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ScatterEverything scatters in this universe,
This hazy world of sleeplessness and
Broken thoughts of trying to keep it together,
Hoping to fix was was already shattered,
Falling apart at the seams with nothing but
My hands, so small and useless in the expanse
Of these engulfing tragedies and faults.
How I wish I could fix my mistakes.
They break apart everything that would be good,
All that I might have had by my side
To keep me from bursting into fragments
Of who I was and who I was meant to be.
My memories are scattered now,
Spread across the cosmos and among the stars,
Scattered so far I no longer know where
Who I am supposed to be is.
Silence, Solitude, Loneliness and SorrowSilence is a familiar friend,
One who lies in wait to take my hand,
And lead me back to a place I might call home,
For there I know Solitude again,
And Loneliness and Sorrow.
I am far too acquainted to say that I
Would run away from them.
Yet they can be dangerous friends,
Ones who would break your soul,
And use you until you shatter.
But when others have deserted me,
They will welcome me with open arms,
And give me shelter when I have none.
Beauty in Your LinesThere is beauty in your imperfections,
Beauty in your lines.
There is no pleasure in perfection,
Nor excitement in extremes
That make you seem too far away,
Too lofty to be touched.
I would rather have your imperfections,
Lines that mark your history,
The things you've done,
The things you've seen,
And trials that define you.
There is beauty in your lines,
That outline your sleeping face,
Silhouette of drowsy grace,
And fold the sheets around my waist.
Wrap your lines around mine
And connect our lines until they intertwine
To lose myself in you.
Every NightEvery night,
I drown again in my sorrow.
A boy I know,
Across the ocean,
Takes my heart and claims it.
I fall deeper,
But shroud my darkness in light.
Somehow there will always be
Darkness in the light,
Shadows in the sun,
Blackness in the white.
I die a little more inside,
Paint a face that smiles,
Even when inside is breaking.
More Beautiful and DeadlyI am born of something greater than myself,
Something more beautiful and deadly,
With more charm than the dancing snake
That would entrance the desert hare.
I am more dangerous than that.
To play with me is to play with fire,
To offend me is to beckon an inferno.
You best be careful, boy,
Or you will find your fingers burned.
Tangled MindDancing entwined in these words
That I made up,
Somewhere inside my head,
This madness makes some kind of sense,
I just wish there was some way
To stop it from
Taking over my mind,
Taking over my hands,
Curling around everything that I know,
Consuming all the life that my song would have.
I can't breathe anymore,
I can't hear it anymore,
I've lost what I wanted most,
Reaching for something I was told to want.
I don't want it.
I never wanted it.
I told myself lies,
And now all I get in return are more lies.
Serves me right.
I was never meant to have what I want.
Tell me what to do then.
Make me forget what I desire most,
What I have already lost,
What already digs the knife deeper into my heart.
Make me become the machine
You would have me be.
There is madness everywhere
And only by erasing everything
That makes me who I am
Can this madness be untangled
And the words will finally stop dancing
And maybe the music will come back.
cosmic lattesmall town diner jukebox
casts 90's pop songs on a loop
across creaking hardwood
and paisley-print cushions;
there's a mustard stain
on the waitress's checkerboard apron,
a run in her hose
and fingernail polish flaking like dandruff
into the burly corner booth truck driver's
scrambled egg whites and hash, hold the salt.
if this were wednesday, the perky brunette
would be disheveled, sobbing
into her on-again off-again's embroidered handkerchief
while your food waits, forgotten, in the window...
but it's thursday and they've made up
and his breath is only slightly tainted by his addictions.
instead, she flits a smirk at you
over the pages of the novel
you hope you're hiding well behind
and fills your cup to sloshing
free of charge.
when you add creamer,
it looks like the universe
opening to you.
The DoubterThe Doubter
One Day Someone Will Come To Doubt You.
He Will Insist!
You Gonna Hate Him For This,
If You Don't Love Him.
He Already Loves You,
He Just Doesn't Know It Yet.
He Will Know, When He Meets You.
For You I Don't Know More,
You Gonna Hate Him,
If You Don't Love Him.
lone wolf is wholesome
as his body is pressed,
pierced, and perforated.
rib cage curls like fingers
as crimson nail polish
paint the tips.
nailed to the wall like game,
sanguine saliva drips
from its snarling lips.
eyes shut tight
as its frame is contorted
like abstract art,
pen his heart in ink
or permanent marker.
knees skinned like a child
his body idle as the soul vibrates
while his inners regurgitate,
morbidity slivers down his legs
white fur stains read by death
as it plays necromancer.
the pack may not walk with you
but the moon hums with the owl orchestra.
your grey specks toying with ivory fur
kissed by red cartilage edges.
fade away as your puzzle
finally becomes wholesome
you feed raw meat to lions,
i feed raw me to liars-
the crowds line-in like
they’re ready to witness
me eat crow feet like i’m lyin’,
but these eyes are tired
of watching the vultures
masquerade as innocent crows
when the flock is called a murder.
and these crimes are unaccounted for
because we don’t realize what they’re killing
are the lion-hearted and eating the carcass,
leaving souls to float in the desert
while frames play bowls to a heartless dessert.
deserted bones tumbling like weeds
in the dead glass,
and lightning doesn’t strike
in the same place twice,
so don’t expect quartz here.
the law of living has no courts here
and karma is no judge
because there are no sentences
being placed on the objects
that subject you to the adjective of their
their words unnecessary,
excessive when the circle has begun.
wing disks spinning, dizzying,
dazzling, dying down
through dirt tolls
because we all have to pay
Writer's AuraWhat would you say if I told you that paper had an aura?
The interesting thing about it is that I’m telling half the truth.
Paper can only have an aura when it’s in someone’s hands
And being recited by the very person that wrote it.
The aura of the paper comes from the person, strengthening the sheet’s purpose.
Strengthening the person.
But how, you might ask?
How can a person give a flimsy object like paper an aura?
I have done so several times, so I shall tell you.
The people-those like me-that can do this are called Writers.
Every word-every letter-from a Writer’s hand that falls onto the paper…
It has its own life.
Losing one letter can make an entire story unravel.
Make a poem’s meaning drop.
Make a sheet of paper…meaningless.
And by extension, for that moment, the Writer’s life means nothing.
A small mistake, however, isn’t as large a mockery to us as a blank, white sheet of paper.
Both it and the Writer cry out, begging
A StoryLovely features rest
In a crystalized tomb
Adorned in roaming ivy
Locked in silver moonlight
Approaches handsome figure
With weary leather boots
Having rode his way there
Searching for treasures to loot
Coming to the crossroads
The two strangers meet
One forever locked in
Curse's dreamless sleep
Figure draws near
Pearlescent glass gleams
Stretching out his hand
He sees the beauty skin-deep
Instead of acting as a story
A fairytale kept in time
The figure walks away
Deciding corpses should be kept
Out of the sunlight
AnswersI know I am the one that is trying to find answers to all these questions But I am scared
I do not know what the answer is going to be
Am I going to be sad, hurt, pissed, scared
I do not know
At this moment I just know that I am tired of wondering and want answers to my life
obsessionand i know i shouldn't
but when the smoke hits my lungs
and the goosebumps
drape over my skin
because the taste
of this blood
and the touch
of these fingers
feel just as soft.
Rotten BetrayalWe were never just normal.
We were always beautiful,
Tantalizing and shining.
They wanted to be us,
Wanted to have us.
We knew that and used it,
Played with them like puppets.
But in the end,
We had to fall,
And then the appeal faded.
They turned their backs on us,
And we were left to rot in the fetid air.
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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