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decayannapii, that's enough.
if you can't breathe
its because you smell of formaldehyde;
preservation and death-worship.
the memories you hold remain beautiful
embalmed stars, always photogenic,
picture-perfect, and precise-cold
in the fading warmth of your fist
those stones are dead, cold, weight
in the palm of your hand,
filling the emptiness with emptiness
like broken promises of a better tomorrow.
you've held on too long. let go.
untitledif your heart is a pocket-coin,
having too little value
to be of note when it falls
into the wet gutter
not quite thrown away,
fished out of the dirty puddles
to make a penny-for-a-wish,
your stars are dead.
and the light that cradles
your daydreams, your wishes,
and the hopes too impossible to even
is a memory; an afterimage
of something that has not been
for a thousand years.
love is all i needcinderella rubs her own pretty face
with fireplace ashes and cellar cobwebs
a widow's humble shack and working pride
aren't enough for our damsel in distress.
why work for a hard day's satisfaction
when prince charming's slipper and kiss
are an easy happily ever after?
untitledon their last night
i'm sure dido was laughing.
she was teasing smiles from aeneas.
you see, he had such a handsome face
when he had no words for his lover,
i wanna be friends with dido
i could tell her that i understand
what it's like to miss a pretty face
or for your only comfort in this world
to be a pocket full of withered iris flowers.
how will you remember mesomeday
when i'm too old to be
xxxx, young and immortal,
i will die.
when i tremble before you
its because i can feel
his hands, pressing down
between my collarbones, at the hollow
where my frightened heart
bitch, i'm not fuckin' scared of you.
but i'm scared of dying
before i can forgive you.
because that old cliche; life is short
is true. i don't have the time to hate you
when you're not a regret.
merely: a friend to be forgiven
i'm sorrymy dearest. i can force my heart
into the empty cup of your hands
but i can't fill your loneliness.
there will always be more missing
than i can give you.
because everything bleeds
through your shaking fingers and
i can't hold our world together
when you've wretched your hands
out of mine.
my dearest. i am so fucking sorry.
i didn't want to be another memory
written in cursive on the scars of
your beautiful heart.
but i am. that's all i am.
and that's all i'll ever be.
i'll throw it all awayhe sat me down within myself
and when he walked away, left
his kerosene-tinted footprints
irreversibly permeating my world.
he left behind his love. an apology.
and burned the bridge back.
and i, the poor fool, never learned
to keep my hand off the stove or
my heart to myself
reach after him
and feed the flames, his path back,
with anything. everything.
i'm the one that's not good enoughwe all have skeletons in the closet
and i keep my dirty bones etched
with a lovely list of my flaws.
i keep my self-mutiliation coy and
kissing the worn surface of ribs
and brushing the warm underside
within the flesh and trembling heart
i have laid at your feet; are flaws.
the law of diminishing marginal utilitythe law of diminishing marginal utility
states that you will cherish the previous
more than the forthcoming. that i'll grant
a little less satisfaction with each time
that we are together.
and each of your (precious) next heartbeats
will have a little less reason to race when
my voice and body become as familiar to you
as your own.
studies have proven that passion is nothing
but the love's easily corrected disturbance,
at adaptation's whim.
but fuck laws. i want my love always sloppy
and reckless; untouched by the passing time.
make me endure it.
keep my body falling hard and often for you
She's a WriterShe sits at her desk
Her headphones in,
The world shut out.
She bleeds for others
As words fly from
Her mind to her fingertips.
She stares at the screen,
At every little comment,
The good and the painful.
She forms her emotions
Into books and poems
To throw away the hurt.
She's a writer,
And her best weapons
Are her mind and her pen.
Do you know what it feels like...To be lonely?
To be bullied?
To be called ugly?
To be unattractive?
To be compared to other women?
To be considered unnormal?
To be unloved even though you give love to others?
To face issues that you don't in reality know how to fix?
To think that your goal you're reaching for, is unattainable?
To feel like the cause of many people's problems?
To be held up on a high pedistal that you can't get down off of?
To realize that people don't like you based on your personailty?
To at no avail, keep up your happy and upbeatness for others?
To look at happy couples and wish that you had someone to be happy with?
To stop fighting for anything anymore?
death of a sweet sixteeni found my house on
the market the
other day -
- it was 2011 again,
but the sun had set
on my nights of terror
nose to the barstool and
two black eyes, a dish
towel caught in my throat.
i keep trying to find
pieces of myself that
no longer exist - a dead dog,
baby blue walls, whispered
it sold for six figures,
and i can only wish
that i could sell my pain
for that much, but no
one would be willing to buy
it, as i am it's sole host,
the only one who
one of these days i will
drive by that sad eyed
grey house before we are
gone for good, and i will set
up with my camera, snapping
photos of my whitewashed hurt.
and if i linger too long,
so be it, as i've spent so
many nights ruined,
scraped away like the stars
once stuck on my
the bank may own my house,
but it will never own my heart.
You AgainOh, it's you again. I must admit,
The crooning has
The lies have been
And mine are like swords
It's just you and me
In this sick game
I can tell
You're pulling me in,
And I don't have
To pull you down
Sometimes, I've had
And all I see is
Then it became
I don't know
How to escape
Dark to see.
