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A WEAKIn a week I do
Mess of sleep
Regret of choice
Slumped over in
Always spelt wrong
Fullness and comfort
I am comatose
Awake at seven
In a week I do, repeat
Curiously BaitedThomas lived on my street
For many years I saw that flop of hair
His poise and gestures returning when he saw me
And I sketched out the possibilities of him tripping
That boy, Thomas
Eyes; like that of winter
A face that only a mother could love
With his gapped teeth
Gestures to me in such a manner I did not understand
His pile was out back
And he the captain of what he called “ship”
In more so missing the letter T in replacement of P
Once invited me to join him
And my reply was ignoring
And that language was blunt
Body clutched like an angry animal
Never understanding what I meant
He’d ask and shrug his tiny shoulders
Taking strings and bits of board out back
Colouring them as if he owned the place
It was just garbage to me
But to him
And I could never understand Thomas Turnpipe
And his cardboard tugboat he called ship
And I could never understand why he tried
To make me join him
Curiosity struck me
A Child's HairThey're changing me, They're changing me!
To this I did not agree!
Today they cut my hair
scissors here and there
A fit I will give you
For a change is something new
I'm Not sitting in this chair
Not even with your glare
Not sitting to be changed
I don't need to be rearranged
A nervous chatter in my jaw
A gentle grab from your claw
and you there "You're embarrassing us"
But I NEED to put up a fuss!
Do you know how horrible that was?
Of course not, no adult does
Today they have changed me
An aspect I do not want to see
and looking through a clouded eye
Do you know what I realize?
Well, it's still there
No need for me to become mad
"It doesn't look half-bad."
A MadDear chemical imbalance
Dear sudden acts of Violence
To a Sunday morning cartoon
That lasts 'till noon
Dear fits of Impurity
To all the do's and don't's I've ever had
To every single moment mad
Dear rage like thundered nights
Dear warmth of sudden brights
To days where nothing lasts
To moments I could not grasp
An hour of sleep inside my cave
an hour of peace for I am brave
No monster am I for things I've done
Not shamed by battles I had not won
Dear ember night shade
Dear place where I laid
To that smell of calm
To the ache in my palm
I did not mean to yell
Control came fast, but fell
I chose to think instead of speak
I chose to yell and instead be weak
Dear my own embrace
I don't even like this place
Dear what you thought I'd need
You who thinks to feed
To my friends who sit and wait
To everyone who tempted fate
Dear you who was always there
Dear ones who think without care
You we're always there inside my soul
and without you I would not be whole.
The Addict, RottenHis breath like a smoking pipe
like a fresh graze of something ripe
She, a little tall
together since the fall
His nose, so cold as he kissed
His habit it won't be missed
His tone a harsh and rotten one
although she trusts what he's never done
A sleaze, an addict
With more than one to depict
She left now and won't be taken
by the habit he's forsaken
The smell of smoke too strong
She picked herself up "So long."
He is now inhabited by a fate
far worse than ones of late
She left him alone to crawl
but that didn't help or worsen him at all
I am the master of my wordI am the master of my own world
I am what I decide and do
because there is a difference in action
and sitting by
When I say something
When I write it down
There is a difference in reading it out loud
and reading it inside
There is a whole new meaning when I recite the words I have created
and when you THINK you understand them
Don't abide by the rules of structure
Don't shun me because I can't spell
What's the difference in the words
Your, You're, threw and through
They sound the same out loud
except one is Your and one is through
but the message is simple
you don't need a dictionary to speak your mind
you're what your mind speaks
and even though you sit through it all
You never threw anything away
and that is the difference in the words
because if you say it like you mean it
it must mean what you say
I am not a poet
I am no writer or speaker
I am what I want to be in the words I speak
and if you have an issue with how I present those words
Clearly you're not listening
to what Im throw
FreedomSometimes it's nice to just take a walk somewhere.
Sometimes in late day and night when the moon is out and the sun is gone or going, when the feeling of being together is gone for a moment and all you can hear is the pounding of your own heart beat.
Often times it's fine to experience something emotional, just like it's perfectly normal to never. Even as the days go by and all the people you knew grow older together with you, you haven't changed at all. The smiles, the laughs remain the same and you just accept that.
Sometimes you just take a metaphorical walk and in a single moment you're flying off into a dream world with everything you ever loved gone in a single stroke. Sometimes it's okay to be angry, smash a pumpkin in with a bat and nail something to a fence. Have you have grabbed a hammer and just smashed it so hard on the wall you felt the ground shake? Have you ever just waited for a moment in the embrace of anger and just feel great?
