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A Freshwater Soulyou didn't dream he'd tear blank walls, whip
furled fists, let partly tattered tales slip
early echoes, and allow
the lonely ships to sink, baring bows.
sail sea. river, remove
yourself far forth. prepare to prove
that you can keep a gruelling grip.
After the FallWhere teardrops have fallen
flames will also rise,
they are invisible angels
obvious in demon eyes.
Cute LimerickA cat and mouse live in my house
and I each day they tend to rouse,
chasing each other all around
waking me with fighting sounds,
but never do wake up my spouse.
Through the Eyes of the Monster"You're so much easier to see at night
and even though you've trapped yourself,
into the darkness of a steadfast cage
there emanates from your past a light..."
Walking down a wet paved path
A mother and child cross the street to avoid me
And I can't help but think, good idea
Wish I could run away from myself too
Ripped sweatshirt and drenched
From sleeping on cardboard all night
Dad just needed a break from me, that's all
It must be hard on him, me as a burden
They always ask, "Why are you so wound up?"
I don't know, but I do know the knot in my chest
Only gets tighter and tighter
Until I snap
Outbursts, causing trouble, wreaking havoc
I think maybe a part of me even enjoys it
And it sickens me, the look of pity and fear on their faces,
And I want to say I'm sorry, but I can't.
So I'll just hate myself for being a monster
And wait for the next time I snap
Maybe I'll throw a chair across the room
Or scream at my mother again
But it won't matter, ca
From Your 'Secret' AdmirerHeaven,
this is not a love letter
I will swear to God,
with a halo on my head
and a hole in my heart.
But the fact is I revere you
more than I have any right to.
After all, we are nothing except
who have awkward conversations.
So why is it that every time the line
falls silent I panic, worrying that your shadow
will make my efforts nothing but a distant memory,
when every word you speak strongly marks my mind?
Simple: I fear having something to lose
and losing the nothing I have. You are
treasure to me, and this note becomes my confession.
Sincerely- I typed this, but I'm sure you'll recognize the handwriting.
How to be Found in Eleven Simple Steps1. Understand that you must be willing to give up the fragile solitary universe you created from the instructions given on page three.
2. Spend more time building from the ground up. It will take longer, but you'll like the result.
3. Rest when you are weary and remember the times when you were strong, hear that strength in every word that you speak.
4. Keep in mind that you are human, and that survival is weighed against life more heavily. You are survival. Life is your goal. If you disagree, move to step 5. If you agree, skip to step 6.
5. Return to 4 and repeat until you believe.
6. Live not in fear of doing something you'll regret, but in order that you won't regret not having done something.
7. Leave for home and release the heartache. It is not your home now. You are a wandering spirit.
8. Taste the different air in every footstep, weigh the light that feeds your shadow, and take comfort in your solitary walk...
9. See the countless colored souls that walk about, and how eac
destiny not includedat the core we are all exactly
who we're meant to be.
as for the rest, it changes
incrementally while effective
forces slap, shine, and scrape
our rough surfaces into
their most depressed shapes
but it's up to us what we'll do
with the bare-boned instructions
each package includes
I spoke your nameThere are pieces of me six feet below Crown Hill
in unmarked graves. One sitting on a window sill
drying in the sun until you put it in your pocket
to give you strength as you stare down a bullet
three years leaving the gun, a piece of me bursting
through the pavement and into the brick, scorching
the one piece of me that hopes you'll try to save it.
I wake in bed with words scrawled
in blood, sweat and stained tears
across the lifeline of my left palm
greeting half-sunbathed memories
swimming at the limits of my hips
-once, you explained love to me
and I listened from the inside out-
a dull headache and faint echo of
her lingering sonata become proof:
we don't need lungs to breathe.
Mourningand I still don't know
what was on your mind,
when the bullet struck,
or if you felt any pain
before you fell
and the world went dark
if there was some sort of peace...
though I've heard it's difficult
to sleep when covered in blood.
but I know now
how precious and fragile a thought can be
when just seconds are the difference
between life and death.
I don't know
if you saw any lights,
or some other kind of angel
coming down for you
I often wonder if you spoke before you died:
your voice is the only part of you
that the world could not chain,
so I'll hold on to the fading
echoes of your words
for as long as I can.
but I know now
what separates sympathy
empathy and pity
and that being sorry for a loss
doesn't make anything better
it never did or will.
I don't know
when the end came or when
Change this lifeHiding in the shadows
Resisting in secrecy
Trying to find a way
To change this life of misery
The future is unknown
The past is to forget
The present is dull and boring
Is this what life has to offer?
I want to change
And I keep trying
Only to fail miserabily
Every single time
eight ways you've made me small1. I wish
this was for you.
2. my journal pages - the
brown one with all our monologues -
were jarred with hollow vows of
last poems of
letting you slip into a coma
of bad memories, watching you
fall to your death off
a cascading cliff of disease
and dis ease.
it was never
easy for me
3. there's a reason I ask
whether you're grey
(dark white, elusively black, in between)
or blue (behind the clouds, under wave-foam,
whateverthefuck runs through the back of my
palms); I'd rather have
than the arms
that once held you half-
heartedly. you had always been
my harmony and I
would have killed
to have been yours.
