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Spurned.I've tried to be as impartial as possible.
But today I stopped you and spoke to you and tried to tell you without really telling you that I've really, really missed you
against my better judgement...
I haven't spoken before now out of fear that I'd make things worse for you
salt on the wound and all that...
But when I turned to go, our bodies perpendicular, instead of turning to pull me in you waved
and kept on walking.
Down, But Not OutFeel free to forget
that which festers in places only reachable by trespass.
There is so little point to counting your blessings
when in dreaming you revel in things that have passed beyond resurrection
and into personal history.
And they have always loved "that story";
Even in a drunken stuper she remembers.
And in sleep...
beneath the turbid waters of a dark ocean the wounds are as fresh --
as tender and as bloodied --
as they were before the salt,
five years buried...
I wonder all the time if you remember it like I do.
Fondly, if with thorns.
But I miss that touch.
I miss the violence
of your selective intimacy.
You were so patient when I was constantly chewing bitter roots
that resolved themselves to contact that you only gently discouraged,
never a harsh word traded in the summer darkness.
It's been years since you've been home.
And you can't lie anymore, can't cover up what I know has been
the reason for your absence...
You were a different person here.
A boy with changing eyes a
there is no shame
in counting crows on bedposts.
Maybe if I had laughed you would
drum on windows
like rain across shutters:
somebody knew, and nobody
man is a lake
and woman a river:
I knew the salt. The ocean froze
we told ourselves
was nothing to the distance.
It crushes dreams like so many
God knows we tried.
But when that morning comes
there will be no brackish streams. No;
Read and Recite.Poetry is not
pushed from the mouth
like a race
is the sound of the mind
stripping its gears, measured
by the opening
of a cranial trap door.
a single drop
in an ocean of pomegranate juice
(the refined palette
tastes the salt) --
Who knew words
is a headache like your daughter's headache.
The kind of thing you
shut your eyes for, because
the truth hurts, and you're not quite willing to see it.
He has taken
That is to say the thing you kept so safely guarded,
so secret beneath your newly blossomed belly,
so delicate and pure and if you'll forgive me,
is an illness below the spiritual level.
A kind of dirty man accepts
and God condemns as cruelty:
thou shalt not covet, no,
not in my sight.
And rape is a kind of jealousy
A kind of twisted theft from
another man, another woman, or
from the self.
has changed the way you do things,
has altered and made your belly grow and
thanks to metal and no particular skill
has made you sick from the inside to the deep inside,
from venereal to arterial to soul on the animal level.
I loved you!
I trusted you!
You didn't even know my name...
has become synanymous with
has become an extension of he,
Shipping Out.His eyes water, but never spill over.
My chest heaves, but never bursts.
The last time we say "I love you,"
is the time he says it first.
Bacardi Brings Out The Best In HimHe ties a tender promise to paper and pixels like you did,
but this time I believe him.
Every day he pours concrete into a fluid mold,
uncertain what he makes,
but hoping it won't touch you --
that he'll never have to know the crippling separation that you did,
the wretched wrenching,
across oceans for something he shouldn't have,
for something I shouldn't offer,
that I haven't offered but continue to fight...
Winter thaws old memories and wields wood fires as its weapon;
binds them to the cold,
clear skies its tightened stitches.
Do you remember Boston winter,
failed, Virginian spring?
You couldn't withstand the flood so you let it sweep me away
without a stone to mark the grave.
And now we don't speak but on birthdays and christmas;
that flexible anniversary passes without memorial
and every year, faced with His new joy, I chew bitter roots and pray that you remember and hurt
the way that I did...
But I had years and years of Him inside of me a way that you nev
No Wallpaper.I'm mystified by the complexity of skin.
Wrapping for crags and spurs,
jutting over illustrious injuries,
jammed up and furrowed over skulls that crack in confrontations,
and we never remember the reasons
Rational, that so severely peaked a being should preserve itself in epidermal cellophane.
Ridiculous, perhaps, that we pick at scabs with edges like curling carpets,
work to peel what's doing its best to fix itself.
And to think
to fix what chance or negligence broke,
we use knives.
Sharp apexes inclined toward shot appendixes,
a red canyon with crimson warriors in blue and purple trenches.
Stitch it closed: an irregular patchwork over rough places.
A heart is not a heart that beats
to beat its brethren to the punch.
extricated remnants of a feral past,
in a thousand years made thicker by rockslides and fire.
A story of intervening centuries,
the human right to exist,
a very vertical vector graph that shows the sharpness
of our willingness to survive.
Try to curtail it.
The Final BastionI thought I knew how to fight.
