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EasyWas there ever a girl so strange?
Smoky hearted, grabbed at the waist
by the next passing breeze.
She keeps one foot stuck in
the wrong side of her conscience,
the other grounded in nothing.
She replaces men like lipstick, she
wears her promiscuity like
last night's perfume.
HeavyWhen you let me go
by the side of the road,
please remember the string
that you tied to my soul.
I'm the balloon you inflated
just to let go;
the night is too cold
and I'm sinking so slowly down.
Why'd you have to cut this
the thin wire trailing
from my heartbeat to yours?
Remember the science of
the desolate sky,
because the night is too cold
and I'm sinking so slowly down.
AcheIt comes and goes
like an unwelcome houseguest,
leaving me with messes I don't need,
and it never shuts the door
to keep the cold out.
I tried shutting off the lights
and closing the blinds,
twisting the key in the padlock
and boarding the windows,
but as long as light can
seep through the cracks,
this shadow will follow
and dig its fingers into my shoulders.
I bruise easily, it knows,
and it revels in watching
me shift in discomfort
while it grips me.
Like a ghost,
it won't let go.
Strung OutConsider me hanging on the line,
a dress without a body waiting for the sun,
vibrant when she's not heavy, waterlogged.
As a child, I enjoyed making orange smiles,
while wondering why we didn't have
a clothesline stretching from tree to tree
like I'd seen on the television.
I admired the way skirts became birds,
picked up by the wind they adored,
while sheets grabbed the wind like a sail,
and the clouds were always made of cotton,
and the denim sat like lead.
Now every time I put myself out to dry,
the sky gets heavy and breaks on me.
I am halfway towards being ready,
and then the rain rips me down again.
Maybe that's why we bought a machine
to wring the water from our clothes,
because there was no risk of bad weather inside.
GodGod is in her rocking chair,
wood creaking as she hums back and forth.
I want to climb onto her sun-warmed lap,
breathe in the smell of air dried dresses,
May breezes caught in her floral-print skirt.
Her hands are gentle as they stroke my hair,
her knitting going still when I rest my head
on her knees where her yarn was.
She holds me as I cry.
SeparateYou are on the opposite side
of this window.
Press your palm against the pane,
The heat of our fingers will
fog the glass,
and in this mist we create,
we will finally meet.
MeltI prayed for rain because
once you told me
that it was your favorite thing.
The sound of it,
the way it smelled on the concrete cracked,
how it felt on your skin
if you were to step outside and
let it soak into your tired shirt.
I told you that I liked the snow,
and for me it was because
nothing was more symbolic
for how cold I am when compared to you,
how rain fights with itself when it
races down the window,
but snow is distant, aloof,
And if I shared that thought with you,
I know you'd tell me that
I'm just the clear sky, a blessing,
because you love me in ways
that I want to love you...
So you call me fair now but
give it time and I know that
you will cloud, and grow to
hate the snowfall, while I
begin to wish I could melt for you.
Honorary Sun SpotI'm going to tie a string
around the new dawn
and make the sun my balloon.
I won't let go as it keeps rising,
I just need warmth and this seems
like the best way to find it,
the day taking me with it
round the world.
Take a picture of your rooftop,
and I'll wave as I go by.
I AmI am the dreamer at the window,
and my face is in the daylight stars,
untraceable, unreachable, invisible,
but unquestionably there.
I am the last castle in the sandbox,
left with the shovel pointing outwards,
towards the third rock from the sunset.
I am the wake of the steamboat running,
churning up the river like
a landlocked hurricane.
If you try to be the force that breaks me now,
the swingset push after I said "stop,"
then watch yourself close when I jump off,
because even the devil will hear me
when I land with both feet.
Everything I Want To BeI want to write something poignant and moving.
It will make you cry and make you laugh.
It will win awards and give me prestige.
It will change someone's life.
I want to write something hilarious and heart-wrenching.
It will make and break relationships because of realizations of truth.
It will make you think differently than before you cracked open the first page.
It will make you want to read it again and again and again.
I want to write something that means something.
It will be translated into language after language, copy after copy published.
It will be read in schools, but the kids will actually enjoy it. Even after the thing is analyzed to death.
It will make them stop to think.
I want to write something real.
But don't we all, I suppose?
ContradictionsMother Nature dreamed of
Life, cool and glowing,
Vibrant strains of ethereal, caramelised melody.
And she wanted to wear life,
Cover herself in it,
Embalm herself until she glowed too.
And so she clothed herself in flower petals,
Ripped leaves off of trees to make
She tore the wings off of butterflies and
Laced them through her hair,
Pinning iridescent beetles to her collar and
Plucking spring buds to wind around her wrists like
She suffocated her skin in that which had been living.
Mother Nature dreamed of life,
And in her quest to find it
She ignored Death,
Forgetting that even the most
Delicate, coloured butterflies
Must cast shadows with their wings.
And so Death did not exist in her mind
As she killed and killed in her quest to find beauty,
Until she and it were the same.
Just trying to be my bestIt's been an easy day today. Your bag's packed and you're just waiting for the bell to ring so you can leave Biology. In ten minutes time - after afternoon registration, which always passes quickly and cheerfully - you'll be free. Finally. Thursdays do tend to drag on.
