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FamilyDon’t rely on those
who love you
for everything about you
that is beautiful,
because that is not enough
to merit trust.
Instead, turn to those
who love you
despite everything about you
that is ugly
because when you let go,
they’ll still be holding on
and when you give them your back
they will still be there when you turn around,
ready to forgive
even before you’ve mustered the courage
Turn to those
who you call brother and sister
though you don’t share a lineage;
those you call mother, father, children
through a bond thicker than blood,
because though they did not give birth to you,
they give life to you.
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.
Theme Prompt - SoliloquyI was thinking about my poetry and some of the stories I’ve written and I realized something interesting. When I write, I bare a small piece of my soul and am usually speaking to someone in particular. At least when it comes to the poems that resonate the most with me when I re-read them. There are a few that I just have no feeling for at all and, if I didn’t know I wrote it, I wouldn’t attribute to myself.
I’ve written poetry to my father, my aunt, my grandmother, my ex, and my friends. Some with good intentions and feelings and some not so good. I’ve written alternately hopeful and sad, longing poems to a nebulous person that I hope to meet in the future. I’ve worked through my emotions for everyone and showed how I truly felt about them all. The gratitude and love for my friends, the sorrow and love for my family, and the love and, subsequently, anger and regret for my ex. Yet I’ve never really tried to work through my own feelings towards m
11.- La Niña Esperanzada:
Erase una niña, que siempre soño
con un amor. No era un principe azul, era mas bien alguien solitario que no brillaba fisicamente como en cuentos de hadas, el brillo de sus ojos era algo que muy pocos veian. Le puso nombre, rasgos y caracteristicas. Lo soño durante tantas noches, lo imagino durante tantos dias, que ella podia reconocerlo si se le apareciera. Dias pasan, años pasan, pero la esperanza no. En el decimotercer cumpleaños de la niña ella solo deseo, al soplar las velas, que su amado llegara. Su Tristan. Su Tristan de ojos azules y rizada cabellera castaña oscura. Porque sabia que el estaba ahi, viviendo con la luna y navegando con el mar. Dias pasan, años pasan, pero la esparanza no pasa. Cuatro años y la niña solo era niña en su interior, ahora era Elena y nadie ya le decia niña, mas alla de la seda y su maduro seno se encontraba un corazón, un coraz
Life With an Imaginary FriendI have an imaginary friend.
His name is Alfred. Alfred Mayes Thrillerson.
I came up with his last name on Halloween in 2012. Before that it was Alfred Middleton, but then Kate Middleton came along in the news so I decided to change it to something more original. I gave him the middle name Mayes so I could remember what month his birthday's in. I created him some time in May 2012, and placed his birthday on the 16th.
I got his first name, Alfred, from the main character of the cartoon The Mysteries of Alfred Hedgehog. I'm not sure how well known the show is. It doesn't air outside of Canada. (I was actually surprised by the amount of fanart I found) I was looking for a name that wasn't to wacky, but also one I had never heard anyone with before. (My life consists of a lot of names; I wanted something original) But anyway, more about Alfred as a person.
"You talkin' about me?"
"Yes, Alfred, I'm telling the Deviants about you."
"What? I wouldn't trust anyone online, if I were you."
Fragments of a Cutter - Whitney -When I first laid eyes on her, she haunted me. She reminded me of an old friend, and it haunted me. I avoided her. Then, she talked to me.
It's late October. The 24th or 25th. Either a Thursday or a Friday. The small girl in first platoon came up to me... and spoke. Plaid shirt, curled hair in a ponytail, reading glasses, a sweet smile, and dark brown eyes... immediate infatuation. Cloud nine.
At lunch, I walked into the cafeteria, seeing my friends already at our usual table. "I think I just fell in love!" I exclaimed, slamming my hands and sketchbook onto the table-top. The three freshman looked at me oddly, while Arielle, another sophomore, kept focused on her food. Audrey, a freshman girl with short hair, was appalled.
"Wait, I thought you already were in love with her!" she cried out, pointing to Arielle.
