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Through glassThis is permanence,
This empty room.
No vibrancy here
but the adamant beat of my heart,
And the blue sizzle of my mind.
The deep breaths before me.
And the sensation of glass
touching my fingertips,
sending chills up curved spines -
kissing pale hairs on the back of necks.
Gently and quietly
I passed my hand through the glass,
And stepped from the room
into clear, cold water.
Vase with thistlesAn alabaster infant lay down in nettles,
gripped them tightly in fat little fists,
and said they tickle.
picked them from the roots and called the nettles
roses, a vase lined with thistles
placed on the windowsill to sit
and wait in grey light,
for the alabaster's stings to fade,
their spikes to dull,
their leaves to brown.
But desolateI took a telescope to the sky
and saw no life.
I saw stars and planets,
And our own isolation
Our view bright
Pale FishPale fish seen through blue window paine,
Behind net curtains, touching the glass,
Leaving behind prints and breath,
Drawings in condensation,
A face with a smile,
because the beams don't penetrate through the double glazing.
Daisies which don't grow inside.
And the playing children seen through the blue,
Who laugh at, not with,
Until until, pale fish, she drowned.
'Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself,
She turns to favour and to prettiness.'
Flipped and flopped.
Wasn't found for weeks.
A DeathI think things matter less,
When you get older,
But the small things mean more,
The kiss in the evening,
And the smile in the morning,
And the endless endless nothing,
The waiting until the end,
I'll choose the font on my gravestone,
And pick my slice of soil,
My upturned grass,
My coffin, made of willow,
At least the details,
I can control,
If not the odds and ends.
If I planned it all,
The days after my last,
I still won't know what to say,
In the last moment,
Feel I ought to,
Or should I go in silence,
An unsettling silence,
And no wasted words,
Just a blurred line,
And a flower I didn't see by the bed.
Thank you all the same.
Like ghosts at cockcrowA thick glass lens held against light,
To bleach out grey tones and burn ants
around ant hills and under leaves,
pinned down under beams,
which they never deserved, but got,
which we, desperately, need.
It's hard to make love
And call it fucking,
Or fuck and call it love,
When you hear ambulances and babies crying.
When anything could be happening
other side of the wall.
They can take your touch and make it theirs,
underline its commonness,
make you feel like animals behind
which apes forgo and poets blubber,
through bookstores and tears.
Not so much disappointed,
but out of ideas
of how to dress it up in bows
into something more eloquent
and more bright
than a beautifully grey
and done life.
Like ghosts at cockcrow,
We're an imagined noise,
That makes a man wake in his bed,
Not knowing why,
And drifts easily back into sleep,
Shrugging off their nerves for a creak
and the croaks of old pipes.
Caught on a nailOf nature, our function to function,
To stop and drift,
Easily passed and grey.
As vague as dreams and fleeting fancies
Vaporous, hazy existence,
Diaphanous and weightless.
My body passes as easily and quickly,
as delicately as the blood in me,
unnoticed, it's as soft as shadows,
weak and easily damaged -
fine silk caught on a nail,
a fragile sense
that one is never secure.
A shock to the egotistical state,
Bone and muscle blocking my mind from yours.
Light and tenuous,
thin as hollow bird bones,
their downy feathers.
And it's comforting.
As a species barely here,
It instils an uneasy calm.
it makes me squirm.
it makes me soft and still
like tired eyes closing,
like lying down to sleep.
I may be dirtI may be dirt.
There may be better dirt.
More fertile and soft to touch.
To tread over carpets and stamp into doormats
To cover knees and leave hands grubby
mucky pups in darker dirt
to keep them dirty for days.
You're still in this dirt, in this pile,
shovelled and dug for things to grow,
daisies raised from dust with pink tips on clean white.
for love-me-love-me-nots, forget-me-forget-me-nots,
and stems without flowers
To arrange in small vases on window sills
And leave until March, through 'til April,
when it rains and rains.
So when there's sun, it glitters.
The dirt which made grass which made daises
glitters in April under dew.
before it's yellow
parched and done.
After it's mud around toes.
Diamonds making jigsawsTo see bones under skin,
Kept simple, plain and white,
Comfortable and worn soft
so it runs smooth
and tickles the hairs on the back of hands,
arms and necks.
for dry mouths,
and lightly curled fingers
relaxed on pillows,
or fingernail palm fists.
the insignificant details, the cracks on skin,
diamonds making jigsaws.
For words read slowly
Brazen and barefaced.
Through ivy and mazes,
Through a veiled, romantic glaze.
Through all the bullshit.
To leave them anxious,
listening with eyes closed,
so they feel
For the anticlimax finish.
She's a WriterShe sits at her desk
Her headphones in,
The world shut out.
She bleeds for others
As words fly from
Her mind to her fingertips.
She stares at the screen,
At every little comment,
The good and the painful.
She forms her emotions
Into books and poems
To throw away the hurt.
She's a writer,
And her best weapons
Are her mind and her pen.
BetrayedI won't swallow your lies anymore
I can't stand your presence
You used to be my friend
But you're nothing to me now
And soon you'll be
Another bad memory
I won't be able to forget
Do you know what it feels like...To be lonely?
To be bullied?
To be called ugly?
To be unattractive?
To be compared to other women?
