|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
Happy birthdayJust as every year, the minutes
leading to midnight were pregnant
with disappointed expectations.
Expectations that carried within them
the knowledge that nothing was going to happen.
I knew those words were coming, but
they felt empty -
just like a lame "take care".
Her intention probably wasn't empty,
but words are like that sometimes.
My "Thank you" was worse,
like a vacuum sucking in the following words,
whatever genuine thing it could've been.
DawnYou sit forlorn, mist lining your faces
Your deplorable, despicable faces -
dull promise running through them
like an unobtrusive strand of hair.
The moon melts into an angelic face,
the stars come together to mend your heart.
Bolted to your seats, tired and dazed,
the perfect sunrise.
But who will mourn your loss?
How will you relinquish your pain?
There are no authors left to
write of such fatuity anymore,
for they're all drudging to pawn off their own pain,
weeping like children, carving into tree barks,
vomiting outside cheap bars, drunk,
penning away in the hope of respite.
So go home, and change that lightbulb.
There is no real dawn.
A poet's crimeI've committed a single crime, far too many times. I hid it in my pockets till it burnt my fingers. I held it inside me, like a mother protecting her child from evil. I nursed it within me till it grew, moulded it into its best form, carved it into my veins.
One morning when I woke, my head remained drenched in a darkness saturated with cries. To have held on to a poem until it finally died, escaping my veins, my pockets, my memory. That is a crime. And I have a history of crime hiding behind my ears.
PenpalYou always write, from
a country that's too far away.
You tell me of your sins,
your relationship with your brother,
your best traits in bed.
You send me coins; I picture you
a different face on each of them.
I hold one to my chest, smell it.
May be you smell like coins. Or
freshly laundered sheets.
You send me mix tapes; I listen in the bath.
I can't read or watch insects surround street lamps,
without you tip-toeing through my head.
Do you dream of unspeakable things?
Does the sound of velcrow somehow comfort you?
Do you also watch railway tracks
converge and diverge, struck by its beauty?
These are things I want to know.
With your every letter,
my fingertips beg to find your face.
Another one, another timeThe stereo is vomiting our every song one by one.
But there is a silence, thick as custard
that tells a story of
two lovers and twenty thousand loves.
You are here with me, listening too.
Climbing on to my collar bone,
licking my earlobe and teasing my every sense,
before you settle, lodged between my ribs.
I think always, of how it would be
if we stayed close enough to touch
but not kiss,
to discover what we loved and hated
before we separated.
I wished that in the whiteness of your room,
I found a space next to you,
just by your side -
to see the world
the way you saw it.
Staring at the ceiling didn't
feel the same without you.
Still, I have no regrets.
I am more fragrant now that
I recognise myself as an entity separate from you.
I reek of my own mistakes,
and bloom alone on dew-kissed magenta mornings.
But one day, we will bloom together once again,
shaming sunflowers and shutting up glottis.
You are yours and I am mine.
One day, very soon,
I will have words to put out here,
Black and whiteMy hands are pressing piano keys,
black, white, white, black, white.
You are there, sitting at a distance.
Staring into the Earth, tall grass and shadows and all,
dirt waiting to get into your nails.
The sun here is always either rising or setting.
This is today and that, tomorrow.
We have no in betweens.
At the balconyCups of tea brimming with
fuse with smoke-rings that
leak from our mouths.
I watch them, as they escape into the
yellowness of artificially lit skies.
MuteI made love to you one night
and came back feeling as beaten
as the bus I sat in.
I held on to the frayed seat,
the weight of remorse
bearing down on me.
Staring out the window,
I felt my fingers numb.
Hidden away like a dreadful sin,
I still wait for you.
Come, suck the sweetness out of me.
Drink me, be sated.
Today, you celebrate your anniversary;
and my weakness.
CityCity of dreams
city of profligacy.
Tall buildings loom over me like
hungry vultures over a corpse
Salty waters surge at my feet,
trying to sway me, shake me, and lose my grip.
There is no poetry here.
Words that creep out of road-side flowers
and man-made fountains
shrivel up like raisins under the sun.
Rhyme that drifts in ethereal melodies
falls flat to the ground like
birds shot dead.
People walk about like
weary robots in spurious contentment.
Sweat and grease traded with
There is no poetry here.
The days stretch on like
an ocean of waste,
too vain to be salvaged.
City of dreams,
City of make-believe,
I wish I could leave.
It can't be so it must beSometimes i say it can't be
because it can't
but sometimes i say it must be
because it must
I must be
Therefore I can't be
Do you ever wonder if the cup you're drinking from has a bottom?
You see it has a pit - rather, a stomach - and how it ends to fit in your palm, but do you ever wonder if you're seeing everything?
It makes sense, to assume it has a bottom and to assume it must be able to be filled and emptied.