The previous school year, Arielle and I were forced into a 'pinkie marriage' by the old friend I mentioned
drei.Mit elf Jahren musste ich meine Vorhaut operieren lassen. Falls jemand nicht weiss, was eine Vorhaut ist, es ist das, was bei den Juden abgeschnitten wird. Nicht, dass meine Familie zum Judentum konvertieren wollte, nein, meine Eltern beabsichtigten, weiterhin nicht-praktizierende Protestanten zu bleiben. Und meine Vorhaut sollte nicht abgeschnitten, sondern nur gelöst werden. Ich lag auf dem Schragen, während mir eine Maske mit Schlauch über Mund und Nase gestülpt wurde, und im nächsten Moment behauptete jemand, alles sei vorbei.
Dabei war ich von Anfang an dagegen gewesen. „Warum muss ich ins Spital“, sagte ich zu Mami, „ich kann doch auch so auf die Toilette gehen“. – „Ja“, sagte sie, „aber wenn deine Vorhaut mit deiner Eichel verwachsen ist, kannst du vielleicht nie mit einer Frau schlafen.“ – „Mit einer Frau schlafen?!“ rief ich voller Entrüstung, „das will ich sowieso nie!&
Fragments of a Cutter - The Cure -Once before, I was hurt by the same girl that sent me into the state I'm in now. Back then, I'd found a cure.
To heal me from the pain of a lack of love, I found love. Or... what I thought was love.
When I fell for Courtney, someone else caught me. She caught me in her arms and held me close. She cushioned my fall and tried to make it better. She gave me the affection that the other girl didn't.
But it didn't last long.
By the time administration of my 'medication' was ceased, I was healed... at least healed enough to stand again.
Because of this, I am lead to believe that a similar situation would call for a similar cure.
But no one will administer.
No one's heart has the right medication.
And no one cares to try and find it.
But that's just how it is.
There isn't always a cure.
And there isn't always a way to get it.
Some True, Some False - Chapter 1All I have to do now was to survive the walk from school to home. Sure it takes only 15 minutes, but it seems centuries to me. It gets even longer if I'm sad like shit, and that is about most of the time. After all, school is a piece of shit, and so is life. My mother hates me anyway.
Nobody will read this shit anyway. Just in case people do, just call me Xin. I don't care if you call me a dipshit or retard, because I can agree with that. Who would care about me? Even my own mother thinks I've turned retarded.
Yeah, yeah, I heard you moaning that I should be grateful that I've a mother, and I should be grateful for the things I have. But I don't care, screw that. You don't f*cking tell that to a person who has lost about all her mentality. Wish I could freaking drop out of school.
Suicide is a constant thing in my mind. I swear only Charlene, my ONLINE friends (because I'm hated in real life anyways), DeviantART and my Sec 4 sister are the only things keeping me from doing the unthinka
Fragments of a Cutter - Questions and Answers -Why am I alive?
I’ve asked myself this, and most times, I don’t know the answer. I think I shouldn’t be. But today, I found my answer. No, it’s not my friends or my family, or anything like that.
A horrible guilt that I would face in my death, for my passing would cause the same for another.
I would have to live in eternity with that guilt, knowing and believing that I killed someone. Not just any someone, but the most wonderful, amazing, and beautiful someone I’ve met. A someone with a soft touch, and a sweet voice. A someone with the most stunning brown eyes and innocent demeanor. A someone with a heart so pure that I know I don’t deserve for it to beat for me. A someone that, even though I know that love is unrequited, I love. A someone that has not been without my emotions for even a second since I met them. A someone that is extremely important to me and
Once NecessaryFrom a young age, she always looked the same. A tangled mass of blonde, hazel eyes glued to the print of a story. She was once asked why she was always reading and the answer was simple. Print was easier then People.
She learned in a hard way to hide her legs. Dead and dried skin cracked it's way along her calves and shins, stopping at her dried knees, only to turn into Braille on her thighs. Jeans turned into necessity and the skirts and dresses she loved were pushed to the side and she forgot that she even liked them.
The calming effect of reading was negated by a series of horrible math teachers, all speaking in a flurry of a language that she had chosen to take but could never learn how to say. Her grades plummeted and she left the class, only to become the person kids stared at in the halls.
Her mind grew fast, her body grew slow. Bigger books, longer novels. She watched as the people around her showed their colors and she was afraid. Afraid of what they would say and what would h
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
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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