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It does not fool me –
a visceral understanding
allows me to see through this veneer:
of stones solidified by struggle,
and cemented into place by insecurity.
Painted with patterns of positivity,
it deceives passersby so well
they never once think
this façade is framed by a fortification,
and just beyond that barrier
wanders a soul, tangled
in a maze of its own making.
This fortress fabricated from fear
is possessed by the spirit who haunts its passages,
and makes of it a prison,
but this confinement was not crafted consciously.
Tattered by trauma, the body became a bastion,
walls within which the mind withdrew
to dwell, like a shadow in a shell.
And just as I see through the false front,
I hear the stifled screams beneath the laughter.
You’ve become raveled in your refuge,
and though I mean to rescue you,
I will not destroy your defenses,
steal from you this sanctuary
and leave you naked to unknown elements –
no, I know this stronghold is a shelter,
Late night, Early birdA caffeine induced Insomnia,
I forgot what morning feels like,
I'm the first customer.
A shot of espresso in a cup of coffee
to forgot I'm tired
and a cigarette to feel normal.
It's cold, I'm shaking,
not sure if there's a relationship,
and here it is:
Early birds are trying
to get a head start
populating the roadways,
I want to tell them,
hey, man, hey!
the worm is a myth.
Fish Eye ViewIt’s not my fault
you expect a fish
to walk on land like you,
but maybe it is my fault
for taking the bait,
letting you yank me into the air
to deal with the questioning criticism,
“Why can’t you just breathe like everyone else?”
I know, you tell me you care
but I’ve swallowed enough worms
to know what that means -
You care what others say.
You care about the comments,
about how I have fins instead of feet.
You care about a perception of me,
because when you look
down into this pond,
you see a distorted reflection of yourself.
You don’t know the schools I swim with,
you don’t know the depths I live in,
so you don’t know
what’s beneath the surface.
So here’s the situation:
either I’ll live to be
a disappointment in your eyes,
or I’ll suffer to be
a disappointment in my eyes,
and guess whose eyes I care more about.
I’m sick of this suffocation,
so take your hook out of the water,
and stop trying to save me
Used to beSober used to be “normal”, but now it’s “not drunk”. Drunk used to be a destination, but now it’s a way-point. The shelves of brown liquor used to be an adventure, but now it’s a road map. The clock used to be fifteen minutes ahead, but now it’s as good a time as any. It used to be the future, but now it’s tomorrow.
It used to be a glass half-full, but now it’s ice. It used to be one drink, but now it’s another. It used to be a pleasure, but now it’s a tolerance. It used to be a cigarette, but now it’s a filter. It used to be today, but now it’s tomorrow.
Imperfect MachineMaybe from the dust of stars,
which span from one side of the universe to the other,
you were conceived to be a beacon of hope,
with a guiding light, dissolving the darkness of human life
to see what is and what could be,
to help others discover their own internal benevolence,
to make the world a brighter place,
And maybe you were meant
to be above and unfettered by this reality,
to give the clouds their silver lining,
but you were dragged down to this earth
by one who did not comprehend or appreciate what you are
and, injured and confused, you lost your way.
So maybe from the ebb and flow of existence,
which spans from the beginning to the end of time,
I was crafted like an imperfect machine
and sent after you, following a dimmed shimmer,
to see you for what you are,
to help you understand and believe,
to make you embrace and be,
And maybe I was meant
to stumble onward with faulty parts
and attempt to fix other broken creations,
learning to work with dysfunctional tools,
having a purp
Something about Spring in CaliforniaSomething about Spring in California
makes me want to
quit my job
start a new romance
write about Spring in California
So I did,
so I will,
so I am.
Something about Spring in California
makes me want to miss my exit,
so I can keep driving down the freeway
with the wind rushing through my open window,
even though I finished my cigarette
several miles ago
makes me want to get a drink
when the sun goes down,
so I can stand outside the bar
in the warm twilight and share with strangers
my feelings on the weather
makes me want to cut ties
with the world of responsibility
lose the feeling of my feet
on the ground, and float until my head
is in the blue, blue, slightly cloudy blue.
So I did,
so I will,
so I try.
Free Coffee and Forgotten PensCoffee at the bar – I mean, its not good, but it’s free and that’s a helluva lot cheaper than at the café. Free, like this pen I found on the ground outside the café, and I’m just happy to discover it works. It works, unlike me, because I quit my job to be a writer, so that’s why I like things that are free, like dive bar coffee, and forgotten pens. But back to the coffee; it tastes a bit better then you throw in a shot of whisky. The whisky isn’t free, but hey, they don’t serve Irish coffee at the café – I mean, they probably from upon it, but they know me, and if I brought a flask and kept it subtle, they probably wouldn’t care, but I don’t like diluting good coffee, but I have done it before. Let’s move on.
