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Mortal DeityIm sitting on a rooftop
Praying for your star to fall so that you might return to me
Of course the heavens wanted you
The Gods, those selfish beasts
They called you to join their ranks
To lead the likes of the universe
But only mortals who die a heros death
Might keep their company
And so you left, eternally fighting
For your life and my heart.
I dont know how I got here
On this strange rooftop
But before they drag me away
Im praying for the heavens to fall
So that you might return to me
Which Way Is Up?I know it will turn right
Life didn't go as planned
It came upside-down and
My train of thought was late
Life didn't go on schedule
But love it so, all the same
Creaky, and dirty, and hard to love
Like an over-used roller coaster
Life will go the wrong, bad way
I know this
She will be waiting for me there
I know that it will turn out all right
Before I finish writing this not-right poem
So even if I soon come to an end and die
A bad way
The wrong way
Life often feels similar
I wrote it that way on purpose
This poem is written backwards
CommuteO, Coffee! Dear friend,
Join me to-day
In our quest of unimaginable
Peril and contingency
The every-day is not mundane!
Though routine, not common!
Not for us, never!
Is not beyond us
Coffee, my friend
with you, I am untouchable
Unyielding to obstacles!
Together, we travel!
black and blue and yellow and pink
light and noises and smells
be excited, dear friend
crumble into the ever-present oblivion
bitter and bleak
We must remain together!
Lights are green; cars dissipate
We are almost late
The Art of Language In HistoryBooks, novels
Ink and paper
The world across the Library
Notebooks and college-ruled papers
Scribbles of writing
From a hundred pencils
The sun we recognize as summer
Burns through the glass
Of School building windows
-- a child with a magnifying glass,
Gleeful in his torture--
We are ants here.
Trapped behind the windows,
The sun is that much brighter, it scorches
As heat prickles on my forehead,
There is research to be done
Ink and paper
The world outside the window
The Essential World History
Has suffered at the
Tips of a tortured hand,
Pages are torn into triangles,
Words are outlined
Over and over
Until a black mess
A patch of ink smudged
By hands a thousand lectures old.
Ink on paper
The present-day world
Breeze, cool air
Across my neck
The back or my arms where my shirt is pulled up
My toes, and
fingers caked with words and quotes
Thousands of years old
They flow through me
And I snatch
Office PartyMy mother had an office party last night. At some point, she brought a bunch of people upstairs to look at rooms and stuff. After franticly throwing papers over my bed in an attempt to look like I was studying, ten or so people piled in and began to make offhand comments about the color of the walls and such. This one guy, whom I didn't recognize, had previously been sitting in the front room (while everyone else was out in the back eating chips and drinking) staring at the wall across from him, mouth open slightly. He shuffled in at the back of the group, and moved aside when they all left, but didn't leave. Instead, he was staring at a frisbee disk on my desk, with the same expression on his face. The conversation then went something like this:
Me: "You, uh... Enjoying the party?" (We can all affirm that small talk is not my strongest trait).
Him: "...There is a frisbee. In your room."
"Yeah, my school-"
"There is a frisbee... in your room." He quickly does a turn to look about, eyes
DWSIn a small town, a stranger will get more attention than anyone who lives there. So what if the Doctor removed several Legos from Timmy's stomach? This stranger had a piece of apple pie from Dorothy's and didn't say he liked it (first person in ten years, said Dorothy, shaking her head. Ten whole years). Tonight, he's sleeping at Barbara's bed and breakfast. Who's brave enough to ask how long he'll stay?
"Yes, officer," She accepted the handkerchief with a pale hand, balled it up in her palm. "Thank you so, so much." Murmuring something about the next time, the cop shoved a fat hand in his pocket and began whistling as he shuffled back to his car. Maggie let her tan arm droop over the window and checked the mirror, dabbing away a smear of mascara in the corner of her eye with the nice man's tacky hanky. When he stopped to open his door, her engine roared and she veered sharply into the road, a taxi was forced to swerve into the next lane and a minivan screeched as it braked
Hand RolledSitting in the sand, ankles itching,
we smoke hand-rolled cigarettes
and sip from wine glasses filled with water,
high on the smoke and stigma.
