
Suicidal TreesIf you could know
What the walls know
Would you choose to know it?
Would you choose to re-watch
What you've done
How you've lied, cried, and
Within these walls?
Would you choose to relive
All the joys, laughs, and
And take away the singularity
Of the bliss?
And after you've commenced being selfish
Would you resign yourself to watch
The building of these walls
And how the earth groaned
When they were born?
Could you cope with the knowledge
That your comfort destroyed thousands of tiny lives
And would you be able to feel the stress, fear, and
Anger of the walls?
Because you are not the only one
To live between these walls, which are
The trees you have tried to build.
he cried because no one cried for himI found Death crying in the alleyway underneath my apartment window. He crouched, huddled, shaking and whimpering out his little mouse of a cry that was muffled by the rumbling cacophony of city night life. He didn't make himself seen, and like the child he was, huddled down and hid his face with his mitten-covered hands.
Death made eye contact with me as I watched him from the fire escape. He stared with bright blue eyes perfectly framed with long eye lashes. The chill bit and reddened his nose and cheeks, and his tears left frozen paths of black ice against his face. I didn't mean to, it was an accident, he pleaded with me.
I watched him as he shamefully picked up his victim, a tiny little kitten that was half frozen and curled tightly into itself. He tried to stroke it back to life, begging and pressing the small animal into his plush winter coat.
I'm sorry, he lisped, wiping snot onto his sleeve as he cradled the corpse like a beloved baby doll. I followed his t
Lib. Ar.She was a revolutionary in her head, the way she wrapped herself in the flag and sang herself to sleep with freedom songs and chain gang chants. The way she wore her hair, unkept and messy and slanted slightly to the right due to the many times she fell asleep on her arm after reading Das Kommunistische Manifest until the early hours of the morning. I never questioned why she always ended on the same page, or why we had to search through dozens of used book stores in order to find an old hardcover copy of the book that was peeling with dry-rot and plagued with dog-eared corners.
She told me her grandfather was a political prisoner, and she inherited his rucksack and his circular glasses--the ones that he used to read his speech the day he was shot by the police and thrown in jail for treason.
"But the Man diluted my spirit, leaving me here having to fight for the rights my granddad sacrificed his life for. They never did free him," she always told the newest per
Are you a boy or a girl?Mama stood frozen, staring down that the cherubic little redhead, his words still ringing in her ears. "Are you a boy or a girl?" The other redhead, the little one's brother, blushed and hastily touched the boy's shoulder. "Ao-chan, that was mean." Finally shaking off the shock of the child's keen perception, Mama gave a shaky laugh. "It's quite alright, Hayes-sama. May I answer him?" She smiled at the confused expression Ace shot her before he nodded and let go of his brother.
She knelt and took the little boy's hands in hers, running her thumbs in gentle circles over the backs of his hands. "I know it's a little confusing, since I have a boy's body and have to wear boy clothes to work, but I'm actually a girl. I'm not the only girl like this, either. Do you know what the word transgender means?" She waited for the boy to shake his head no before brushing back his bangs. In the periphery of her vision, she saw Ace's eyes widen slightly before he nodded his encouragement. "It means tha
our world, in sunshineThe most beautiful thing I've ever seen is the world in sunshine.
On December mornings, I sit on the porch and blow on my swirling cup of coffee, watching as a ray of light falls from the skies. It reflects off the windows and scatters rainbows across the grey sidewalks in shattered colors.
A garbage truck drives by. The grimy orange fades away as the sun strips away its layers of dirt. The orange becomes a dazzling shade of tangerine, blinding in its brilliance. Only a moment in the spotlight––but it is a moment more of glory and wonder, with only the flowers to witness and the trees to retell.
Not three minutes later, a young girl walks past, bouncy in step, her golden curls bright and her red coat glowing. The sun catches her in its embrace, dropping brightness upon her small figure, and though no one is watching, she smiles proudly.
