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Penniesim that kid that you see as naive
you don't need me
but you want me to be
there for you if you want to
and what do i get
and you don't even sweat
on the big things the stories
i'm raging and roaring
you're whoring yourself out again
and its boring
i'm boring a hole to the life you uphold
got a role
so i'll play it but this game i'm saying
i don't need your silence
one more reason i'm writing
show me a feeling
or i'm right
not gonna roll
its a no go
i got a feeling you'll give up
not gonna get with this get up
show me you're reeling
you're not though
gimme a story
or show me.
i'm that girl that you found intriguing
truth is i don't think you can perceive me
not even sure that you even see me
but one of us lies and its easy
get up and get go
i got no pull here to stay
so i let go
rush me i'm pushing away
but i'm back though
i don't even know
soul to soul or im solely alone
YoursI'm okay for now and I'm standing tall
but in a second I'm backed up against the wall
in my head my back arches
but my head just falls
and my shoulders drop
and my thoughts hit the floor/
you glance across the room and my mouth creases up
in a way it gives away and you give me that look
the smile slips down and I'm on one foot
my fingernails click, I say I'm okay, but/
You know it's not true, you can see right through me
peel back a smile and my eyes look roomy
it's not quite a lie, but it's not quite true
we'll drop it for tonight and I'll call another truce/
I'm tired of the way you think I'm being obtuse
and the only thing I've got is 'it's me, it's not you'
in actuality it's everything I've ever been through
the reality's duality and one of me'll lose/
so call it off for a second and i'm feeling like water
slipped through your hands but i'm inside your pores
stuck to your skin and I'm feeling remorse
I can't save you from me more than I can be more/
than I am, than I should be
TeethSing me out a story
I don't need a reason just to rhyme
I got my paper A$ lined
that shit you're selling, I'm not buyin.
the only thing that's left of me
chew me up and spit me out
but either way I'll break your teeth-
RamblesBut then I think
this pen and ink
wants to write the
ins and outs of my mind
and then i find
the final line
why is it then
that I'm not fine?
I write about
falling and how
it's different for me than you
but the truth
it's not a hard line
and all in all
my life's quite fine
it isn't perfect,
but then I suspect,
a million people have it worse than I.
Every night I do it.
I chew on thoughts and bury words
squashing sentences at the bottom of the bright ideas pile
the light switch is on but every bulb's blown
I repeat and repeat and repeat
scrap replay, replay rethink, remember
it changes and I forget
and then it's never what it was so
the words evolve, adapt
getting chewed and mangled
and then I forget the point
and I sleep
or I dream
and the problem's solved til the night comes again.
It's quiet and im still
emptied but soft
I feel fleshy and light.
I can feel every ounce of me wiegh down as I float
and the memory of words
I can't move
and the past is immovable
but it's quiet
cotton soft quiet.
In the dark when I close my eyes
in floods light.
of my eyelids
im holding no pictures
no more now than i knew
can't solve and can't prove
but the light
and the quiet
the soft and the new
the good and the hope
these might carry me through.
PulseIt's bright and it's broken
it's flickering, rusted
the heart of a creature I couldn't have trusted
for fear or for hunger of minor disaster
a flesh that's quite warm yet it's lacking in lustre
a blister of truth
or a wrinkle of trust.
It's dark and it's dusty
quite damp, and encrusted
with scars and a venom that's destined to break it
and fuelled with a stream of casual acquaintances
mind that knows need but not how to relate
and i'm broken
I must hope
for a reason
a sign that it's right
lest we fall with the seasons,
and falling is reason enough.
pleased to meet you
shes a dancer
give a chance of
she'll destroy you
she'll destory you
catch an eye and
trace a line and
catch it wandering on
out and to the side
i don't know you
hasn't told you
she's a weapon
she's a snake and
she's a soldier
she'll unfold you and
she'll be cold and
feign a smoothness
all a tactical maneuver
hasn't told you all the moves and
old directory of truths and
turns it back and it's on you
it's paranoia paranoia
at a glance inside of who
not the one you thought you knew
maybe it was never you
things were different you'd lose
find a catalogue of proof
or a dialogue of use
the admission of
LanguishSick of my sickness with the language barrier
find a new character and my thoughts might carry her
stuck on the crest of my friccative wave
I need a new brain hole, and a new wave to save me/
sick of my sickness and I can't get rid
burn a hole in my head when I'm flicking eyelids
clicking my fingers and I'm blaming the timezones
ticking the clock off ignore the power that the hands hold/
sick of my apathy and of being on a downturn
pissing them off with the message that my frown earns
forgetting that faces have a language of their own
well versed and rehearsed there, I'm holding on, though/
Sick of my sickness with the braindead bitch
with the realisation I'm the one true hitch
remembering now that it's all down to tone
get the fuck off the keys and back into the zone.
