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FallingRipped away from eternal safety
Like a wild fire engulfing a forest in spring
I was just set free
To immediately be thrown down a pit too deep for me to climb.
Once more feeling the dread in my soul
Claws ripping my flesh from my bones
Soft summer breezes replaced with asphyxiating heat
There is no way out,
There is no way back.
The pain has just begun,
And it is all I'll ever know.
It is not what awaits me that frightens me most,
just what I've lost.
Apathy embrace me, I will never escape.
Glances over velvet skin
The air filled with music and laughter
Easy lifes, lifes of pleasure
Never to be disturbed by struggles or dispair
A safe haven in a world in peril
Fire and pain replaced by the silver bells and breezes.
Fear forever changed to calm
Forever blue skies and lovers laughing
Never ever will we go back again.
FreezingGusts of wind chasing the snow around
Hollow howl through the cracks and hallways
Lonely in ice cold rooms
Staring in to it
The everlasting darkness
The only one still breathing
The darkness has claimed the rest
Chilled to the bone
Not by cold
Chains frozen to the skin
Frost forming on their surface
Getting warm again
As the darkness devourers what is left
No optionHenry hated the damp basement they called headquarters, it was catastrophically small and within half a year he would bet money that they would have mold issues. The others said it was the best they could get not being anywhere near rich but he worried, mostly about the moisture. It was natural maybe, being the tech-guy, but he wished the others would at least take him seriously.
They never did anymore though, not since that new chic had arrived. He was impressed too, she was way older then any of them, and most of all; She was not afraid of the Camarilla. She had stomped in to town three months earlier, had twisted Bishop Jareds balls until he wept like a puppy and taken control. She oozed of power, but Henry was worried. She talked of war, a big war, the kind of epic war you hear about in stories. He wanted to smack down the Camarilla too, he did but they weren't strong enough to take over the city, even less to change the world order as she talked about. And she was crazy
Sunday routineIt was Sunday evening and he had just gotten out of the shower and shaved, it was an unfortunate event that his embrace had happened during such a time were he had not shaved for a week, now forever making him to shave when he woke up to look presentable. Sunday meant that Roxanne was going to come by, she was just about the only contact he had with the society now a days. Others shunned him, and taught their prodigies to do the same, but Roxy always came by to exchange a few words and check up on him. The club was closed on Sundays and he enjoyed strutting around the apartment he lived in in more casual cloths, a pair of comfortable slacks and a soft jumper, not the usual shirts and jeans he wore at business meetings. The memory of James' blood still filled him with a sort of relaxation he had not felt for years, he had almost forgotten how exhilarating fresh human blood tasted in comparison to the cold hospital blood or animal blood he had lived on for the last 50 years.
A short knoc
Past sins and sins of the FatherThe young man moved through the nightclub, unaware that he was being watched. Indulged in the feverish pumping of the bass and lost in the fantasy of glamour and exoticism the club provided its patrons he made his way through the crowd to the bar. The watcher was always there, unnoticed by most in the club, watching them with a growing hunger. It was the beauty that intrigued it, the confident and the hints of an artistic side. It wanted to feel his smooth skin under its fingers, hear his voice without the contortion of the bass. Listen to his breathing. It was an agonizing pleasure to watch him every time he entered the club, to follow his night but never reveal once presence. The night went on, as did the watching, but then when the club closed something happened. The young man forgot his jacket, and the watcher breached its policy of causion. It went out in the early morning, into the crowd leaving the club, and found the man. The man smiled at it, took its jacket and said;
KooieKooie turned her eyes towards the living room and slid down the wall. She smelt the pot and figured no one would bother her if she just stayed where she was. Fang, her parents dog soon accompanied her and she laid her thin arms around the big dogs neck. He was a mutt, just like her. She liked Fang, he was a true friend. Always around keeping her warm and safe. They were really partying hard in the living room and she got restless after an hour of sitting still in the closet that was her room. She peeked out behind the curtain that was her door and then sneaked out with Fang close behind her. It was a warm summers night and she simply started to walk over the field by their house. They had just moved there, it wasn't pretty, it had no windows and the roof was broken so she wasn't allowed on the second floor, but her dad said the fucking nazis wouldn't find them there. The nazis was the police. Kooie didn't really know what to think about the situation, everyone gave her such mixed
The easy wayTo lay down
Turn the coat
Taking the easy way out
Being a part of the machine
Take others words for it
Not thinking for yourself
Closing your eyes for what you do not understand
Blaming the system, the world or others for what you didn't get
Never your fault
Never that you didn't try
What could you do?
Nothing, apart from not taking the route you took.