I quit my job because it was killing me. It wasn’t stabbing me in the chest or slitting my throat, but I’ll put it this way. This is what I thought when I decided, months in advance
Pre-AlcoholicA pocket full of black, narrow, chewed-up
straws with the trace residue of
gin and tonic from the dive bar where
they call me Caesar, where
men shooting pool bet five bucks
a game on a slightly slanted table, where
friendships are formed over a cigarette;
Half-gnawed ebony plastic tubes
when I reach for my wallet
symbolize the transition I knew was coming
from black coffee at the cafe
because it was never really about
the cappuccinos, just as it's not about
the cocktails, it's nothing more
than consuming a beverage at a location,
wearing away the novelty of an atmosphere
in search of inspiration to translate
into words etched in dark ink.
So, here's a compromise:
I'll get a cup of coffee,
with room for whiskey.
Why is war a perpetual element?Why is war a perpetual element
of our coexistence?
Words like gunshots, wild
from behind the barricades of our ignorances;
Insecurities planted like landmines
awaiting an innocent misstep;
Threats lobbed like bombs,
causing irreparable damage.
When can we put down
these weapons of love?
Disengage, disassemble and diffuse
these articles of destruction,
repopulate our minds
with thoughts and feelings
not deafened by the din of combat
so we can hear one another -
We can reach one another
with these arms.
the birds sing a note, or twoI am awake on this dark London night; so dark. Everyone beyond could be dead, the beginning and end of the world. Moonlight on grass and roofs and brick-walled buildings. I lean my head on the cold glass of the window, smelling tea and cologne and fresh rain.
Still dressed in tights, mascara on my lashes and perfume clouding my hair, I sit on the windowsill and converse with the dark-haired boy in the room below. No packing tonight; left for tomorrow—tomorrow, when the world wakes up. Not now.
In the room less than a hundred meters away my sister paces, curtains drawn, thinking alone, telling no one. In the room next door the Russian model cries tears that mixes with her lipstick, stained red. In the room below the boy pauses in his sentence and doesn't continue.
Bright lights in Hong Kong glimmer in the dark harbor and at home there must be the sound of piano songs as my brother plays. Midnight ticks by. I close my eyes and think of mornings with rain and history lessons, of aft
Snails!I was 8 years old and a generally average child. I was with my family in our backyard cooking out. It had just rained and all of the snails were out. Being the little explorer I was, I decided to walk around my yard and examine these little slimy things. Now, I'm not someone who believes in love at first sight, but this was a perfect example of it. I was so fascinated with the snails and my surrounding family members were completely confused as to why. Eventually, my 11 year old brother saw this as a keen chance to be a bully. He grabbed one of the snails I had and the container of salt we had laying out and tried to salt the poor thing. "Donovan no!", I yelled as loud as I could. Just then, my father grabbed the salt out of my brother's hand and began to chew him out, "YOUR LITTLE SISTER REALLY LIKES THESE SNAILS AND YOU SHOULDN'T BE TRYING TO TAKE THEM FROM HER, YOUNG MAN!", he barked. Needless to say, my slimy friend lived to see another day.
After all of this, snails became a big d
creon's pride got the better of medead so very dead. school is bad for my brain it is killing my NEURONS. curse our forefathers who hath bestowed upon us the curse of the SCHOOL SYSTEM. how bitter good intentions become sour milk. unnecessary and bad for the health. o is there no refuge at home. thy father and mother arrested for one’s own actions. can they not see that we learneth not? cram information before the eyes to cover the evil of one’s country. o sad day, o sad days. jhsd why why why but if i go home kids so MANY FORSAKEN KIDS screaming and tattling and crying and whining make them STOP. to be angry with a woman who has homicidal thoughts of her own child, THOU HAS NEVER HAD TO DEAL WITH CHILDREN THEN. they are no angels, they are hell-spawn reliving their days of the underworld in cramped schools, having to compete against each other for love, an emotion nonexistent in this world of ours. O SAD DAYS O SAD DAYS. may the sobbing be loud for such sufferable days. o sad days o sad days
My Awesome LP IntroductionHello, all.
I'm Jen – Jencity, though I'll answer to either. My base stats are as follows: mid-twenties, American, Pacific time zone, college graduate.
I graduated earlier this year with bachelor's degrees in English and religious studies; I focused, primarily, on 18th century and pre-Christian literature. I used to fancy myself a poet, but I've since come to know better. In my free time, I pose as a freelance writer and editor. I've been writing and editing for pay for... two years? Maybe three now. None of my own work has been published, though I have edited work that is now in publication.
Comics are a passion of mine. I grew up on old X-Force and Excalibur comics. (Yeah. So hardcore nerd that I bypassed X-men altogether.) I'm currently working on writing a comic script of my own. The biggest challenge I've found in that is funding the artist. Because, I mean, money.
I'm sarcastic and usually pretty straight forward. I hate pussy-footing around. If I have an opinion, I give it
LP Self IntroductionI hate talking about my self, just so you know.
My name is Wendi, but online I go by Eva. She’s my OC, but also kinda my alternate personality. She’s literally a voice in my head.
Don’t question me. For your own health and sanity.
I’m 16, about to be 17. My birthday is in less than a month, January 1st. Yep. New Year’s Day.
I’m a Junior in high school in southern Alabama.