When words come down like a thunderstorm of fists upon your temples,
don't give in.
Clench your teeth
battle the urge to run:
she needs you now
more than ever...
I regret the subject.
she is more of a woman than I.
Maturity, however long developed,
pales in comparison to that blush,
that rosy opening,
no matter how rough
I should be sick over this,
over her weakness, his desperate insistence,
their inability to be true to each other
as well as themselves...
But instead, there's a different heat that moves up the throat
and settles, a solid knot, in the bottom of me.
Deeper than sin,
deeper than contempt,
a roiling coil of
This should be easy.
But everywhere, the holdouts are falling:
no more weathered walls,
no steadfast resolutions,
just broken glass and holes
in chain link fences.
Am I the final island?
Playing AngelYou stare up at a strong, neutral being.
A being who cannot help but love without condition.
Your pure human tears run down your cheeks,
Splattering onto the cold stone floor on which you kneel.
She allows you to cling to her skirts,
Bury your face in them and sob.
She promises to take care of you.
She is only playing Angel.
Inside she breaks herself to show care in her eyes,
For those who demand it from her,
Who think she is safety.
No one could imagine she could hurt.
You think she is the strongest you have seen.
Her love is without condition.
She is forever generous.
She is only playing your Angel.
In secret, her heart lies in pieces.
Her love is little given to those who seek comfort.
Though her care isn't truly there.
Angel is all she plays for you.
The False HeroI lean back against the door
As I watch him take a deep breath
For a moment or two it looks like he isn't sure anymore
But soon enough he steadies his breath
I have known for a long time I'd live to see this day -
The day I send him off to war
As a child, he kept telling me about how he wanted to become a "hero", like the ones in all of those glorious stories.
But as he grew up, he found out that those kinds of "heroes" didn't really exist.
Yet, he foolishly did not give up
He still wanted to be a "hero"
Instead of being someones knight in shining armor
He settled with being some nations` puppet solider.
I couldn't help but think he was out of his mind
But looking into his eyes I saw a hardened resolve
A resolve which could only lead him down a dark road
Going to war meant protecting some people, while killing others
Whether it be right or wrong...
Then again, that to him was the definition of a "hero"
For it, he would do what needed to be done
Still, he was not doing it for any man or
Love Has ExpiredI never thought I’d see the day where it happened
The world should just look away in shame
They always make it sound like love makes the world go round
But they know that it’s already expired
So why do they keep trying to look for me?
This world is filled with so many liars that it’s simply unreal
But nobody cares that most of them get into power
And people only care if they take away their rights
Or if they take away something that they either need or want
That’s what the world is always like
I’m surprised that it took this long to see the truth
That the feeling love has expired by the time you’re in your teens
You think that you know what love feels like
But only because you’re getting what you want
And most of the time all you simply want is to have sex
Unleashing you into the world that is filled with desire
I bet that a lot of fathers are worried about their daughters these days
Since rape is so popular amongst the greedy bastards out ther
The GoddessWhen she walks her hips sway like a hypnotist's watch
All the men stare and follow her lure wherever she goes
When she turns to them her perky breasts call out
Instincts take over, friends become foes before her
The men tustle to get their chance with the goddess
Standing before her gaze they see wanton eyes
Her lush lips say hello and ask their names
The men tell her all about themselves
There is little truth to the stories they tell
They must stand out above their rivals
They must taste her sex appeal
They must continue talking
They ask her nothing of herself
They feel they've seen all she has to offer
They'll never really know what's held within her body
That the heart behind her bosom is filled with love and poetry
Your DaughterI chew cinnamon gum because it reminds me
of the way you used to smell on average days.
I burn pumpkin and spice scented candles
so that it's your favorite holiday all year round.
My favorite color is orange because it's most like
the autumn sunsets that you love so much.
And I love these things because I am your daughter.
I choose comedies more often than not because it helps me
remember the laugh lines around your lips.
I cook too much food at dinner time because you always say,
"It's better to have too much than not enough."
I tell everyone who's never seen them that my eyes are green
because I want to believe they look like yours.
And I do all these things because I am your daughter.
I put family first, even before my own needs
because it's what you would have done.
I cheer for football and baseball teams though I'm scorned
because they were your favorites.
I only started writing these sad excuses for poems
because I found a book of your masterpieces.