But you love Thursday evenings. The recent ones, anyway. You already have the rest of your day planned out: read some more of that wonderful Douglas Adams book you loaned from the library yesterday, switch on the laptop for an hour or two (Internet first, to check your messages, then see if you can get somewhere with that one fan-fiction chapter that's been bugging you for days - maybe it's time you told them just a little bit more about Alex, to keep them interested), then that dreaded shower - yes, you know it's essential, but Mycroft is it annoying - and then... that beautiful little comedy sandwich that's been infecting your TV each week.
You wonder if they'll play the one where Russell broke his hand again. S
WriterI am a scientist;
Pinning down ideas
preserving them in
their fragile beauty
as I take away their freedom,
I am a parasite;
sucking the soul out
of music and leaving it
a hollow shell
that plays like
the noisy silence in
I am a thief;
taking what is not mine,
the world around me,
and pouring it into
a mould that
I claim is
I am a blasphemer;
playing God in a
sacred place, changing
the world to my
liking when the orchestra
is not under my
I am a liar;
selling false havens
to lonely runaways,
giving them a glimpse
of a world more glamorous,
more fantastic than their own,
smiling as I snatch it
from under their noses
while they thank me
for my crime.
I am a slave;
hanging in a
with the language I choose,
caving to its rules
when I draw in
smears of its
I am a writer
these are my vices.
Fields of Golden WheatMy fingers travel through your hair, fields of golden wheat
Your lips have the taste of an ancient salty ocean
My childhood dreams of blue birds and their heartbeat
The delicate fragrance coming from eastern lands
The softness of a delighted soul and your sunlight
The black wings of a sad night and my heart in your hands
I listen to you, the language of birds, the mystery tone remains
I hide you, inside my eyelids, between the layers of my heart
Where you choose to live; mixed with every color in my veins
If You're the Bird Today while I was driving home, I looked out the window and saw two birds, a hawk and a smaller bird, of whose type I was unsure. The two of them were flying together, the smaller one above the hawk.
It was interesting to see, the small bird flapped and flapped its wings frantically, but in that way it was able to go just as high, if not higher, than the hawk. It was also able to fly just as fast.
The hawk, on the other hand, flew in lazy circle, hardly flapping its wings and gliding for most of the way.
It was interesting. I wondered about it for a while.
Birds of a feather flock together.
Or do they?
Mind PalaceShe steps into the room, closes the door behind her. The moment it clicks shut she relaxes, as if removing a metaphorical veil. The first thing she does is remove her long coat. This she hangs from the door handle, taking as she does so the blue 'KEEP OUT' sign from its precarious position. The Supreme Dalek glares out at her from it, waving its laser-stick. She opens the door, hangs the sign on the handle outside, and closes the door again.
She doesn't kick off her sneakers but carefully, almost tenderly, pulls them free, yet again surprised at the warmth there. She strokes the fabric sides - they are deep purple today - and brushes off some speckles of dirt from the standard white toes before she places them gently underneath her bed, beside all her other pairs. Apparently they smell and need washing, but she can't tell, but she won't allow it because she doesn't want to risk ruining them.
She dumps her bag of fresh library books in their place behind the dresser - she'll start one l
Goodbye, Sarah Jane SmithHis world was falling apart.
Not her. Not now. Not ever. Why is this happening? This cannot be happening.
He'd just come back from university, to be at home for the summer holidays. He'd been looking forward to it for weeks. Weeks and weeks. He'd been full of excitement and tension, anticipating the final days before he could escape from Oxford and drive back home to see his Mum, his best friends, his little sister. His girlfriend.
There'd been a horrible guilty throb, as he'd realised that when he thought of her, he got ever so slightly more excited than when he thought of his own family. But then again, he could reassure himself, it was only human instinct that made him feel that way. Nothing to be ashamed of.
When he'd got home, let the robot dog out, gotten past all the delighted greetings and dull complaints from Mr Smith about having returned K-9, he'd been finally told there was a surprise waiting for him in the kitchen.
'Hey, Lukey-boy,' she'd beamed, the m
Black and White world VS Rainbow bucketThe gentle touch of your lips on my cold forehead
The soft kiss on my palms, and I wake up, I look at you
You say It's morning, you say you love me, then you leave
Do you know what you leave behind , It is not me
Now, the world is black and white, all is concrete and ugly
The walls are pure cement and sand, and open land
There are weeds growing on the bed, and I cannot leave
When the black and white world sits behind my back,
Watches, waits for me to move, I will not move
Keeps taking all the light, dims my hopes and breathes my air
I cannot look, I cannot pray, I cannot make a sound
I crawl in bed, my arms around my knees, I wait for you
The day is almost dead, and now you are home
You take me in, you dip me in a big bucket of rainbow
You soak my every cell with every color that is
And I am me again, I can see again, I can breathe again
And my black and white world crawls down my legs
With his tiny wrinkled hands, he runs in shame
Hides behind the door
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung words
Together on row upon row again
Of blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.
‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;
Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?
Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,
To point with honesty failed verse of thine.
No real poet discards upper case words;
Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.
You seek to free verse of those stern letters,
Sever away bleak capital fetters,
But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,
Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.
Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;
It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,
To make our dull words sound great all the time,
Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,
Heralding a poet’s summer prime.
Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;
Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,
The subject not gilded in raiment fine;
Your bold ink font, crystal waters divine
Tastes bitter to the ton
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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