I have a small group of friends that I couldn’t live without.
I’m Lesbian. Don’t hate. (and just for the record I’m single )
I don’t trust very many people. There’s like 6 maybe 7 people that I truly trust.
I get attached to people way too easily and I know it. I can’t help it.
My favorite colors are red, black and blue.
People always come to me for advice, everyone seems comfortable telling me things they wouldn’t ever tell anyone else. I will always do my best to help you if you come to me for help with anything.
Oh, and I don't l
So I tried to masturbate the other day.
I could not get off.
No matter how hard I tried to get into it.
Then I thought of you.
Came so fast I couldn't even comprehend.
The healing process is going to be a doozy this time.
Amongst the Stars is my Safe HavenAmongst the Stars is my Safe Haven
I remember sitting on the trampoline, the one that isn't there anymore. Sitting there in the dark, feeling alone, but surrounded by people. I'd wish on every shooting star there was. The nights seemed so clear, like a pool of water you could practically see yourself dancing in. The fire the rain offered. I always wished for foolish things. A puppy, to go back to Disneyland. I only realize now, I made one faithful wish, one you could only find amongst the wiser, for my family to be together forever.
It seems so long ago, yet so close to heart. The pain of it breaking only numbed by the box of memories. Yes, one so delicate one shouldn't drop it. It contained the mysteries of life, it contained your regrets and mistakes, but most importantly, it held your heart. The heart is a place you have to earn you way into, you can't simply be there. But once a heart breaks, the pain is unbearable.
I remember now, waking up with a cold sweat, breathing heavily. Ha
An AnecdoteThere once was a girl who grew up in a library. She read thousands of books over the course of her life, and loved every one. Fiction, non-fiction, she loved them all. Every time she stepped into a library or a book store, she instantly felt at home. All those stories, clamoring for attention, aching to find their way into the hands of willing readers and transport those readers for a brief (or extended) period of time, making their day brighter. She helped whenever she could. She was always reading, always lost in a story.
This girl loved school. She loved learning, anything and everything, and she soaked up the knowledge her teachers gave her like a plant soaks up sunrays. At the end of her sixth grade year, she was voted most likely to be a librarian. And she embraced that title, making it her first email address, and labelling all the books she owned as part of her library. She allowed her family to check out books from the library, provided they wrote down the name of the b
An exploration of the egoFootsteps echo into the emptiness and fantasy of the Two AM reality. Sauntering amongst the heavy shadows, the clever/cynical/overly-sexual/crude/sophisticated writer knows as J.M.Kauftheil waits with a Scorpionic intensity for an unsuspecting inspiration to wander too close. J.M.K. is a wild card, a thrill-seeking journalist, penning fiction and narratives based on his shifting imagination and his strange, exciting, fulfilling, and sometimes unpleasant experiences. Unbridled poetry rolls through his breath, abstract mechanisms expressing his impermanent, swirling emotions. Words are J.M.Kauftheils playground.
The experimental and adventuresome wordsmith doesnt quite see himself as an American citizen rather, he feels himself a resident of the young 21st century, with fingers spread out to the Twentieth and beyond. Considered by many to be an old soul, he nibbles the fruits of the new, savors the wine of the past, and makes merry in his own ti
PetalsThe grass tickled between her toes as her father toiled away with the roses by the letterbox. She watched his fingers weave between the thorns to pat the soil around each bush, humming to some John Lennon song she couldn't put a name to. Despite the sun just tipping the horizon, she saw sweat prickling his brow and his eyes squinting against the light. The fine lines on his face were suddenly accentuated by shadow, and for a moment, she swelled with wonder.
'Maria, come here,' he said, waving her over. 'You're not going to learn anything sitting all the way over there.'
Excitement sparked her limbs into motion, and she crawled over to sit next to him, careful to tuck her skirt beneath her thighs to avoid the dirt.
He picked up a pair of clippers from beside him. 'Now, you need to snipe back these diseased parts here and there from the base of the plant. It helps it grow better.'
Snipping off two pieces of wood with ease, he deposited them in Maria's outstretched hand. Their rough textu
Dreams of realityA pair of eyes;
Open and stare through the lights,
Into the darkness of doom.
And yet they smile,
Yet they smile.
A drop of tear;
Seeps through the garden of death;
Falls to the mortal soil.
Dreams and desires will blend again,
To render the roses alive.
I am floating through a vision.
Like ripples, floating through the pond of life.
Can reality be so real?
Let me drown again,
Into the silence of familiar noise.
As I wander through the lanes of reason and passion.
The flame of hope burns bright,
Drenched in the colors of freedom.
So let my dreams unravel my soul,
As darkness fades away;
And let mortality draw me closer to destiny.
As these pair of eyes,
Open to stare through the lights again.
Is this reality?
Can reality be so real?
Time passes by, as the eyes keep staring;
Staring at the distant lights;
Staring beyond the distant skies.
What do they see?
What do they long?
What do they desire?
Then the skies will break down;
White lightning striking the dreamy clouds.
Moments will tur
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More