The waves beat the shore,
a soundtrack to our loneliness,
and together we face the dark.
We say we'll quit when we get older,
but it makes me wonder.
If I marry a woman like you, could I stop?
Wouldn't I sit with her in the dunes,
burning away our years like the embers of our cigarettes,
the cold of our glasses fresh in our palms.
Under clouds, no moon, no stars,
wouldn't we clumsily kiss, her half-warmth against mine?
If we really are the company we keep,
I worry for your sake,
but you haven't a care in the world,
enjoying dreams about tomorrow
because we both know we've already lost today.
bruisesi read somewhere
that everything worth knowing
...and i thought,
"please, oh please, let that be true!"
i need it to be true,
i feel like i am covered in bruises
and that there is no reason for it.
i ask those questions;
"what did i do wrong?";
before i realize that the answer doesn't matter.
whatever the reason,
my bruises, my scars, my war wounds,
have become a record of my story, my life, thus far.
they are more than broken blood vessels,
more than broken skin,
Pity My mother always wanted to be in West Side Story. She was an undiscovered talent, she'd say, and to prove it she'd sing "I Feel Pretty" every time we played dress-up, when we would try on feather boas, wide-brimmed hats, and cake on powder pink lipstick. My brother, Gordon, was always somewhere else once he was old enough to hate girly things, but that was fine. This was our time. Girl time. Dad wasn't around at that point, so he couldn't have "guy" time. I felt a little sorry for him because of that. And maybe in later years, he felt sorry for me, because I was so much closer to her when it happened.
We were teenagers, but still not old enough to understand. We came home one day to find her at her big white vanity, smearing on lipstick, wearing a bathrobe, pink feather boa and matching sun hat. An empty bottle of Jack Daniels lay near her elbow. She was admiring her reflection and singing in a slurred voice, so it sounded mor
through my eyesyou remind me of endless
saturday mornings and new
beginnings; sitting there,
retelling old stories
you remind me of
anything is possible,
fairy tales, so late it's
drifting off to sleep
being held by someone
in some quiet reality
you remind me of
a long, peaceful sleep
without a plague
of inspire, inspired,
thoughts of things that
are beautiful or deep and
gems and jewels of phrases.
of a possibility to
and especially being
a happier me.
if you give me some paper
maybe i'll just write some
.:R e a l e y e s:.dreams take life after dark,
or so i've h e a r d.
it was, of course, a night lark
who told me, such a little bird.
life takes on what it will,
or so i've seen,
behind my windowsill
is a world still g r e e n.
old books breathe sometimes,
if you keep them close,
and if you caress their rhymes
and s t r o k e their prose.
dreams are always and forever,
not ephemeral strict binding stuck
in the darkest parts of dark cold nights
but whenever we can laugh in glee
and talk to ourselves or little birds, even.
life takes on what you give it,
not in c
NightWe sped down darkened highways holding
cameras with dead batteries and
cans of spray paint like loaded guns.
Drive, just drive, no destination.-
Those words we thought and whispered and
yelled out open windows.
We drove until the fuel gauge read E,
filled the tank,
then kept on driving- past cemeteries and road kill
like a buffet for the carrion crows.
The radio blared songs everyone hated,
So we turned up the volume
and still sang along
while playing drum solos on dusty dashboards.
When we ran out of road we borrowed intellect
from has-been authors and clichéd musicians.
We debated religion and philosophy
while composing hypothetical psychiatric prescriptions
to cure our fragile minds.