And I don't know how to be any
one day the wishes will crawl all over her bed
and creep down the curls of her hair,
all the little thoughts that tumble around in her mind
maybe if she pulls petals off enough flowers
or maybe if she replays the scenes over in her head for long enough,
when she asks him why he loves her,
he'll answer with something poetic that'll make her heart race
(because it's hard to paint about something when all they do is smile and kiss your fingers)
while her paints dry on a chaotic pallet
and she stares at an empty canvas, she thinks
maybe if she goes through the whole stupid lovesmelovesmenot game
one more time, picks out the right question, he'll tell her
something that will set her cheeks on fire.</i>
staring at her ceiling, she counts the seconds until she sees his apricot eyes next
she plans it in her mind with closed eyes and steady breaths;
she'll run towards him and wrap her legs around his skinny waist
and he'll whisper in her ear that he loves her more than anythin
Do you know?His hand found hers from the other end of the sofa, teasing her fingers until it finally settled on top of her small hand. For a while, there were no words. Even the greatest of poets and the most flexible writers of prose can't say everything with their art. Sometimes it's a touch that means the world, the contact of a hug or the comforting presence of a heartbeat. He used to listen to hers, back when he thought he deserved it.
"Because it's yours, and it's there."
Her breathing became labored, indicating that she was forcing back the tears which she knew would accomplish nothing. It wasn't logical, anyway, to be sad. Everyone must part ways. Even the deepest emotions are nothing more than a farce, that's what she always told herself during those nights when her only comfort was found in tracing the lines of the ceiling tiles until she ended up back at where she had begun, anything better than watching the clock tell her time was moving without her. If the great thinkers of our
PathsIf a single embrace could outlast the world
Would the two of us cling
to be sure
but lightly enough
to be pure
If a sentence made of hopeful thought-paths
Could bind two lives for good
to be sure
but lightly enough
to be pure
Could. We. Take. It?
I must admit I don't know how this works
How it moves
How it changes
How this should feel
We are young, stupid, and reckless
But (the magic word)
If the world could completely ignore us
Would we have time alone
to be sure
but just enough
to be pure
If money grew on trees and ripened quick
Would we have enough then?
to be sure
but just enough
to be pure
At the end of the day I'm trying
Given UpGiven Up
This paper has never been whiter.
This pencil has never been sharper.
This pen has never been so functional.
This garbage bin has never been emptier.
This garbage bin is as empty as my head.
But sure, I'll still try, right?
I've tried writing.
A thousand times I've tried!
And for what?
I'm done with the dissapointment,
My hopes, trashed.
My dreams, dead.
I give up.
I can't do this anymore,
Trying to write when I clearly can't.
I can't do this.
Karma.The truth is
I have hoarded your words.
Made haphazard stacks on on the stairs,
on the grand piano
so I would not forget as well
or as thoroughly
as you have.
For now, new beds play host to the faded pages
of a notebook, the one I used to write letters to you
that I never sent, that spent so many years under the pillows.
Washed in the laundry, the ink leaves black stains on white sheets,
determined to exist,
There are ghosts beyond the shadow of the fabric.
In that place where poetry comes from,
they're counting the threads of our histories.
They intersected, I know they did:
You read it.
I wrote it down.
Flames lick the edges of the bound volume.
than leather --
But you knew that.
It burns faster.
I suppose you knew that too.
Blood BrothersBrookie always holds my hand when we cross the street. She's never given a reason for it, she just does it. It's become this unspoken rule with us that whenever we cross the street together, she slips her hand in mine and I lace my fingers through hers and we walk hand-in-hand until we reach the other side and she drops her hand and we both wipe our palms on our jeans. Brookie's a little scared of crossing the street. Her poppa died in a car crash when we were six. He was a pedestrian. She's never gotten over it.
Brookie is my best friend going on sixteen years now, which is pretty impressive considering we're both sixteen. We don't have some cute little story about how we were born in the same hospital on the same day or about how our mothers were best friends long before they were pregnant with us and somehow passed on that bond while we were still in utero. No, Brookie and I met the same way ever
Life is but a DreamWe are just unnourished frail bodies,
overfed with white lies and short-lived-euphorias.
Books filled with black letters,
etching lurid images into our utmost dreams.
Veering us from the big picture...
the one we fail to paint ourselves.
Our fists much too busy with fights,
that we are bound to lose.
Too occupied in line waiting,
for creativity to be let loose like a stray dog.
As if we will find home in this pursuit of happiness...
but we only enclose each other in small rooms
with nothing but old laptops.
How many times I've guessed which letter could it be...
Which letter could it be?
To free us from havoc-stricken-thoughts?
They come and go, unending like 24 hour subway stations.
There's no break for this lonely man,
heaving every breathe of stale air
into my overused lungs...
Living in confined walls of flesh
held up with brittle paper-mache bones.
Which day is it that I will burst out from this cage of a life?
And hover with the Gods found in carefully binded bo
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A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More