But what about the ones that sprung leaks? What about the ones who broke in all the wrong places?
You know what's going to happen to them. Cracking. Trashing. It's a death sentence, for something that cannot experience death. You must do something about it.
You pitch the worthless cup.
Have you ever wondered what it's like to be be the worthless cup?
Do you think about it daily? Does asking the question, "Am I a worthless cup?" haunt you?
Do you live in fear of that question? Do you live in fear over what you could be? What you can't be? What you must be? Are you ever c
Self made birth story generatorHow to use this is simple. Go to RANDOM.ORG and use their random numbers generator. Just put it to a 1 to 7 scale and you'll be fine. If you use this, tell me; I look forward to seeing what ever it is that you make.
Step 1: species
2: egg based
Step 2: size
6: smaller than normal
7: larger than normal
Step 3: occupation
1: High school
2: house wife
5: collage student
Step 4: help
Step 5: cause
4: self impregnation
Step 6: location
4: the woods
5: a river
7: in the middle of nowhere
Step 7: time of birth
1: due date
2: three weeks early
3: two weeks early
4: one week early
5: one week overdue
6: two weeks overdue
7: three weeks overdue
SDCC: Godzilla 2Mothra. Rodan. King Ghidorah. What do these all have in common? They're starring in the upcoming sequel to the new Godzilla movie!
Yu-gi-oh Rise of a New Pharaoh-Chapter 24
Rise of a New Pharaoh
The Creators Downfall Part 3
Tristan and Serenity
Daniel draws and looks at his hand. "First, I'll summon my Phantom Beast Wild-Horn!" The monster appears on the field. It spins the sword in its hand and points towards Strike Ninja.
"Next I'll give him a 300 attack and defense boost with my Mystical Moon Spell Card!"
Daniel smiles and points towards Strike Ninja. "Go Wild-Horn! Attack, Strike Ninja!" Wild-Horn holds his sword steady with two hands and runs towards Strike Ninja. As Wild-Horn is near inches of Strike Ninja, he swings his sword. Strike Ninja flinches, but when he opens his eyes, he see's Marauding Captain in front of him and in pain.
"What?" Daniel said as Wild-Horn jumps back to Daniels Side.
Duke smiles and picks up the Marauding Captain card. "I see you did
JOIN ME~join me here!~
i will be drawing cause i haven't drawn anything in weeks
ChaosPorządek jest iluzją. Świat zawsze, od czasów starożytności żył w chaosie, może nie totalnym, beznadziejnym chaosie apokalipsy, jednak świat nigdy nie widział spokoju, na jaki zasłużył.
Od zarania dziejów ludzie topili swoje racje we krwi niewinnych, podnosząc bunty, wzniecając wojny toczone o błahostki, niszcząc drugiego człowieka, często anonimowego. I mimo, że teraz mamy wszystko, czego pragniemy - a przynajmniej bogaci posiadają wszystko, czego pragną - świat nadal jest pogrążony w bezsensownych wojnach. Dla tych ludzi, których kraj objęty jest wojną, już nastała apokalipsa. Chaos wypełnia ich dzień dzisiejszy i boją się o jutro. Kobiety są gwałcone, dzieci wyciągane z łóżek, mężczyźni rozstrzeliwani bezlitośnie, często po torturach. Świat nie je
A WishI wish I could hold your hand, look into your eyes, listen to your voice, take care of you, and love you the way you should be loved. But above all…I wish I was yours.
MirrorsThe corner of my mouth is throbbing and I really, really just want to rip that entire part of my face off right now... seriously I just want to burry my nails in my face and yank them down as fast and hard as I can, I want to hurt myself. I want to look into this mirror and see my blood. I want to hurt myself. And for some reason this storm is making the urge a thousand times stronger then what it usually is... How did I get to this point? how did I become this disgusting shell of a human. Am I still human? do I qualify? no.. I don't. how did this happen to me... why am I standing here staring into the eyes of this thing. These eyes.. the corners torn... bloodshot... how can the still see? My eyes. The mouth... dry and cracked... a cut curving downwards from the right... is that what so annoyingly hurts? yes, I believe it is. that hand slowing being raised to my face, it's mine, isn't it? Nails jagged and caked in dirt. fingers trembling, wrist covered in scars. yeah.. that's mine. I r
Notebook scribbles - 1My wandering mind rests in your eyes,
trying in vain to understand.
One brief second, and it goes insane.
The thoughts are lost in all its vastness.
They have no connection and make no sense, but
they are plenty.
Plenty enough to keep me going, through all this madness.
The portal between the mind and eyes
is now but a thin line, as vague as it is unseen.
The mind is unaware of what the eyes convey.
The eyes fail to convey the message in yours.
I wish to tell you that it's me and not you,
but my being fails to comprehend.
All that is said now is nothing.
I let it be, for there really is nothing to say.
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
Keep in Touch!