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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.
Lights or stars
March 3, 2014 10:03
During this time, there was two guys walking down the sidewalk. They were talking about call of duty's next game. "So do you know what the name of the next one is?" the right one asked. "Mmmmm, nope. Haven't heard of the name yet. But I know the next one is gonna be hype."
And there was also a lady, talking and walking with her sister on the phone. "And so, this stupid bitch told me that she was going to call the cops. All I said that sofia fleece is a whore. And she immediately was like 'No she's not! You're wrong!'" she said.
Another was a couple talking about which paint they were going to buy for their bathroom. All these people had nothing in common....except....this thing.
All was just quiet until there was a shake in the ground. It started out small....then it came to like an earthquake. It shook the whole ground and made people lose their balance. Then....out of freaking nowhere....these to gigantic balls of light appears in the sky.
I don't know but I think
ThunderstormThe lightning resonated off the walls of his hive. The owner himself was curled up under 3 separate blankets, shivering in fear, his four wheeled device sat abandoned a few feet away. Tavros peeked his head out from under the blankets when he heard his husktop ping but let out a shriek and shoved himself back into the cocoon he had built himself, horns ripping the fabric as a crash rang out, light filling his respite block once again. The device pinged again and Tavros debated against crawling the small distance to grab it or ignoring it in favour of hiding in his blankets. He decided on the former, pulling his body out from under the blankets, legs dragging behind him as he made his way over and grabbed the device. Tavros was almost back under the blankets when the thunder came again, making the poor troll freeze. He was trying desperately trying not to let the orange tinted tears slide down his cheek but to no avail. After a few moments he found the courage to move again, final
Do You Feel Me  Thunderfrost/FrostironDo You Feel Me 
Loki is able to experience many things while living on Earth—Midgard, what have you.
His marriage to one quiet woman in particular brings about his own sense of peppered mortality, in fact. She reminds him of Thor in appearances—that’s probably why he loves her so much. She has stunning blue eyes and sun kissed blonde hair that she always seems to be frustrated with.
He watches her sit at her armour one morning, fussing with the strands, her fingers knuckle deep in the tangles. Her back is straight, her frame slender and shoulders tense. Her forehead is wrinkled in frustration.
“Sigyn,” he chuckles lowly, shaking his head in amusement.
She grimaces, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Good morning, darling.” She mutters softly.
Loki places a chaste kiss on the side of her face, reaches up to brush a strand of hair away from her eyes. She smiles at him, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. He begins he
CheminJe marche seul sur le chemin de mon avenir.
Mes compagnons d'infortune ne durent jamais bien longtemps, ils viennent et partent, soit parce qu'ils sont trop jeunes, ou au contraire, trop âgés.
Et au final je marche seul. Encore et encore.
Mais ça va aller.
Je sais que des gens me soutiennent, même si nos routes sont différentes. Ils sont là pour moi, je suppose qu'on appelle cela avoir des amis.
Pourtant, qui peut prétendre connaître et comprendre ce que je ressens ? Qui peut prétendre comprendre quelqu'un ?
"Moi" seul connais la réponse, et pourtant elle ne me semble pas réelle.
Rien ne me semble réel.
Douter de tout c'est bien, mais ça ne me fait pas avancer. Pourtant il le faut.
Des gens comptent sur moi, je ne peux pas les décevoir.
Mais comment peuvent-ils se rendre compte de ce que je ressens ? Je ne peux en parler à personne, si ce n'est à moi-même.
Defending Man of SteelLast year, Zack Snyder, Christopher Nolan, David Goyer and all the folks at Legendary Pictures gave us a much more grounded and realistic film based on Superman called Man of Steel. Some people hated it and some people liked it. Personally, I liked it as it felt like Snyder and company had taken the epic feel of the comics and animated series and applied it to the big screen with a new splash of paint. However, after reading some of the comments from those Superman fans who didn't like the movie, it makes me wonder if any of them actually took the time to pay attention to the film or if they ever read even a single comic. I'm here to challenge those claims.
1. "Pa Kent was an asshole": No he wasn't. If anything Johnathon "Pa" Kent was just doing his job as a father and looking out for his son who is anything but a human being. Keep in mind MOS takes place in a continuity similar to the real world and the "Reality Ensues" trope is used constantly. Pa Kent was afraid what wou
War of Three Worlds Spinoff: Week in Republic CityPremise: A series of short-stories revolving around Fluttershy and Bolin set in the Avatar universe.
1. Pro-Bending Mondays: Bolin brings Fluttershy along with him so she can watch a Pro-Bending match. However, he finds out the Fire Ferrets are up against the five-year reigning champions, the Sun Warrior Dragons.
2. Swimming on Tuesday: Bolin teaches Fluttershy to swim in her human body, despite her reluctance.
3. Wednesday on Ember Island: Bolin takes Fluttershy to see a play at Ember Island and they each share an individual dream.
4. Thursday of the Unagi: While spending time on Kiyoshi Island, Fluttershy and Bolin find themselves hunted by the Unagi.
5. Friday Night Lights: Bolin desperately tries to bring Fluttershy to a Lightning Bug display only to face complications.
6. Saturday Storm: While being cooped up inside by a storm, Fluttershy and Bolin tell stories to pass the time.
7. Dragons of Sunday: Bolin and the others try to convince Fluttershy to get over her fears o
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If a moderator is clearly stepping out of line or you feel that a moderator is pi
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.
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