It's sad but it's true that that's what I do.
You'd think that it's useful, clairvoyance
a truthful reminder of all that's to come,
I'll write in my diary so I can remind me of everything that could be done.
But therein's the problem you see:
the future, quite naturally,
is a definite thing, a condition of truth
and the only thing I've got is absolute proof
that the things that'll pass are just destined to happen,
to build and to ruin,
to break and to rescue,
so all I can do is to politely ask you to please, if you please-
should I take you to task- let me lead with a question and hear what i ask
that you might answer in full understanding of what we all know, and here all I'm demanding
is truth to placate me so I can let go
of a foreshadowing that'd passed long ago.
Theme Prompt - SoliloquyI was thinking about my poetry and some of the stories I’ve written and I realized something interesting. When I write, I bare a small piece of my soul and am usually speaking to someone in particular. At least when it comes to the poems that resonate the most with me when I re-read them. There are a few that I just have no feeling for at all and, if I didn’t know I wrote it, I wouldn’t attribute to myself.
I’ve written poetry to my father, my aunt, my grandmother, my ex, and my friends. Some with good intentions and feelings and some not so good. I’ve written alternately hopeful and sad, longing poems to a nebulous person that I hope to meet in the future. I’ve worked through my emotions for everyone and showed how I truly felt about them all. The gratitude and love for my friends, the sorrow and love for my family, and the love and, subsequently, anger and regret for my ex. Yet I’ve never really tried to work through my own feelings towards m
11.- La Niña Esperanzada:
Erase una niña, que siempre soño
con un amor. No era un principe azul, era mas bien alguien solitario que no brillaba fisicamente como en cuentos de hadas, el brillo de sus ojos era algo que muy pocos veian. Le puso nombre, rasgos y caracteristicas. Lo soño durante tantas noches, lo imagino durante tantos dias, que ella podia reconocerlo si se le apareciera. Dias pasan, años pasan, pero la esperanza no. En el decimotercer cumpleaños de la niña ella solo deseo, al soplar las velas, que su amado llegara. Su Tristan. Su Tristan de ojos azules y rizada cabellera castaña oscura. Porque sabia que el estaba ahi, viviendo con la luna y navegando con el mar. Dias pasan, años pasan, pero la esparanza no pasa. Cuatro años y la niña solo era niña en su interior, ahora era Elena y nadie ya le decia niña, mas alla de la seda y su maduro seno se encontraba un corazón, un coraz
Once NecessaryFrom a young age, she always looked the same. A tangled mass of blonde, hazel eyes glued to the print of a story. She was once asked why she was always reading and the answer was simple. Print was easier then People.
She learned in a hard way to hide her legs. Dead and dried skin cracked it's way along her calves and shins, stopping at her dried knees, only to turn into Braille on her thighs. Jeans turned into necessity and the skirts and dresses she loved were pushed to the side and she forgot that she even liked them.
The calming effect of reading was negated by a series of horrible math teachers, all speaking in a flurry of a language that she had chosen to take but could never learn how to say. Her grades plummeted and she left the class, only to become the person kids stared at in the halls.
Her mind grew fast, her body grew slow. Bigger books, longer novels. She watched as the people around her showed their colors and she was afraid. Afraid of what they would say and what would h
Grandpa Dad’s cell phone rang, breaking the peaceful silence. Nobody moved; we waited it out. Grogginess held us all in her loving claws. The voicemail ring sounded, and the room lapsed back into silence for a whole five minutes. Voicemail rang again, annoying me.
Who just calls at 6 a.m. anyway?
Slight fear stirred inside of me, but I quelled it. It wasn’t possible. We were safe and sound in a hotel room in Ohio, save for my little sister’s stomach and Mom’s intestines. Dad dubbed it “screaming diarrhea” because Mom screamed when she sat on the toilet. It made for a very long trip back from visiting family in West Virginia for spring break, but they were all safe and secure as we were, maybe even more so. Grandpa was doing much better, and at 94 with pneumonia, he had spent the first half of our week-visit in the hospital an hour away. He talked to us the night before, and was awake and eating breakfast when we left
2014-062 ReturnThe way I work these prompt-a-day musings is to look at the prompt early in the day so it can wriggle around in my head for a few hours before I try to write something in the late afternoon or evening. As I write I think of an image to go with the words. Sometimes the image comes first.