4. it could never have been just me, the way
it could never have been just
5. disasters are not beautiful,
but how is it that you
managed to make my inner linings
converge into bows
and explode into wings the very
night you decided to rebuild your walls
to a lower height?
6. I wish
on bradbury and table dancingYou are not a wordsmith
whatever you might like to think. ('Smith'
indicates precision and coldness and fire:
words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.)
It's a difficult road to follow, and not many
make it past the fork. Choose a path,
Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders:
I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming
rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery.
Notebooks scattered across the landscape
of a child's room, to be stumbled across,
read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night.
When the bough breaks
a hanged man laughs. He carries typewriters
in his pockets, and cigarettes in the soles of his shoes.
I will never be a word mistress,
whoring myself to the speech of people I do not know and will never know me.
The oven is set to Fahrenheit 452, but the words were already aflame
before they ever took shape under your tongue.
You love everything they've ever written, and carry
unabashed loathing for every syllabl
Whenever I hurt myselfI have a feeling
Someone is watching
So I look around
But there's no one to be found
when i stimulated the prayers of rib-beat
when i licked the temple of my teeth,
speed pushed my fingers shaped like confessionals
clasped holy, carved my throat to fixing-
lover; i did this for the anthem of your eyes,
the feel of strangled feet crushing the fame of stars
for the glow of streetlight worship, for the moons
of your crooning throat, for the halls of your arms,
the strayed revels of your arms,
lover: you manufactured a god out of the drugs i used
and had me addicted to the divine, to the dignity of music
you pressed in my direction: just what i am, hallelujah,
marijuana, day and night-
lover, i fell in love with your culture
that preached the real definition of dusked kneecaps,
the plea of closeted throats, the whisper of bless,
unlearning how to say please god in borrowed tongue,
i fell in love with your attention, with nervous grace
lover. i levied the rubble of my sins
ExpirationWith you I always feel like I’m
to break in the wrong size of shoes.
Sometimes I sit and stew
over how you’re seventeen and
you think I’m a princess
the trapped-in-a-tower kind
and how you wear suits and talk about politics
and think you know the world.
My throat interrupts with an affronted gurgling sound
sometimes when I think about you,
you deal out advice where it just isn’t called for
you quote science-fiction to justify war
and you’re seventeen years old and you think I’m a princess
and you just have no blooming idea.
Darling, one of these days I will tell you my mind
But until then we’ll never fit
I’m afraid –
that even after that day
you’ll still be trimmed hedges and
Even The City KnowsIs it at all easy?
Being by yourself, I mean.
Sitting in a car, on a train, on a bus--wherever you might be now, isn't it hard to be a drifter?
There are no men with newspapers, no women with strollers, no love-crazy teenagers, no annoying toddlers, no anybody.
You stare out the window, like there are people out there, calling your name. The trees are out there, and they've lost all their leaves, all their buds--they've lost everything, just like you.
The sky is out there, and it's gray and colorless, just like you.
The stars are out there, and they're so blown-out-of-proportion, and they're just like you, too.
But the trees, the skies, the stars, they're used to being left alone.
You lack the ebullience of your drink, but it, too, is fading.
Frost has gathered on windows, on the ground, on rivers, everywhere.
Frost comes and goes, just like you, when you finally melt away.
The city draws to darkness and quiet--it disappears, just like you.
But, even frost
Death to the LoversHe screamed,
He tore his hair from his scalp;
But it didn't bring her back.
The beautiful girl
With the gorgeous smile
And witty remarks
Would always lay six feet under.
She would lie in her death bed,
Her arms folded on her chest
And her face full of peace
Known only to the dead.
He would be the first to rot.
First his health,
Then his sanity.
She would forever feed on his emotions
Like a pretty little leech,
Sapping his well being
And happiness from her underground world.
And he would let her,
For a fool like him
Who allowed himself to love,
TurmoilIf anything in our class is shifted,
The world will fall into chaos.
If a human gets too big a head,
God will strike them down with a bolt
And cast them from the sky.
It's not just what we do to keep
our bellies full and flesh warm,
our eternal selves at stake
but do we heed warnings
of doom and despair
when the sun so clearly is shining?
We expand upon ourselves,
Again, again, again
The madness which we create
Will likely never cease
And as we fall from disapproving grace,
What will rise to take our place?
As we grind ourselves
constantly to dust and
scatter into ashes
the question is asked yet again
what will we become?
The irony is that we
will never know.
I watch you fall
And yet blossom.
Without you, nothing would be complete.
It's the fact that we struck ourselves down
And facing the sky
From the unforgiving ground.
Wherever hands have toiled here
will labor memories of you
across the imprints left by time
and souls that walked
your footprints are my favorite
mine always linger n
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