And all I can
Wonder at every
Turn I make
When can it be
BetrayedI won't swallow your lies anymore
I can't stand your presence
You used to be my friend
But you're nothing to me now
And soon you'll be
Another bad memory
I won't be able to forget
By the LakeSat beneath a Christmas tree in late-March.
The ground is damp but pliant, it pretends to accept me
and then sneaks its cold fingers through my clothes
to dampen my spirits further with its chilly undertones.
I stare at the river, plump with soon-to-be April showers.
It does roly-polys over the smallest of obstacles and goes on.
It reminds me of what I should be able to do.
It runs as I grind to a full stop, and consider my life sentence.
The sky is blue; not like me, but bright and crisped;
Its been blurred by an amateur around the edges with cloud
But they don’t threaten me with rain just yet so, for now, we are friends.
The sun is missing. No one knows where she is.
She could be dead, by now. At the bottom of the lake.
Could have slunk there in a midday sunset.
She could of drowned her sorrows in the ricocheting tides
of a man made dam and its loosened throat. She could be.
She is not, she is hiding.
The sun hides from the world but leaves a blue sheen behind
to let everyone k
ConfrontationI shed a tear
The damage will be severe
Run away in fear?
I'll fight until the coast is clear!
Reasons We Love Homestuck“Reasons we love H O M E S T U C K.”
Why do this love this web comic, you ask?
Maybe it’s just the way the fandom rolls,
or how mean Andrew Hussie trolls.
It could possibly be Eridan’s accent (WWyeh?)
or even Feferi’s keyboard trident. (---E)
Some people say it’s Equius’ broken bows and arrows, ( D →)
but what about Nepeta’s meows and roleplays? (:33 <)
We really do love Sollux’s lisp,
and also when Karkat’s pissed. (FUCKASS!)
Including Kanaya's fabulous lipstick,
it's also Rose's amazing magic.
How about when Dave starts rapping
and Jade Harley begins napping?
We love Vriska’s eight-pupiled eye,
and how John is such an adorable guy.
Or maybe it’s with all the sprites
or how prospit glows bright.
Can’t forget about Derse’s darkness
or Gamzee and all his soberness. (WHOOPS.)
There’s also this thing with Tav and stairs
which he t
How To Not Break Your HeartHow to
not break your heart
Make sure to quickly
let go of hands
that refuse to hold you
and pretend it was
just a simple accident
(And, oh god, please,
please don't open
Admit that things
can't be perfect
when you can't convince
yourself to believe
that it was worth
the days you stayed
up until 5 AM
play your cards right and
don't love anything with a pulse-
They'll make you crumble
like a house of cards
Fall for the ones who fell
like shooting stars and
left imprints in the concrete
when their times were up
Fall for the ones you
can never touch whether
they are black-and-white,
colored, or just in another
Sculpt them to suit your needs
Fall for figments of your imagination, too
because they'll move their pieces
according to you and only you
and always you
always make sure to
love things that aren't alive
They'll never betray you
xxxx-2012shut up. darling, shut up.
you can't make me okay.
even your "i love you"s
are just the final nails in my coffin.
its too late.
you've buried me in your memory
and i'll always be prematurely buried
screaming and clawing
appealing to ghosts and cemetary dirt
until even my memory quietly dies away.
you've filled the hole
wasted tears, left the flowers.
and turned away to start forgetting.
you will forget me.
you will stop loving me.
and when the tears dry
and the flowers wither away
i'll still be here, hoarse and silent.
and not worth a damn thing to you.
Un roti de Cupidon"Patron.. je suis pas sûr que ça soit une si bonne idée..."
Un bruissement d'ailes presque froufroutant sur sa gauche le fit se retourner d'un bond, mais il ne put percevoir qu'un bref mouvement du coin de l'oeil. Ils étaient rapides, bien trop rapides. Jamais le vieux ne réussirait. De nouveau ce bruit soyeux, semblable à des ailes de tourterelles, mais bien plus proche. Dans son esprit il pouvait les voir, tournant au dessus de sa tête comme autant de vautours prêts à la curée.
Le bruit assourdi des détonations résonna et tout autour d'Emmanuel une pluie de plumes commença à virevolter tandis que cinq bruits sourds accompagnaient la chute d'autant de corps autour de lui.
"Ramasse les, petit. On a encore du boulot."
Avec une grimace mi admirative, mi dégoûtée, le jeune homme se mit au travail, enfilant des lourds gants de cuir pour se protéger. Son sup
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung words
Together on row upon row again
Of blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.
‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;
Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?
Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,
To point with honesty failed verse of thine.
No real poet discards upper case words;
Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.
You seek to free verse of those stern letters,
Sever away bleak capital fetters,
But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,
Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.
Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;
It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,
To make our dull words sound great all the time,
Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,
Heralding a poet’s summer prime.
Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;
Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,
The subject not gilded in raiment fine;
Your bold ink font, crystal waters divine
Tastes bitter to the ton
Keep in Touch!
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