To be considered unnormal?
To be unloved even though you give love to others?
To face issues that you don't in reality know how to fix?
To think that your goal you're reaching for, is unattainable?
To feel like the cause of many people's problems?
To be held up on a high pedistal that you can't get down off of?
To realize that people don't like you based on your personailty?
To at no avail, keep up your happy and upbeatness for others?
To look at happy couples and wish that you had someone to be happy with?
To stop fighting for anything anymore?
death of a sweet sixteeni found my house on
the market the
other day -
- it was 2011 again,
but the sun had set
on my nights of terror
nose to the barstool and
two black eyes, a dish
towel caught in my throat.
i keep trying to find
pieces of myself that
no longer exist - a dead dog,
baby blue walls, whispered
it sold for six figures,
and i can only wish
that i could sell my pain
for that much, but no
one would be willing to buy
it, as i am it's sole host,
the only one who
one of these days i will
drive by that sad eyed
grey house before we are
gone for good, and i will set
up with my camera, snapping
photos of my whitewashed hurt.
and if i linger too long,
so be it, as i've spent so
many nights ruined,
scraped away like the stars
once stuck on my
the bank may own my house,
but it will never own my heart.
You AgainOh, it's you again. I must admit,
The crooning has
The lies have been
And mine are like swords
It's just you and me
In this sick game
I can tell
You're pulling me in,
And I don't have
To pull you down
Sometimes, I've had
And all I see is
Then it became
I don't know
How to escape
Dark to see.
And all I can
Wonder at every
Turn I make
When can it be
By the LakeSat beneath a Christmas tree in late-March.
The ground is damp but pliant, it pretends to accept me
and then sneaks its cold fingers through my clothes
to dampen my spirits further with its chilly undertones.
I stare at the river, plump with soon-to-be April showers.
It does roly-polys over the smallest of obstacles and goes on.
It reminds me of what I should be able to do.
It runs as I grind to a full stop, and consider my life sentence.
The sky is blue; not like me, but bright and crisped;
Its been blurred by an amateur around the edges with cloud
But they don’t threaten me with rain just yet so, for now, we are friends.
The sun is missing. No one knows where she is.
She could be dead, by now. At the bottom of the lake.
Could have slunk there in a midday sunset.
She could of drowned her sorrows in the ricocheting tides
of a man made dam and its loosened throat. She could be.
She is not, she is hiding.
The sun hides from the world but leaves a blue sheen behind
to let everyone k
ConfrontationI shed a tear
The damage will be severe
Run away in fear?
I'll fight until the coast is clear!
Reasons We Love Homestuck“Reasons we love H O M E S T U C K.”
Why do this love this web comic, you ask?
Maybe it’s just the way the fandom rolls,
or how mean Andrew Hussie trolls.
It could possibly be Eridan’s accent (WWyeh?)
or even Feferi’s keyboard trident. (---E)
Some people say it’s Equius’ broken bows and arrows, ( D →)
but what about Nepeta’s meows and roleplays? (:33 <)
We really do love Sollux’s lisp,
and also when Karkat’s pissed. (FUCKASS!)
Including Kanaya's fabulous lipstick,
it's also Rose's amazing magic.
How about when Dave starts rapping
and Jade Harley begins napping?
We love Vriska’s eight-pupiled eye,
and how John is such an adorable guy.
Or maybe it’s with all the sprites
or how prospit glows bright.
Can’t forget about Derse’s darkness
or Gamzee and all his soberness. (WHOOPS.)
There’s also this thing with Tav and stairs
which he t
I Don't Come with the Edgesi.
It cries the way dragonflies leave ripples
in the rain. On days I swallow
whirlpools for breakfast and
drown with libraries for fun,
I can almost allow myself to forget
And it doesn’t want to make
me kneel on my shoulders
or pluck the weeds
from my scars;
I can see it try so hard
to be my friend.
But if I could choose
polka dots over tail lights
and sun screen over
I wouldn’t think thrice
or even once
not to blow the candles
on my grave.
That’s why I keep
the colons of analog clocks
under my tongue;
so I could keep the
figures eight of cliché’s
as keepsakes for old age.
I like to think infinities
have loopholes; tree rings
that dissolve into each other
with exhales for a caress.
And just when the tones
of lyrics would enter the
eutony of names, only then
would I drift into love.
When I wouldn’t be holding
my blood in my temples-
when all I am is a thought.
The running footsteps
we’ve come to cla
Was it easyI used to believe that the world was small, that it was mine, and everyone else was a character in a play, and when I died I'd be born, my life a foetus dream, that would just carry on. I used to believe and that was enough. That people were honest.
I thought that things were easy.
Now I believe in science, and ghosts, and sometimes my gut, but I don't believe in much.
I was afraid of death, shouting, flapping wings, creaks and the shadows on my walls. I'm afraid it'll all get broken. I'm afraid of truth and lies. I'm afraid I understand too well and too little.
Of how little I can believe in.
The dusty light in the morning, stretching over our bed. And how it all gets when I focus.
To our place that was my place, to the morning with the dusty light, under white sheet tents where it's warm. Belong in the nook, the other side of the rest of the world. I belong in the bubble.
I can't do most things.
When I learnt about the universe and my place in it, my slow evolution, and how many thin
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
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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