|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
gossamer loveyou will love a woman
who uses the word
too often. she will
diagnose dead artists' descents
into madness and laugh
too loudly at jokes
no one understands.
she will braid crowns of
flowers, she will write poems
in constellations, she will
try to walk like a dancer so
no one can hear her
leave. she will be
an ice sculpture, and when
she cries, you'll convince yourself
she's melting, she loves you, you've
changed her, you've
changed; she will wear you
like a comma, like
an incomplete thought,
in her story, and
she will leave you wondering
california wintersthe tears
I rationed have all
run out. Tuesday comes
up behind me and steals
my breath; my cat snores.
she can’t sleep soundly
since she lost her seventh
life. I’m like that, I’m always
worried someone will try to steal
what I’ve already given away.
I miss color. newsprint sobs
washed me out. I am a
blank canvas, I am a faceless,
I am one
of you. I wake up sweating
and it’s winter and I can’t
sleep because my memories
follow me between my sheets;
jake still won’t listen.
we never knew we were the
lucky ones, we scarred, too. don’t
touch me. don’t want
me, don’t bare my bones
when you think I’m not
watching. I’m afraid of
myself. breathing loud
enough that others know
I exist; you follow me,
needing, laughing, it’s
a game. who has lost
the most, we all want
to win; I’m so tired, so scared,
there’s no one in the world
who sees me. I can’t cry.
we’re in a drought.
to the girl with hungry footstepsI'm sending all my words back
to the people who need them--
people who wear scars like
war trophies, like jewelry, like
an identification for those suffering
from the same acceptance of
self-hate. this is to the people
who sleep with one eye open, who
cry when footsteps enter their room
at night; this is to the girls
who love by cutting their hearts
into snowflakes and watching
them melt. I left you behind and
I can't be sorry for that.
you are the type of beautiful
that kindly asks the world
to fuck off. the days we buried
have decomposed, headstones are
snapshots; sanitized breakdowns,
rusty tongues, sighs laced
with fear, I love you, I love
you. saturdays were the best
because we could sleep through
the nightmare. you painted me a
picture of the world with your words
and they made us wash it away
for being transparent.
we were afraid of nothing
but the monsters in our eyelids.
back then, we counted days
like shooting stars; it took 67
to wish myself away. this
is for you, skygazer;
butterfliedit is a snake
coiled in my stomach,
the urge to vomit
everything inside of me, to purge
all the toxic not-
good-enoughs. to retell
the same story and expect
a different ending is
the dysfunction that landed
us in here. I'm sorry
I don't follow you into
your dreams at night. I'm sorry
my smile is not the moon,
I'm sorry I did anything
to make you notice
me at all. no finger
down the throat could ever
mutterings from over the cuckoo's nesti.
it is dark. that
is a judgment. my roommate
is snoring, and somewhere,
a girl is crying because
she doesn't have a heart
so she doesn't have
a home. if we are time bombs,
I think I must have detonated
a little late. it is dark
and I can't see
why all problems are defined
but their need to be solved.
I dream in color, but I live
in black and white. I drown
in gray faces that don't
sound familiar; it is dark
and I can't remember
the last time it was bright.
I am afraid
of caring. we are a strange
people, we, who love by
hating ourselves, by bleeding
am afraid that
one day, I might start crying,
and I won't be able to stop and
it will be the second Great Flood,
all the world will drown in
my mistakes. You
draw that out of me,
like a marionette on
a string, you pull these
anchors out from
my stomach until I
can hardly breathe. you
live on the other half of the mirror,
I am afraid
that distance is too
in the end,
it's all the same. every
reasons why we should be in loveif I could
I’d love you like
those couples who grow
into each other and make
poetry out of body language
and wear one another’s
weaknesses when they get
too heavy and talk about
the weather without ever really
meaning the weather at all;
and you’d keep me from
falling asleep in the ocean
and I’d lie about little
things, always confusing
Sunday for Tuesday and
you for somebody with
the same face who
was always afraid of
me. you’d chuckle and
hold me and I’d cave in to
you like the hungry tide
and you’d say I looked
beautiful when I cried
and I wouldn’t believe you
but I’d cry more anyways.
if people were alive,
you’d be the brightest
one. I don’t have much
to offer but I could write you
a million dedications
in the sand, and give you
pocket change when you
needed a wish; I could
take you to New Zealand
to paint water lilies or England
to go skydiving or Italy
to fall in love and mean it
and I would promise you
the moon an
honesty isn't a weaknessI have a headache and not enough time
to explain the irony of how I want to be
every pretentious poet making art out of
themselves, cutting open their side and writing
in blood and pixie dust; or how difficult
it is to make a good allegory out of carsickness
and household complacency. this
is every secret I ever hid. when I was 9
someone dissected the world in front of me,
showed me it was a living, wanting thing
and that I was just a lonely cell, functioning
through my dysfunction; when I was 11
the boy I liked told me he’d be interested
if I were prettier and I learned starvation
was more a state of mind than a presence
of being. when I was 13 I researched the lethality
of cleaning products, because god, I felt so dirty,
and nothing can clean you more than a couple cupfuls
of bleach. when I was 15 I was old and decrepit
and mostly dead, returning from war with flowers
for graves that weren’t filled and a heart of
tragedy, vulnerable and draped in every shade
of mourning f
does she know the astrological significance
of the bruises starring along
your wrists? if I could, I’d
run away somewhere where
the sky is silent and the people
hate honest eyes. here’s my problem,
I’ve wasted all my time daydreaming
in the universe of your scars. I wonder
if substantiality is lethal.
[when will you move on
like you know what
you’re doing with your life,
like this tiny existential
failure is only a hazard sign
on the roadmap of your journey,
like the world weighing down
upon your shoulders is an
exercise in vanity and quietude
instead of someone
lists of necessities: methods of
starvation, hours to fall asleep by, sharp
objects, words that mean nothing.
