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there are days the world feels like a
glass ball in my hands
and I want to break it between my fingers
and let the blood rush over the pieces
like a tidal wave
just so I know I can still feel and
because the world needs to know
I do exist
I have urges to scream
at my mother
at anyone or anything
I am angry but at who or why?
I am unable to say my name
I spend most of my days on my bed
looking into this brightly lit screen
remembering when I had a reason to go outside
when people better disguised their annoyance at me
I don't blame them for my insecurities anymore
last summer I almost killed myself
I wish I wasn't such a coward
secrets are heavy, too heavy
I like to pretend I know what I am reading
but I am too busy looking at my reflection
within the words to see the point
I am scared of being alone, but
I have resigned myself to that future
I have come too far to not accept it
unravelingstrings connect us between
eyes and lips and your
sand coated glass tipped
words falling from parachutes
emergency rations carefully
navigating the politics of you
and me loving and knowing
don't look, don't stare, only
at the ground drawing lines
we don't want to cross or do,
but, divided, our silence crashing
like waves upon the conscious
heartbeat drumming to the erratic
beat of two lovers unloving
mother said it's better to say nothing at allRemember when we were children and we thought we could create an entire language of our own? We'd imagine telling the world our hearts aloud and them never finding our secret arsenal. We had notes planned and tests ready. We were the teachers and the students, the inventors, the engineers. But, forgotten was how the language we already knew could cut the skin and break bones, how the taste of bitterness hid behind words, ready to poison any sentence, any friendship. Serpents dormant on our tongues until we tried to swallow the lashings on our lips. We tried to make something new to replace something we did not understand, and soon we abandoned frivolity. We favored the safety of masks and silence, afraid to summon forth the demons language creates. Instead of learning about our origins and discouraged to continue our imaginings, we feigned ignorance and confirmed to compliance.
this separation is only temporaryI press my lips to the moon and wish her a good day
sweet dreams and sleep tight
I don't want her to be lonely and forgotten
know we are only parted for a moment
and we will meet again when the stars shine
and the shadows grow cold
reach for the stars they saiddead roses in empty bottles-
the manifesto of destitution
desperation, and dirty alleys
the question is not whether to be
or to not to be
but whether we will be or were
were we fools digging for
gold in a dumpster?
looking for beauty in our lies
we all have the potential to be something
but something is just a word, not a life
wanderlustyou belong somewhere between the
ocean and the sun, something evanescent,
continually moving and crossing the beams
connecting reality and the unfathomable,
with the moon shining on and tiding you over
to me in the bright light of the dark,
and then continuing to cross the gulfs
with empty mouths screaming your name
and pouring into ancient forests perpetuated
by lost lore and your sense of loyalty
why are we here?I watch the stars pass by and
I wonder if I am even here at all
as a child, I used to think my life
was written in a story book
screaming for someone to let me out
so I would never have to end
and I never thought
of how I began or what my story was
we're too concerned with the words
we want to finish and yet ignore
the ones we are saying right now
don't care how we present ourselves
obsessed with dying and it's beauty
afraid of living and of what makes it ugly
are we even living?
do the stars care if we're here?
do they even notice us?
no matter what I tell myself,I wish beauty didn't cost so much
my fingertips, dipped in tan liquid
painting my chin, eyes, and cheekbones
hiding the spots, the dips, the morning
blooming on my face
ready for that 3am coffee stop, the eight hours
of nothing in the back corner of the store
the perfect picture of a distorted image
cracked glass under a fresh coat of war paint
and they dare tell me gorgeous, pretty, like their
overused words are good enough payment
like I am getting my self-worth back
from this toxic investment
as if pain is only a dropped penny in the street
washed down a drain and forgotten in the rain
but each stroke as I brush my hair reminds me,
each knot and snarl jarring me to reality
my nose is too long, my face too square and I
look freakish whenever I put my soft curls up
and those ten, fifteen, twenty pounds I gained
stole away my figure like a runaway child....
I wish beauty didn't hurt so much
your heart (...)Girls
hearts are not like candy,
you can't buy them at a store, and
they are not meant to be eaten-
watch those assholes choke on bad blood
and the memories you want to forget-
you have a priceless jewel in your chest
and it's the key to your soul
treat it like you would your mother or sister;
love it and watch it grow old
bury it in a coffin and have a memorial each year
to commemorate the sacrifices it made
cherish it and the flowers it grew
cosmic lattesmall town diner jukebox
casts 90's pop songs on a loop
across creaking hardwood
and paisley-print cushions;
there's a mustard stain
on the waitress's checkerboard apron,
a run in her hose
and fingernail polish flaking like dandruff
into the burly corner booth truck driver's
scrambled egg whites and hash, hold the salt.
if this were wednesday, the perky brunette
would be disheveled, sobbing
into her on-again off-again's embroidered handkerchief
while your food waits, forgotten, in the window...
but it's thursday and they've made up
and his breath is only slightly tainted by his addictions.
instead, she flits a smirk at you
over the pages of the novel
you hope you're hiding well behind
and fills your cup to sloshing
free of charge.
when you add creamer,
it looks like the universe
opening to you.
