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losing my mindi have mastered the art
of hiding my emotions,
they neatly tuck themselves away
in the deserted creases of my mind.
slowly, they grow old and cold,
happiness falls through my fingertips
[ N U M B ]
darling, do not be confused,
for hiding does not mean forgetting.
these despairs unsteadily stack one upon the sorry other
my mind is a trembling mountain of unforgiving thoughts
and self-destructive motives.
[ E A R T H Q U A K E ]
oh dear, they’ve gotten the best of me.
dreams of death Jump!
He sucked in a jagged a breath, peering down over the edge. His body trembled.
Blue eyes were hungry yet fearful; begging yet hesitant.
Jump! The snarling voice repeated, more vicious and forceful this time. Just a split second and he could be gone. Life was so fickle in the thought of how fragile it truly was. People were often ignorant to realize that all it took was one second – one feeble little moment – and life, everything, could slip through trembling hands like sand.
Seth gnawed his lower lip. Power rested upon him like a crown upon a king. The choice was his: would he live, or would he die?
Death. How long had be been dreaming of it? So many years. Years of pain and grief, of striving for that relief, yet when he was handed the chance, he stood undecided, fearful, unsure.
Pluto Isn't a PlanetI can barely breathe
and that's what's keeping me
My parents said I was a child
(Too young to understand)
And the teachers shook their heads at me.
Society told me that I was insane
and the stares in the halls told me
it wasn't right
to keep living this way
How could the burden of those galaxies
be the reason I'm alive?
"You are on the wrong track," they said,
"You need to follow planets orbiting the sun
and Pluto isn't
There is no point
if the textbook isn't open,
but I cannot lie to my
I feel most alive when my small hands
are trying to carry the entire solar system
And I break through the most
galaxies and constellations
by following the north star
and not the mathematical calculations
I copied down in my
why we cannot sleep at night.i.
we have grown so accustomed
to wearing our masks
we still wonder why
the night sky
is calling my name
and i find that
i cannot close my eyes
my corneas are stars
and i'm falling
rusted and fading,
forever switching owners
forever out of place
loneliness is a disease
the world is infected.)
a lover's observations.when you asked me to define love,
i answered with this.
i. a collection of sighs
by remembered dreams
and rapid heartbeats
ii. fingertips on knuckles
and the hugging of thumbs
iii. making silverware
on the mattress
in the company of the stars
iv. exchanging dialogue
with our mouths shut
and our eyes open
v. cheekbones and crow's feet
vi. turning every what if
into a reality
when i asked you to describe love,
you took the answer from my mouth
with your lips.
Maps Not Meant For FollowingI bet you missed me when I went away. "You’ll come back," you thought. When I didn’t you bit your lip, but was sure I would make it with time. After the next day, and the day after that, the doubts started to creep in. You caught yourself sucking in a painful breath whenever you saw something of mine lying around. Bits of my life left with you would slither into your sight when you least expected it the same way the memories would swamp you if given the slightest chance.
When days turned into a week, you entered into a hush drunk state: eyes bleary and sore from holding back any semblance of emotion. You were quiet, but not calm. Your hands became tumultuous storms when you'd glance over at our picture, fingers becoming tidal waves as you would toss it onto the bed. You were tired, but not nearly tired enough to forget.
On its own, you would find your body shaking at the brush of your own fingers across your skin, a reminder of where I touched you last. And then you c
meaning of white / and the glare that obscurestoday rumbled,
churned and went to hell
.left in the bright obscurity
appendages seem to hiss no more
waves speak no more
dandelions sing no more.
i must figure out
whether to keep hanging like a deformed
in which direction to propel this vein-knot;
Title(s)What if I tried to strip you of your titles?
Cram them inside my mouth
one by one
and gorge myself on every single letter?
Lord, ruler, commander, sultan, emperor,
Would you be less frightening then,
would you be easy to mislay?
Less of marble, more of clay?
Would you be paltry, boring, plain?
Would I even look at you again?
Would the birds persist to sing
if I discrowned you, dearest King?
Life would go on -I know- the way it does
and there’d be other words to come
and fill the gap.
But even if you can feed the silence, make it speak,
there would be things that go unnamed,
untouched and muffled.
There would be things unbearable
under the layers of lull-
such as the sound of bodies when they clash,
the sound of memories when they come rushing back
and the wild thumping of a heart against a heart.
Oh, but I’m dazed and dazzled and confused
(such a cliche, a doodle, overused),
though sometimes I believe that I could break the chain,
it would take but one small g
she didn't mean to be a roseshe is the age of innocence, staring longingly at the sarcasm she'll wear when she's jaded, but she isn't quite there yet. she says she's big enough, old enough, but when she tries irony on for size it pools off her egret shoulders, on to the floor, and she must stick with secondhand sincerity.
summer peach drips down her arms and she doesn't know what to do with her hands as she's dreaming, dreaming. head so high in the clouds she comes down in antarctica, confusion in her eyes made up songs in her ears, peach juice freezing on her skin.
when she lies in bed crying, her eyes perfectly dry, her hands not-quite-enough-enough fasten soft around the bars of her headboard. morning dawns red spiral imprints in her palms, pressed to the condensation windows, blood hello to the sunrise.
it's not that she's lonely, it's just that she's alone. small pale press against the worn fibers of the carpet, with only those lights on in the whole world and her face lit up blue with anything, though reall
Bite Your Tongue Till It BleedsBite Your Tongue Till It Bleeds
Speak now or forever hold your peace,
Or is it piece?
‘Cause if I hold this piece of my mind,
To myself, there will be no peace,
Only an explosion of the mental mine
That riddles mine.
I’m no man, I’m a mime,
Holding his hands over his mouth,
Biting my tongue so these words have no way out,
With my eyes half-lidded, the other half brimmin’,
With tears near the bottom half of the rim,
Ready to fall like rainwater races down a windowsill.
Angry to the point where I wish I could control the skies,
Rain down Hell and fury that has built up inside,
And watch my furious vision destroy the night.
But this is not me,
This not how I am,
Nor how I will ever be.
It’s just that I’ve been holding my peace
For such a long damn time.
Now it just seems the only “peace” I’m holding,
Are pieces of my mind.
the man at the ticket counter.the man at the ticket counter told me
he had never sold a one way ticket before
and i said why not
to which he replied,
because people need to believe that
they have someone or something
to come home to
i scoffed at him,
well i guess i have no one
but he just stared at me
with lantern eyes
until by some ungodly urge
my bottom lip trembled
and i spat out the words
no one here cares if i return or not
he was silent as he completed the transaction
but his forehead frowned at me
and his implied pity became unbearable
to the point where
i snatched the ticket from the counter
without so much as a backwards glance
even though his eyes followed my spine
through the crowd
i didn't relax until i reached the platform
where the conductor beckoned me to the door quickly
hello miss may i see your ticket
of course sir, here it is
thank you very much
your seat is located in compartment three
as is your return seat
he pushed me through the door
before i could s
HomesickI am the river's son,
my arteries flowing turquoise
and turning to rapids
rushing around my frame,
filling me with this sense
of buoyancy, minnows
tickling my sternum.
I am the river's son.
My palms caress each
silty shoreline, every
battered bank and bend,
and these places I know
so well become me
as my fingerprint,
even the bridge above me
inflamed by the afternoon
sun-glow, burning rusty and
the steel blue sky.
I am the river's son;
I bring my home along
like hermit crab,
where I step
I pull water from the earth.
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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