"Sojourn", yesterday's prompt, is such a common biblical theme that I knew right away where I wanted to start writing. And I had just scanned in a roll of negatives from the Yashica-D. There was one badly overexposed image that had a surreal "just passing through" feel to it I thought would fit well. I worked it up and posted it on deviantArt so I could use here.
As I thought about today's prompt, "Return", the idea that kept wriggling around my head was "coming home". I looked through my gallery for an image that would convey the idea of not simply house, but home. I picked this one from a year and a half ago.
God grant you blessings on your way and a home to return to.
T15 Empty SpacesI lived and worked in Vietnam for an amputated year.
Before leaving for Vietnam I burned all bridges, spent a month in the north country and the day before leaving cut my hair. I arrived in Ho Chi Minh City/Saigon with a half a hundred dollars in my pocket, a bag of clothes and no interest in looking back.
A year later I left as a stranger to myself, returned to my life and mostly stitched myself back together.
I worked six days a week at a school in the center of town on the side of what for cars would be a six lane road, but for motorcycles was more of an 18 lane highway. I slept in a house tucked away in a district on the edge of the city.
I lived on my motorcycle. Everyone in Ho Chi Minh City does.
Sunday mornings school started early. I took to starting even earlier.
I’d ride my motorcycle over the stinking rivers and through the traffic to get to the park across from the school. Every Sunday, I walked the park. I walked slowly, looked at the trees and let the city disappear
himera..cand greutatea intunericului.
imi inchide pleoapele..
nici chiar moartea nu va putea..
sa traga definitiv cortina intre mine si eu..
sangele meu curge pana si..
..ce-as fi ajuns fara clipa vietii tale..
intriga tuturor umbrelor..
exista in mine..
insa durerea grea..
o voi simti si in ochii noptii eterne..
puternici sunt plamanii vantului..
propriei agonii prada..
plina de pofta ascult..
chemarea altei lumi..
cand luna rosie apare..
sufletul lacom priveste afara..
prin perdeaua de lacrimi a ochilor stinsi..
care-au uitat sa vada..
aud chemarea ..
3.March.2014Tell the story of an event (a dinner, a game, a film) in three different ways, depending on who is telling the story.
THE HOST: The once cozy, lived-in home had turned into a place that resembled a model display. There was not a throw pillow out of place in the painstakingly organized living room, and not a speck of dust dared reveal itself to be upon the impeccably dusted tables and shelves. The windows were washed so completely that no one would have been surprised if an unfortunate bird met its untimely end upon the crystalline glass pane. The kitchen was, though bustling with activity, as pristine as ever, the stainless steel surfaces reflecting light onto the dark granite countertops whereupon the food for the evening sat, ready to be placed.
The hostess herself, however, was of another demeanor altogether. Her strikingly haggard appearance was the antithesis of the environment, with her disheveled chocolate hair thrown into a ha
Dream 51A bit of an update if anyone is reading this : For the past long while I have had some issues with my memory which have seriously impacted my dream recollection. When I do remember dreams, it is usually a small detail, not enough to have a flowing sequence of events. The dream I had today, though not as full of information as my recollections used to be, was the most saturated amount of recollection that I have had in a very long time.
It began with me being in a small town full of very old homes, the intricate kind with white walls and red clay roofs that you might see in Europe. There was a new years gathering there, my family was there, so were many others. I wandered around before finding my father, who was sitting crooked and acting silly. It was clear that he was drunk. This was an enormous shock to me since I have never seen my father drunk in my entire life (Thank god.). I told him that if he needed to go anywhere that he needs to let me know so that I can drive him. This infur
BooksBooks were never the far corners of the garden for me. They didn't provide the warm hum of somewhere nobody could reach me. The words didn't trickle behind my ears or reveal perfectly uniformed beads in spiralled paragraphs like only the spiders could. I didn't read because, unlik most children, I wasn't transported by the words to a faraway land in the way that 'only books can'.
Now it's different. I'm not flung headfirst into a mist of punctuation, no. Now I use the words to fill my ears like cotton wool. The world I'm in consists of four glass walls that muffle the sounds of the world, but ultimately, books can't shelter me from the rain.
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.
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