The DoubterThe Doubter
One Day Someone Will Come To Doubt You.
He Will Insist!
You Gonna Hate Him For This,
If You Don't Love Him.
He Already Loves You,
He Just Doesn't Know It Yet.
He Will Know, When He Meets You.
For You I Don't Know More,
You Gonna Hate Him,
If You Don't Love Him.
lone wolf is wholesome
as his body is pressed,
pierced, and perforated.
rib cage curls like fingers
as crimson nail polish
paint the tips.
nailed to the wall like game,
sanguine saliva drips
from its snarling lips.
eyes shut tight
as its frame is contorted
like abstract art,
pen his heart in ink
or permanent marker.
knees skinned like a child
his body idle as the soul vibrates
while his inners regurgitate,
morbidity slivers down his legs
white fur stains read by death
as it plays necromancer.
the pack may not walk with you
but the moon hums with the owl orchestra.
your grey specks toying with ivory fur
kissed by red cartilage edges.
fade away as your puzzle
finally becomes wholesome
you feed raw meat to lions,
i feed raw me to liars-
the crowds line-in like
they’re ready to witness
me eat crow feet like i’m lyin’,
but these eyes are tired
of watching the vultures
masquerade as innocent crows
when the flock is called a murder.
and these crimes are unaccounted for
because we don’t realize what they’re killing
are the lion-hearted and eating the carcass,
leaving souls to float in the desert
while frames play bowls to a heartless dessert.
deserted bones tumbling like weeds
in the dead glass,
and lightning doesn’t strike
in the same place twice,
so don’t expect quartz here.
the law of living has no courts here
and karma is no judge
because there are no sentences
being placed on the objects
that subject you to the adjective of their
their words unnecessary,
excessive when the circle has begun.
wing disks spinning, dizzying,
dazzling, dying down
through dirt tolls
because we all have to pay
Writer's AuraWhat would you say if I told you that paper had an aura?
The interesting thing about it is that I’m telling half the truth.
Paper can only have an aura when it’s in someone’s hands
And being recited by the very person that wrote it.
The aura of the paper comes from the person, strengthening the sheet’s purpose.
Strengthening the person.
But how, you might ask?
How can a person give a flimsy object like paper an aura?
I have done so several times, so I shall tell you.
The people-those like me-that can do this are called Writers.
Every word-every letter-from a Writer’s hand that falls onto the paper…
It has its own life.
Losing one letter can make an entire story unravel.
Make a poem’s meaning drop.
Make a sheet of paper…meaningless.
And by extension, for that moment, the Writer’s life means nothing.
A small mistake, however, isn’t as large a mockery to us as a blank, white sheet of paper.
Both it and the Writer cry out, begging
A StoryLovely features rest
In a crystalized tomb
Adorned in roaming ivy
Locked in silver moonlight
Approaches handsome figure
With weary leather boots
Having rode his way there
Searching for treasures to loot
Coming to the crossroads
The two strangers meet
One forever locked in
Curse's dreamless sleep
Figure draws near
Pearlescent glass gleams
Stretching out his hand
He sees the beauty skin-deep
Instead of acting as a story
A fairytale kept in time
The figure walks away
Deciding corpses should be kept
Out of the sunlight
AnswersI know I am the one that is trying to find answers to all these questions But I am scared
I do not know what the answer is going to be
Am I going to be sad, hurt, pissed, scared
I do not know
At this moment I just know that I am tired of wondering and want answers to my life
obsessionand i know i shouldn't
but when the smoke hits my lungs
and the goosebumps
drape over my skin
because the taste
of this blood
and the touch
of these fingers
feel just as soft.
LucyHer eyes lit with hope
The dark oppressing the single flame
Small boots loud on the wooden floor
Quietly making her way through the winding halls
She searches for the one room.
"Nonsense" they told her "Quit lying"
They did not believe her, they did not even listen!
They could no longer be curious
The war had taken their innocence, their childhood
Not her, she would not let go
She would hold on, fight with nail and tooth
She would war with War, and she would win
Her world would be her weapon
She found the doorway
Crept into the thick darkness
No life was thrumming this time
It was just her and the small flame of hope
It was enough to cast a light pallor
Unto the gleaming mahogany
Her breath quickened, her heart stuttered
Her hands shook as she twisted the dull brass
The wood opened before her
A cool breath blew out the flame
Her eyes widened felicitously
Hope thrived in this dark room
She entered the wood
To embrace her innocent destiny
Keep in Touch!
A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More