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The Man and the MoonHer mouth corners hung themselves
and I began to wonder if that was the death of them.
A simple, quiet death;
without broken fingernails lining the walls
with the stripes of a despairing end.
I began to ache with the questioning in my heart
with the echoes reverberating in my capillaries
of her face scorching sunshine in her smile
right before it crumpled
and nothing was left but a frowning moon
set firm in its resignation to an upcoming eclipse.
Dandelion QueenI dream of the ocean;
that paper-thin line where
the current swallows the stars
and the water churns violet
(you tell me to be
dandelion queen, we've
heard all these words before)
I will sleep heavy
and wake a few hours before dawn,
only to forget my name
my wave-weathered heart will cry,
I will cry (my biggest fear
is drowning in too many
of my own weighted words
you tell me to be
so I can hear the world breathe)
I want to go home
the scars on your shouldersthe scars on your shoulders
are braille to me, so that i
can read your skin, so that i
can know you better.
i like to listen to your heartbeat
and how it resounds differently
from mine, just so beautifully
like two songs played in tandem
to harmonise in rounds;
i like to hold your hands
and rub your back
so that maybe my love
can find its way through your pores
and seep into your blood
(never can i find the right words
to tell you just the way you feel to me)
and to think that and how i nearly missed you
makes me miss you more
every minute and mile we spend
i can't sleep with another body
in my bed,
but sleeping without you
He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.
The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.
But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white a
Overgrown ColorsRed like blood on a rose.
White like bone and stars.
Black like reclusiveness.
Green like dead air.
Orange like the savage instinct.
Purity like a god's heart.
Red like thawing hatred.
White like a frozen, severe cry.
Black like the night's deprived shadows.
Green like the wind in the grass.
Orange like the light in the shadows.
Purity like the sun rising.
So discharging through the moon in a wheeze is like luminous white, dispersed red.
PocketLeftover religion in the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
A key that unlocks nothing
A penny, a scrap of paper
With half of your name
Written in black ink
A song that is usually in my head
In the shriveled carcass
Of a long-dead dream
In the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
With the lint
with thanks to frosttwo roads diverged in a soulless dawn
and you pull over,
idling on the shoulder of route 50.
it's a polaroid morning and
the world is as grainy
as your eyes,
and one million miles
is not far enough.
it plays back, filmstrip,
blurred along the length of
and here you are:
facing a choice between
this loosejointed, hollowbodied
this is what
Condemnedbeneath the beaten earth they lay,
their dreams condemned to ashes,
and our restless bodies stretch,
for forgiveness, for direction –
survivors of the abyss,
amidst wide-eye, silent soldiers –
so many dead, so many maimed,
how many graves are we standing on, today?
A sister is like a soul mate;
Someone who is always there
to guide me through fate.
A sister is,
a part of childhood that I cannot erase;
A sister like you,
is one that I would never replace
because you always know how to
put a smile on my face.
I know I can depend on you
to always be there for me;
This is one hundred percent guaranteed!
I've had great memories with you
in the past;
and I hope there are many more
in the future.
Life, Death And A Pork Chop SandwichAll tangled up, hard to breathe
This steel cloud day that swirls
With heat and pounding hammers
I shake in my boots and cough up
Blood, rust and damaged flesh
Waiting for the second coming
Maybe next time around there'll be
Some chance for more than this
A twisted barbed wire halo
Wrapped tight around my skull
Blinding white light aura
Swarming with flies I'm flying
To pieces, thousands of shards
Cannot be brought back together
But I will remember the summer
Of my first Chevrolet in each bit
Gleaming bits of glass in the desert
Each reflecting a different moment
Still, now, enduring until the waves
Of a new ocean sweep them away
Pretty little things called words and dustif you weren't a hypocrite,
you'd be wrapped in the sweetest
how to engulf the ocean
with your lungs
and think of how to cup it
in your hands
your broken prayers and
still be beautiful)
dance with the gypsies
(a quake in
your hips like the thrust
and the faultlines
so, so graceful)
sing with the nymphs
it's growing old,
your throat's burning dry
like a monsoon
faltering in a desert,
be nestled in a king's arms
(oh, you precious
Riddle My tears fall,
My heart beats,
because of the
What am I?
A Night By the FireNo light,
The light sired by the night
All above whilst the day's delights
Now disappears from mortal sight.
Faded away is the sun's power,
Taking the stage now is night's sallow flower;
Now mortals may behold the stars and falling shower.
Set in a pit Nature's skyscraper ablaze
And revel in the emanating heat as you gaze,
Looking down on occasion when you hear a crack from the fire
And witness "fireflies" flying away from mother's blaze;
Dying shortly after but not lacking burning beauty do they desire!