It's not your fault that life didn't turn out like your dreams,
How could it be? You only took the easy way. Nothing wrong with that.
I am a MouseI am a mouse.
I am quiet, I am nothing.
I am a book that nobody has read.
I am an eclipsed sun and a cloaked moon.
I am irrelevant and unwanted, a broken toy in an attic.
I am the dust in your rear-view mirror that you leave behind.
I am the air that you breathe in and spit out as something different.
I am the palest white. I am the darkest black. I am the dullest, emptiest grey.
I am the old man with forgotten memories and the baby who has yet to make them.
I am a forgotten word, dangling on the tip of your tongue, hanging on the noose of your lips.
I am a dried up stream. I am a felled forest. I am an abandoned cornucopia of resolute nothingness.
And there is Hell burning in my eyes.
PainParalized by the suffering
A shiver down my spine
Images of my past haunt me
No one can save me from this hell
to me you are perfect
I do not know the reasons
for all those scars burning
against your bright skin
you've been soaking
a pain reminiscing from past
we both cannot recollect
yet you are so beautiful..
when night gets darker
and I am the one...
who's hungered to undress
the spirit of you
slowly revealing the layers
coming off from shadows
disguised in desires
craving to be fulfilled
I will caress every corner
of your silhouette
until I figure the true shape
of your heart
I will rub those blisters
softly until every nerve
of you gushes into a river
and you moan into a life
I had promised you
years ago when we began
to breathe into each other
for all the truths
I must swallow
and lessons I must learn
you are the one
I am destined to discover
what it means
to love in perfection
A void within meAlone on this inhospitable night, once again
I let my memories guide my lost steps,
Wandering amid the ghosts of my past.
As I walk along the quay,
I stare at the feeble Seine flowing:
She's dying by the street lamps' hands
While the whole city asphyxiates.
Reflecting my own lack of humanity
Over the river's lighted surface,
Griefs come and go at the water's rhythm.
Once again, on this breathtaking night,
My feelings are sealed and my chest hollow.
Purple rain, chills of cold.... Or regret? I crave
My musical drug, my remaining salvation,
Spreading a sweet poison within me and
Eroding the remaining happiness I still have.
I plug my headphones...
A grin of relief appears on my weary face,
I flee to lenient lands, where a familiar Angel tucks me in.
These notes of violin split the immutable silence,
Fill the hole in, lit a bonfire to my soul.
This mermaid sings my dreams to me,
i can't keep walking on these dry-rot bonesoh, i am not a poet;
like the ink scratches
of plath, i am
specter boy: decay,
dispose, & disappoint
because this is the way
that writers wane -
(this hangman head is no
survivor story, & gods
do not burn out
you talk like a travestyoh, mercury boy, you can't
write your way out of this
body or out of this mind;
you can pray like it's high-fashion,
insist you're only burning yourself out
(but tell me - do you feel like a god yet?)
if only for murky mirrors &
silver cicadas caught
in your ribcage, you've
got a knack for decaying
The PointIt’s the taste of cake mix on the spoon, that first time you ‘help’ bake a cake.
It’s seeing the bright world afresh after a dark nightmare, when you first wake.
It’s when you make them laugh and, in that moment, everyone loves a clown.
It’s when your heart stops before the roller coaster plummets down, down.
It’s when the lights go out before your favourite band plays and you scream.
It’s that moment you look around and everything’s perfect enough to be a dream.
It’s the anticipation of waiting for a new episode of your favourite television show.
It’s the first time you listen to your favourite record and you just sort of know.
It’s reading a book cover-to-cover and a million times more and still crying at the ending.
It’s the stiff, tight, real feeling of a smiling scab as you watch the wound mending.
It’s when you first meet your best friend and you hate each other (but in a good way).
california wintersthe tears
I rationed have all
run out. Tuesday comes
up behind me and steals
my breath; my cat snores.
she can’t sleep soundly
since she lost her seventh
life. I’m like that, I’m always
worried someone will try to steal
what I’ve already given away.
I miss color. newsprint sobs
washed me out. I am a
blank canvas, I am a faceless,
I am one
of you. I wake up sweating
and it’s winter and I can’t
sleep because my memories
follow me between my sheets;
jake still won’t listen.
we never knew we were the
lucky ones, we scarred, too. don’t
touch me. don’t want
me, don’t bare my bones
when you think I’m not
watching. I’m afraid of
myself. breathing loud
enough that others know
I exist; you follow me,
needing, laughing, it’s
a game. who has lost
the most, we all want
to win; I’m so tired, so scared,
there’s no one in the world
who sees me. I can’t cry.
we’re in a drought.
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
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
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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