You are power and no one can take that f
I am a Writer because...I am a Writer because my creative juice runs dry
Because sometimes, my pages cry
A writer because I don't need to be
Never really expecting what I see
to come out on paper
So clean and so dapper
I am a writer because my characters act alone
I do not run their lives like I do my own
A writer because I don't care sometimes
Keeping up with all the correct lines
and my grammar is not the best
and I digress
I am a writer because it's better to speak
sometimes, more often I'm weak
because it's nice to be heard in letters
A writer like all the others
My stories may not be well done
but in my mind description may never come
I am a writer because I get surprised
by all the things my characters do in their lives
and I do not expect to be right
A writer because I may not want to tonight
and often when the story is done
I am a writer, because it's fun.
Okay now, queue the stageOkay now, queue the stage
Opening scene, to savor a page
I've seen your face, I know your eyes
Who are you? He'd answer Demise
A word I would assume was bad
But listen now my young lad
A Monster is not someone to fear
He lives everywhere, even here
He may be scary
but listen closely
Remember the company that you keep
You'll be safe once you sleep
I ask if you got scared?
Perhaps from the things I shared
You say 'NO!, not one bit"
I ask you why? "Because monsters, they dont exist"
naught but to dreamStars cluster at my window,
They watch me lay back
Trying to sleep off the pain -
I want naught but to dream
Of your eyes once more.
Morphine to my mind
Crystallized over hours
Watching wind swept clouds.
Weary, windswept -
Just let me lay back;
I want naught but to dream
Of your eyes once more.
Easy MelodyThere is solace
in the empty spaces of existence,
but those are few and far between.
That’s what I used to think,
but there’s a fine line
between company and chaos.
It seems either the walls scream
or I am lonely.
What I need is a medium;
voices of monotone,
of reason, with no burden of my life
or their own,
just a nice easy melody.
A girl named Neon(poem)In a dark cruel world
A girl was born into
She was gifted with many talents
Yet she was denied
She had a distinct look to her
Abnormal to her kind
A bright pink hue to her fur
Like a bright rose
She was consumed in grief
Afraid to be free
Her mother showed her the way
Now she's believes
Her name was Neon Rose
She is an Umbreon
Her light shines brightly
As she runs around in the night
Now she is loved
Never to be alone
Showing new confidence
That she has never known
Let her aurora shine
Showing the kindness within
Now she is loved
Like a StoneI saw you last night.
And you were the sun.
But Icarus flew
I was a raging torrent
Like the sea.
And when he plummeted
He was a whistling stone.
I swallowed him whole.
AnteriormenteAbridle el cráneo, que fluya su sangre
de arriba a abajo, hacedlo, que muera,
pues sus gritos no le importan a nadie
si no queda escrito en papiros de seda.
Gritos en silencio por solitario,
pues haciendo algo malo
que se acerquen los iluminados
es gritar sin dar medio bocado.
Con el gesto en tu ceño destapado,
sin gorras, pañuelos o cabello
veo el centro de tu central de miedo:
tácito funcionamiento. Traumatizando.
Pues miras tú y yo ordeno
cuando en segundos fue al contrario
porque tú eres el hermano que no tengo
fundido en un estilo olvidado.
La sombra del cazador de sueños
que cobra vida mientras ando
se precipita en la alegre ponzoña
que rezuman los humanos.
Gritadme con los ojos, mirando,
y aunque pesen vuestros párpados,
seguiréis señalando. Dormitando.
Que se calle el fuego: apagadlo.
Reaching for the StarsThey told us to reach for the stars
without ever telling us what we were reaching for
because they thought we'd figure it out for ourselves.
The more we reached for the stars the more we realized what we were grasping at.
Desperately trying to hold in the palms of our hands
tiny pinpricks of hopeful light
against a backdrop of darkness
surrounded by the hopes of the others foolish enough
to try to touch something that was light-years away
and probably already dead for aeons.
We reached for something that had left us behind long ago,
we reached foolishly trying to touch space with small hands
that still coloured with crayons and hugged teddy bears at night.
We reached for the stars
without ever knowing how far away they were,
and when we finally realized how far they were
we were already lost in space,
or had figured it out early
and crashed back to earth in a fiery inferno of broken dreams.
See, they told us to reach for the stars so we'd k
AnonymousI’m sat here, trying to write out the words that I want to come out ever so much. Everything from how I feel and such, to how I miss your ever so soft touch.