There is a splendor here that cannot be denied. The charm of the universe and the loveliness we all possess is so often hidden in the dark,
SnowContrary to popular belief, this Christmas was not a white one. Rather, the air felt heavy with the smoke from the factories mixing in with the fog rolling in from the Thames which stank with the rotting detritus from the many warehouses and factories that used the river as a dumping ground for the byproducts of their particular industries. Coaches, merchant’s carts, and hansom cabs clattered their way up and down the cobbled streets of London amid the haze of fog. Gas lamps flickered guiding the way along the avenues for the various pedestrians who moved like shadows through the narrow streets.
This was the city of shadows, and amid the city which hid both pleasure and vice another world dwelled. It reflected that of the world above. Small feet dashed to and fro dodging cart wheels and horses hooves. They moved among the manicured gardens and through dank sewers, along rooftops and through the homes of the wealthy and those of the poor.
The Pumpkin SentinelsI sit on the concrete steps on the front porch and admire this November night. At my left and right are a few jack o' lanterns, their motionless grotesque faces staring into the street. It's the day after Halloween and my porch is the only one with jack o' lanterns still lit. They give off a faint pumpkin smell, likely a result of being singed constantly by the candles within their hollow corpses. There are no sounds, aside from the occasional faint rusting of leaves and the sizzle and pop of the moths that, every now and again, fly into the candles through the eyes and mouths of the lanterns and burn to death. The flickering, glowing faces give some security, as I'm not fond of what lurks in the night, and they look like plump little orange guardians, warding evil from my doorstep. A crackling of leaves, like irregular footsteps stirs me out of my daze. I see a shadowy figure, upwards of 4 feet tall walking down my street, giving a wide berth to my porch, much wider than any ot
ErrerLa lande délabrée s'étend sous le ciel délavé, reflets l'un de l'autre dans un monde sans repères. La poussière s'amasse et s'envole sous leurs pieds, épaisse et vaporeuse – matière sans vérité.
Il n'y a pas d'horizon non plus que de zénith ; tout ici est le même, le temps, bohème, rien ne possède de sens – et tout perd son essence.
Ils sont là, debout ou bien allongés ; certains avancent et certains soupirent, tous cependant cèdent à l'empire de la terre délaissée. De rares buissons, rachitiques et fuyants, égayent ce qui ne peut être égayé – égayent l'ocre brune, le sol plat et le ciel fat, cet éternel retour du jamais commencé. Univers sans identité.
Tout demeure ; rien ne vit. Les hommes, les femmes, tous confondus, identiques, apathiques – tous
Silent Screams of Non-ExistenceCan I please get some help with this? No? Oh… Okay. Fine…
… Actually, not fine.
Why won’t anyone help me with what I’m going through?
Can’t you see that I’m in pain? Can’t you see me at all?
Am I still here?
Am I even alive? It doesn’t feel like it. But, then, it does; when she sees me, hears me. It makes me feel alive when we talk and play. That doesn’t stop people from staring at her weirdly when we do, though. It doesn’t stop her mother from giving her sympathetic, almost pitying, looks when we walk into the kitchen. Always at her, and it hurts me when I see it.
----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----
What do you mean? Of course I’
ParisI want my life to be soft. I want it to be nothing but sunrises and twilight, sunflares and moonlight. I don't want to have to deal with noontimes, or 3:32 pm, or 9-o-clock in the morning. Nothing interesting ever happens at 9. It's between the horizon and the sky. It's between the croissants and the salads. It's water. It's melted butter on a sidewalk that's just begun to grow hot. It's a young female's strawberry smoothie that isn't actually a smoothie at all, just pink powdered protein and water because society told her that 200 pounds is 200 too many and she's caved.
My life is full of noontimes. Hot ones, rainy ones, briskly cold yet sunny noontimes. 12 in the afternoon is society's breaking point. It's the point where those who got up with the sun begin to lose their minds, and those who got up with the moon don't have any left. It makes it strikingly obvious that those who elect to wake at noon never, ever had a mind at all.
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^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