Searing SilenceThe bride's face is pale pink, flush with happiness. Her blue eyes sparkle when they meet her new husband's. Together they dip and turn and sway on the dance floor and I lean my back against the wall. I set my camera on the table as I eat a dainty little fruit flan. It's strawberry. Blood red. Everything is red and white and pink. Pink always makes me think of my girl. I hate weddings. I can never breathe with so many smiling people in one room. Cousins, grandmothers, wide-eyed babies. The golden half-drunk glasses of champagne, plates of half-eaten cake and vases of half-dead flowers. They look so alive, open and awake but they're really dead. And in a week, it'll really start to show. I can't breathe.
I grab my camera and I push past the fat, smiling, perfumed people and through the double doors. The sun is half-sunk behind the skyline and I take a gasp of breath as I fall against the stucco. Livy. Livy. Livy.
The last time I saw you, you were half-awake. Lying in bed, wearing
From Kiev to Lutsk"Grandmama." The young man said.
He gently shook the shoulder of the small woman beside him and watched her stir. "Grandmama, wake up. The lady came with your tea."
He smiled at the woman in her stiff red uniform and extended his hand for the wooden tray. The womans lips were small and red, pulled back in a tight professional smile, almost in the same fashion as her perfect yellow hair. She clapped one heel against the open door and craned her neck to the other sleeping passengers, searching for someone to assist. Finding no one, she drew back her neck and gently clicked the wooden doors shut, nodding stiffly at the man before walking away.
The train rattled on. The wind rapped like bony fists against the clear frozen windows.
The man put down the tray on the armrest beside his chair and gripped his grandmother by the tops of her arms, pinching his mouth together as he helped her up. Her face was sleepy and gray, the skin thin and wrinkled like old tissue paper. She reached a shaking h
Little TearLike a droplet moving slowly
down a glass like surface,
leaving pieces of itself;
a trail for more to follow.
Enduring crevices and grooves
until finally the 'kerplop' sounds
a remorse filled satisfaction
upon this statuesque moment.
Fingers grasp my chin raising
my furtive eyes to meet yours,
breathing in this instant
like noxious fumes causing weariness
I shift my balance and straighten
my posture, bearing my burdened
shoulders back, lifting my
wet hand, saying.
"This is all I have left.
This little tear."
Then I flick my hand quickly.
"Now it's gone."
GrossFrom a very young age I held heavy in my heart a deathly fear of anything which exited the body. Of course, there were the traditional exports which all children had listed in their heads in order of ascending grossness, including but not limited to: spit, snot, boogers, vomit, earwax, chewed food, eye boogers, poop, wee, farts, sometimes including toenails. So it was with utter disgust I witnessed my mother and her boyfriend kiss, what officially began as 'good-bye' kisses, progressed into 'hello' kisses, and soon became 'I-feel-like-kissing' kisses.
By this point I should have come to realize that gross things can only lead to more gross things, as my mother's hateful acts resulted in a baby, who exhibited the very height of my fears; upon exiting the womb- the very first sign of her apparently incurable disease or nastiness- began vomiting and pooping and weeing and not even able to take proper care of her messes. As a result I now know 3 facts: anything that comes out of
ReflectionsVal's pursuit led him to the foul beast's domain. The hollowed-out cavern reeked of blood and rancid meat. The dim light he had seen as he charged through the tunnel after the monster could now be identified: torches. Rows of mysteriously lit torches lined the walls of the huge cave. At its center was a substantially large labyrinth of mirrors.
He spotted the beast entering.
He spun his silver broadsword in his hand and hurried in behind it.
His garb was a simple blue and white crusader's leather with thick armored pads and reinforcing steel studs. Lightweight and flexible, but quite effective defense against blunt blows and – in a pinch – the slashing claws of the unholy spawn of the earth. All monster-hunters wore a similar variety in Val's experience. It would serve him well in these close quarters of the mirrored maze.
Right, left, forward, left, right he turned, always catching a glimpse of the beast's tail as he wove his way through the corridors. Every so often he sp
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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