I’m sorry this isn’t better. I’m sorry
I’m not better and I’m sorry
nothing is bright anymore.
things you remind me of:
the november sky
right before it rains.
The New CrimeaFrom China's people'd farms and towns
To the dark-Dnieper flowing broad,
A tramp and growl of war resounds
And planes sail o'er children awe'd.
For distant Russia stirs from sleep
And clears the snow about her head.
Now awake from dreaming deep
To build a wall with Western dead.
For common man with no fear or sloth
Let out a message high and bold;
To join with Europe's peaceful oath
And break the Russian stranglehold.
Fair Europe girds her children well
To stand with sons of Cossack men
And send the Russian down to hell
And face down Barbarous hordes again.
For we in Europe long abide
And fight in Western brotherhood
Against the cruel eastern tide
Where once the lauded Teuton stood.
GoJust run don't look back, you already did that enough times to give yourself whiplash. Drop everything and just start running, it's your turn to finally start getting what you want. So don't just sit there and do fuckall like you always do, do something else for fucks sake. No matter how much it hurts don't stop, it'll get better; it always does it just takes time. So get the fuck up and go.
a network of lines that intersectOne May morning
I was stumbled upon by my soul,
my body splayed in a curl of light like the petal of an iris.
10,347 or probably less poems
beat in livid hives beneath my skin, my skin fishing
for a less-offensive rug to teach it the art of braille.
I left ridges in the dirty argyle as I woke, 10,009 braille
death threats composed to the drug of morning
injected, red, into my tired eyes as if by the fishing
hook my soul
uses to catch the shimmering poems
skittering like flighty koi-fish in the iris
of the universe (blue/green like earth). My iris
is scored by the astronaut prints of 5 years ago: invisible braille
smudges left by my soul as she writes scripture in the form of sestina poems.
is the scroll from which that soul
reads, one leg dangling over the precipice of my pupil, fishing
as I do, now, with my hands in scalding water. I am fishing
for the exact shade of my father’s favorite red iris
in the burning steam emitting from the sink. I feel my soul
touch herself i
LIRIA CRUSADERSIn this world, it is not like your own
For in this land sat a king on a thrown.
Though this man had a kind face,
Behind the castle walls, peonage took place.
The king thought himself a powerful man
And enslaved the entire Zotairak Clan.
The Zotairaks’ leader, whom once stood tall,
Now sat under the king as his personal thrall.
This way of life lasted for many centuries,
Building up some rather terrible memories.
Finally one day the Zotairak leader had enough.
He rose up tall and yanked off his cuff.
With his mighty voice, he roared to his clan,
“Come brothers, come sisters, and come forth woman and man!
Together we will fight back for our land!
We will be free of this pain, free from this misery!
We will break from this evil penitentiary!”
So the battle began and soon turned into war
Ending only when neither clan could fight anymore.
Though, this war was far from over. This they all knew.
The Zotairak retreated across the sea to Feiaras to plan their next move.
The Found, Dead OnesThere once laid a village in ancient caves,
ravaged by time and touched by sword,
yet the First Ones stayed in their homes,
For an eternity, they slumbered,
their homes carved out of cold stone.
Their forms, once stout, are now slender,
their skins grey and the air held dust.
Ravaged by time and touched by sword,
nothing of value remained in the rooms
and deciphered texts told very little
save for references of siege and disease.
What once filled these caverns were
works that inspired wonder and
displayed their might, but now
they lay crumbled and forgotten.
No one knew who ended the First ones
And the elderly creatures held no answer
nor would they care about
the First Ones’ plight.
71. ObsessionAbout nymphs, I know without fails
You have probably heard countless tales
Already, so why should you hear mine?
What could I possibly refine?
Now I'm not Ovid, I admit
(Would be sev'ral cent'ries late for it)
But stay and listen to my story
I promise you won't be sorry.
Let me tell you not about love
Surely you know enoug tales thereof
So how about obsession instead
And a night painted crimson red?
Once upon a time it began
When during a full moon night a man
Could not rest in Morpheus's arms
He wandered off under sev'ral charms.
Not awake he followed the trail
Laid to his feet by Selene, the pale.
Into the mountains she guided him
Where the world was so rough and grim.
The feet left bloody stains behind
Tracks which an Oread did then find.
She follwed them to the mountain's top
Where finally the man did stop.
The mortal man she did pity
So alone and far from his city
Caught in this obsession for the moon
Unaware his feet turned maroon.
The nymph thought and worried her brain
DragonMy eyes are flame; my breath is flame;
Everybody knows my name.
If you seek fame then come to me:
I'll make sure you die famously.
I ate their sheep; I'll eat you too.
Believe me, I'm not scared of you.
Your pretty lance is just a thorn.
Come test it on my blackened horn.
Your sword is naught more than my claw.
I'll crush it with my iron jaw.
And, should you make it past that point,
I'll rip each fragile limb from joint.
To round it out, I'll burn the rest.
How's that for an end to your quest?
My girth is greater than your house.
To me, you're just a little mouse.
Let's make it clear: You stand no chance.
To me, you're just a pesky ant.
So bring it on, you hero, you!
I ate their sheep; I'll eat you too.
Die Tryingwhat the hell did i do, to never ever try to do better?
When have my exceptions always surpassed my expectations.
My worried woe's hold me back,
Try, try again strapping boy you,
For the World will rely upon your wisdom and misguided fortunes.
And forever be the day you shall never forgive,
the day you forgot to Remember. Just to try, and try to do better.
Because the thought of One-thousand tomorrows will never meet the time,
those worried, forgotten yesterday's promised.
Robert J. Price Jr.
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
Keep in Touch!
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