I look out towards the teasing shore
And meditate as we sit upon her door,
Thinking on what my future has in store;
Who I am now and even
Why meI wanted sleep very badly
I tried my hardest to rest
I closed my eyes and laid there
But sleep didn’t come easy
I would doze off
And wake back up
Why me? When I know I have to be up at 3 AM.
Viva la Vida
To the dear woman
who paints the pain
that tortures her limbs
You--not the painter of dreams
or the nightmares that haunt you
Rather, you paint your dream-like reality
Your legs have turned against you
But you have learned not to need them
For you have wings of gold to fly
The terrible accident,
the trolley that has left you paralyzed
Weak was it's intent; Strong you have become
With the stroke of your touch
You paint those tears that have never fallen
In your portraits they're free, carrying the message of pain
Even with your many sisters
You are still often alone
Your portraits, your only friends—you are the subject that you kn
This Courtayrd...I feel like the difference between a courtyard and a wild spot is the organization. In the wild, it grows freely and most is untouched by humans. It is a natural place where nature grows and lives without anybody making adjustments. A courtyard is a place where you can admire nature that has been modified to make the setting feel more like a comfortable place where people can relax. In courtyards small things are done like adding statues, ponds, and fountains. You could see that flowers are planted, bushes are trimmed and the grass is taken care of.
In this courtyard, my first thought was “Oh my God.” I felt like I entered a small
EnvironmentEnvironment is everything. It is home and surrounding. Environment gave birth to us, raised us, and it’s what feeds us everyday. Environment is my vision; it’s everything I see. It is also touch, everything I feel. Environment is the mixture between nature and buildings, the two comining together to create the world that we have now.
AnticlockwiseI lay here forgotten,
My dreams like shattered glass.
My heart has failed—
The pain is coming fast.
This abstract world
Invisible through my sight;
Wishes that once glowed like stars
Now black holes engulfing the sky.
I lay here forgotten
On this bridge of clouds
My eyes have blurred
And in sight there is no sound.
The world that had mothered me
Abandoned me for another child.
It was love that belonged to me—
Now love seems no longer vital.
I lay here forgotten
And even light has lost its shine;
I transform into cracked stone
Breaking in this eternal night.
My tears have become poison
Gray mist—my breath.
But this is th
Thank-You For My World
This bright sun
with a heartbeat of fire,
its rays kiss my skin.
This warm earth
with a strength none may compare,
a promising home for years to come.
This crystal sky
with arms that have a mirror’s gleam
and a rain that gives birth to life.
This vast sea
with a power of seven armies
and waves that roll like words of a poet’s tongue.
This world—our world,
with a perfection that shall slowly fade
Like a canvas painted in a fantasy dream.
Wounds of a Broken Home
A woman and a man strolled along the soft dirt path. Arm in arm, they glanced at each other and smiled, showing all their love and affection through that simple expression.
Five children played tag on the grass beside the dirt path. They laughed hysterically as they ran around chasing one another. One of the children, a little girl with blonde pigtails, grabbed a boy’s shirt and pulled him down to the ground.
“Hey! That’s cheating!” Wailed the little boy, throwing his arms up in frustration.
The girl shook her head and smiled, revealing crooked teeth. “It’s not cheating. I touched you.” The kids argu
HeroHere I stain this field red
Mark it with death.
My moves are vivacious
My dances, agile
My strength is the steel
That none may cut through.
Here I sculpt the shape
Of pale corpses
Whose bodies now stiff
And souls long forgotten
For without honor
They had no right amongst the living.
Here I am
As true as an artist
You’re worthless to me
For I am the painter of blades
Fear me now
My blade is my brush
Here I am worshipped
Where fear lives stronger than love.
I stand higher than lords
I live past the clouds;
It is here I am powerful
Proud and strong
Here on this battlefield
My name shall live on forever
I am hero.
What Am I? Lingering in that photo...
In that simple shot (still, I feel the bullet there)
I look, and I see a woman.
I am not a woman.
I have never worked for a lifestyle,
given birth for an allowance
I have never truly loved a man.
I am not a woman.
I do not have the means to
to wake, feel the calling..(oh, it calls, but I do not answer)
and move, move, move
until I reach a place of
I am not a woman.
Sometimes, I still take the
of my childhood and
place it on shoulders of
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`anmari has been spreading her infectious positivity throughout our community for over 6 years. Throughout this time Ana has been at the core of all things devious, passionately developing an eclectic gallery, helping organise devmeets, participating in chat events and also recently completed dedicating her time as a Community Volunteer. We are absolutely delighted to bestow the Deviousness Award for May 2013 to `anmari, congratulations! Read More