I once knew that lovely feeling called “bliss”, one of the many things I miss, one of the many things you made me feel. All this sadness, all this hurt I’m trying to conceal. I don’t know if it’s working or if it’s not, maybe it’s all just for naught.
I know it’s pointless and I know I shouldn’t. But I still love you, even though you couldn’t.
I know I shouldn’t, and I know it’s pointless. But I still love you and it leaves me voiceless.
I’m sorry if this isn’t what you wanted to hear, I really am. I promise, I’ll do my best to make these feelings disappear.
- Not so yours truly,
Shadow and violet at five nights at freddys ch.1"I can't believe this.I thought this was all a game!"said violet as she look at freddys pizzeria."well it's real if it's base off the game."said shadow to his human girlfriend."Violet laugh at shadow nervously."c-come shadow.it's not real."she said."then why are you so nervous vivi?"shadow said with a smirk."I'm not!and I like to see you prove your point!"violet said."okay then.you at me sneak in tonight."said shadow."WHAT?!NOO WAY!!!!AND WHAT IF IT IS REAL?!?!I WANT TO LIVE MY LIFE NOT END IT!!!!!"violet said."you want to prove if this place was haunted.plus you the five nights at freddys expert."Shadow said.he was right.Violet had pass the whole game but the she had nightmares for weeks."well I guess your right but-"when she turn around shadow was running to g.u.n."race you to g.u.n!"hey!wait for me!"violet said running to shadow.
Wiersz Nr.18 MantraOstra krawędź, lśni kwawałek szkła.
Nagła wilgoć, czy to krew czy łza?
"Radość Przez Cierpienie", motto mi wykuli,
Na dnie mego serca, w świecie szklanej kuli.
Staram się poskładać losu swego części,
Z frustracji znów wbijam paznokcie w swe pięści.
Krzyki dławie w gardle, i tak nikt nie słucha,
W koło pełno ludzi, brak żywego ducha.
Pośród tej ciemności, tylko jedno słowo.
Twoje imię, szepcze wciąż na nowo.
Krótka mantra, źródło mojej siły,
Wiedzie mnie do światła, przez życia szlak zawiły.
A Lesson in Rhymecan I accept the establishment?
Even through a punishment
and it isn't the people who see through the glass
it's if you stay in and keep in the class
Knowledge, it isn't much to say
I have too much do in my words to pay
off my dues
cause I get to choose
How can you be butch
acting like nothing happened before
when in reality it's sharper then the chore
and I came from a family who had it rough
Through moments and singles, you understand enough?
Cause in relativity
You can't get
in my met
in my shoes
in my dues
Through the door
walk into a world you never knew before
cause' that's me
waiting on three
we need a little time for bustle
get with the ruffle
through the cuffle
I got zipped and muffled
through the house
in little time I came to you
and what did you tell me to do?
lay down and sleep
don't you peep
didn't believe the rye
this is not a book
and it's a novel, just take a look
Page through page
I got a path to go, rage
is the emotion
Blood BrothersBrookie always holds my hand when we cross the street. She's never given a reason for it, she just does it. It's become this unspoken rule with us that whenever we cross the street together, she slips her hand in mine and I lace my fingers through hers and we walk hand-in-hand until we reach the other side and she drops her hand and we both wipe our palms on our jeans. Brookie's a little scared of crossing the street. Her poppa died in a car crash when we were six. He was a pedestrian. She's never gotten over it.
Brookie is my best friend going on sixteen years now, which is pretty impressive considering we're both sixteen. We don't have some cute little story about how we were born in the same hospital on the same day or about how our mothers were best friends long before they were pregnant with us and somehow passed on that bond while we were still in utero. No, Brookie and I met the same way ever
Life is but a DreamWe are just unnourished frail bodies,
overfed with white lies and short-lived-euphorias.
Books filled with black letters,
etching lurid images into our utmost dreams.
Veering us from the big picture...
the one we fail to paint ourselves.
Our fists much too busy with fights,
that we are bound to lose.
Too occupied in line waiting,
for creativity to be let loose like a stray dog.
As if we will find home in this pursuit of happiness...
but we only enclose each other in small rooms
with nothing but old laptops.
How many times I've guessed which letter could it be...
Which letter could it be?
To free us from havoc-stricken-thoughts?
They come and go, unending like 24 hour subway stations.
There's no break for this lonely man,
heaving every breathe of stale air
into my overused lungs...
Living in confined walls of flesh
held up with brittle paper-mache bones.
Which day is it that I will burst out from this cage of a life?
And hover with the Gods found in carefully binded bo
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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