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What She Fears The MostBreaking; forcing; anger; taking.
Compulsion to break whatever it is between them.
Force compelling one to force relations.
Anger at having been ignored.
Taking the path of least resistance.
Hunger pushes her forward; revulsion at her heels.
Music convulses and twitches at her actions.
Nothing is safe; sacred; benign.
Anguish pulls her from eternity denied.
Beginning; forgetting, addition forgotten.
Eternity forgets of blood begotten.
Token squalor; urgency remembered.
The itch to scratch, and urge contemporary.
I want to fill the place unbidden,
with pieces still, and peace forbidden.
Content she is, permission given,
embrace the old; certain devision.
A blade contained,
To bear more than
the sword can take.
To do so is the grave mistake
that dragged that minstrel fated to place.
The mouths of mute,
content to splay,
like legs en suite,
they beg to stay.
In starry eyed, and ill confusion,
to constitute, aged contusion.
Of illness bid, and illness joined,
the aching o
The Terror Tells MeThere begins in each and every person a point where enough is too much,
and life continues on.
We spend our days imbibing the results;
the fruits of our labor,
and we fill our emptiness with insignificant pieces that we attach meaning to.
Mouthpiece catches on the microphone you've used to build cities
while you tear down nations,
and I've been burned into the wood for far too long; it's fine, I'll leave now.
Please don't ask me why
Blocks are built up to surround your cities; I grow weary of their bolted gates.
I will not allow this slight to remain unredeemed; forgotten;
A Temptress of the Future.
We are the only ones left now, in the silent gardens
- so windswept like tousled hairs -
I never gave too much to feign, believe me. I'm still alive, at least in part.
The pencil shavings and broken nails that plague my eyes,
unsettling enough, they form the start.
Everyone has questions like this, I know you think it's different this time;
but I question whether or not home is really where
Affectation ScornedDays go by while time sits still. It ponders the sounds that emanate from her chest in the dark, it's cubicle sterling and immaculate.
But where would one start?
When does one communicate to their sentimentality that part of themselves that desires change?
We all feel a little cold, and just the slightest bit empty.
She's there, making quiet sounds in the dark, and she's ready but unsure.
Stranger than fiction this just might be, but there isn't much that confuses her now.
She'll run along rooftops, and make conversation with strangers, and gently probe the depths of her will, and she'll tear her limits to shreds.
She's going to make the world love her.
The gaps in the tide and the spaces between words tell me so.
She'll take her pills, and speak her mind, and then she's going to breathe inspiration. They'll take it from her; creativity, danger, uncertainty. All of it.
She will, without doubt, take it back; make a return to her former shape.
This girl's going to beat us over the head w
Simply Eternity: Speak to MeI can feel it. This is what they all wrote about.
Every poet, every river compelled to the same place it had always chased.
They run to their objective, with vigour unthought of.
(And so must I.)
There was a time when I believed them all mad. A time when their words meant little more to me than those of a fairy tale. A children's story has no more meaning to it than what it simply is; a story. Such stories throughout these ages have held little to no truth to them, but this... this is one that can be understood universally. A song sung by all through lips sewn tightly shut with invisible threads, thin as silk.
(But with strength like wire.)
A song rendered to silence when in truth it should be screamed to the heavens until they themselves bellowed back the truth.
And yet, my strength today is focused on running from mountains and slaying not rivers but fortitude.
I shed my old self as a snake would skin.
Those lips held fast with tentative words and convoluted statements.
Dancer's WitnessEnvelopes are left unopened on my doorstep, left demanding.
Stairways creak as I crawl and tear it all
to pieces where once left standing.
Homewards, we are unanswered, so let's just all pretend.
We still possess the simple stress
that leads to an early end.
Nothing remains here, resurrected or born again.
Shells still seek their empty beach
but are in gentle fields left lain.
A doctor called my house today, he said he had something to say,
begged my mother not to call him back.
Observed, he tries to start his tale, of bitter lies and bitter ale,
and says to her something is 'bout to crack.
He says to mother that he's gone again, and shan't return this time.
Her fingers shake, her resolve quakes
and she returns his words in kind.
Shoulders ache with bitterness of nights long gone and past.
So newly deranged bed fellows strange
are what pull me back at last.
Cosmic zephyr, reciprocal, calls me out to see him finally.
Skin is old like stories told
in fields of faith grown to the ninth de
Purposeless and UnforgivingIt's absolutely everything
I am and all I'll ever be.
What exists, she knows not wisdom,
but suffice to say it's part of me.
Imaginative yet perverse it seems,
perseveres like opened seams
that bend and break and string out tight,
and forget what we had said that night.
Forget the days we spent alight,
and take me out to live tonight.
We burned in backwater brush,
we always knew fire's gentle touch.
Blistered now and breathing hard,
the World becomes prepared to start.
Old friends die and live and breathe,
in tattoos laughed at on our sleeves.
But where is there to be a line drawn,
in seldom static sand, I'd rather see castles.
Now comes the time to forget hairs cut
along with distant places we used to live in.
There was a day that made things simple
that kissed the ground and made it shake.
But the part that I had always loved:
when our spines learned to bend and break.
Julia spends her days downtown,
and Trevor lifts her wedding gown.
Erin weeps at work on time,
and Josh just wants t
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
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
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
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,
Red of FaceRedfaced and tired, we squabble and clamour about the Earth like crabs,
every part a piece of a whole too vast
and too open
to ever know sensation.
Prickled and pearly steel are the blades of industry.
They rotate, and whirl, and cut down all things
unfortunate enough to cross their path.
From distant prairie a battlecall
for all the terra to hear her
to fear her.
People of principle, daughter of mine,
ride white terror from the west.
As winding one, the blinding sun
will act as their challenge best.
May blades and battles sing you,
daughter of mine,
to sleep, to dream
of ripping seams.
May it's voice rile and whip
the rabble from the gravel,
and our people from the dust.
May it's voice rumble from your chest,
beating hard and fast as horses from our homeland.
And through ray of blinding sun they leered,
at my daughter, redfaced, feared,
and the words that gild her sword rang clear,
as voices crimson often do.
Roles are called, alarms are blared,
and through our star's stoney
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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