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Red LeatherMy eyes kissed the tough wagon,
“I’m afraid I’ve surprised you” said the wheel,
as red leather rocks took the shock and flew.
They flew twice as high as the wall,
flew past the stars and grew into the moon,
as the clouds sang, loud proud and true.
The frog sat inside the mailbox,
as someone pushed a pile of post,
the wide face swung forward and bit.
Paper bruised and cut its poor throat,
so our little frog melted to soft mud
and snow fell on the hot tarmac.
Wavering heat feasts on bones,
bones disowned by the scrap dogs.
Children mutter proverbs in silence,
their eyes lamps of sugar and spice
and as the gasping earth drinks its tea,
lambs die and no one hears their cries.
Away From HomeChantel walked along the boring, grey hallway like she did everyday on the way to group therapy. Walking down those halls really reminded her how much she hated the color grey. The walls were grey, the ceiling was grey, the furniture was grey, the sky outside was often grey; the color grey seemed to be a pandemic and, the first point of infection was the building she now lived in. She was an inpatient at a sanitorium surrounded by bucolic fields, trees and, as Chantel had figured when she arrived, nothing else. Thinking about the surrounding countryside reminded her of how she had been dropped at Mountainview Sanitorium by her untenably furious parents just a week ago. However, it seemed like years since she was sitting in the leather back seat of the family Volkswagen, duffel bag at her feet. The door to group therapy and the face of her friend Claire woke her from her reverie.
“Dude, lets go! Doc is gonna kill us if we’re late again,” Claire smiled as she remembered
Tell Me, Can You Hear The Music?We are born into the downpour.
As it falls, it drums a tempo,
and the forest dances to the music.
Our feet step in time with the timpani
building on the symphony now growing from the muddy ground.
Strings of music hang alongside branches and moss,
carried by ravens’ wings
and left in the evergreens for us.
When the trees turn to mist,
the crystal mirror is our bed,
and it swallows the rain around us.
The falling drummers chill its glossy surface,
making it shiver,
the down feathers of a goose
just hatched into these cold mountains.
As it spreads its frosted glass wings
the mirror is broken
and the flying shards
slice through our music box dreams,
waking us with a lullaby
so that we can walk in rhythm again.
It Has Always Been This WayShe never saw her,
she was blind,
green eyes saw,
but did not see.
She had the voice of an angel,
a voice so soft,
a touch so gentle.
was the whisper
of the wind,
but she was numb
to her breeze,
deaf to her song.
Her beauty froze time,
but she was so unaware.
She whispered her love,
sent it on a paper plane.
She told her she was beautiful,
asked her to be hers,
but he wind blew her plane away
and it fell to fire
in the sun.
The sun full of grief,
the moon rose,
as if it were to shine a new light
upon a beautiful girl.
The night was in her eyes,
the stars in her mind,
one sent love,
the other just smiled,
of the heart she was breaking.
She didnt even hear as the shards hit the ground,
Round and around they walked,
her whispers started to fade,
the smile now gone,
the wind came back,
as if the task was not
It plucked at her skirt,
pulled at her hair,
pushed them forward,
pulled them back,
a storm spun around them,
StoriesTears and blankets
were my baby years.
My mother's arms
my brother's smile.
Sidewalk chalk and plastic hair clips
were the younger years.
Those were the days,
no worries and jump rope rhymes.
Screaming because there weren't words
to convey how happy we were
just being alive.
Then junior high,
friendship bracelets and locket necklaces,
passing notes and truth or dare,
but innocence was leaving.
Cruelty moved in.
The rumors and lies
lighting little girls on fire
burning them up inside,
the smoke making tears pour
from sad eyes.
Finally high school.
Those girls keep burning,
tears replaced by scars.
Their mouths sewn shut
with a thread spun by pain.
this is their last stage,
they break from life's cocoon
and spread wings of death,
leaving their body,
six feet under,
silenced by the world.
SaviorI was lost.
Adrift on this endless sapphire ocean.
in the loneliness,
the indigo waves did not break,
the currents ran elsewhere,
leaving me sedentary,
I looked to the black sky.
The sun set beneath the silver surface,
and so did I.
deeper into the red sea,
drunk with the sun's wine,
red as blood.
The cold froze me,
and that ice did not melt
until I rested
on the grey floor or the sea.
Everything was muffled,
I wanted to stay
in the dark stomach of the sea
but you pulled me out,
I tasted air again
and you taught me how to swim
into the black night.
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.
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
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?
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
flower petalsi know that when we touch
that my energy is yours
that we are like flowers
because at our roots
we need water and love,
we reach tall as we can
to get to the sun
and stretch our leaves
to welcome it all;
and when we touch
i know that our skin isn’t skin
too soft for this world
when it grows rough with gravel
so i invite you back to our bed,
soft with the earth
where we can lie gently
and sleep until it is time
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
An artist (revised)
Staring blankly at a white sheet of paper
Can truly be an artist’s worst nightmare
An artist’s duty as its shaper
Their thoughts up in the clouds somewhere
Looking for bits of inspiration
Their eyes searching the skies
Nothing can break their concentration
Nothing can blow out the passion in their eyes
Being an artist does not always mean you are skilled
You do not need to be Picasso or Bach
It means you want to see your dream fulfilled
And that you will never give in to an art block
SightStars in the night sky
I see beyond that and through
Greatness into darkness, I can fly
Here above the earth I can see the truth
There is an angel that will love me until I die
I Don't Come with the Edgesi.
It cries the way dragonflies leave ripples
in the rain. On days I swallow
whirlpools for breakfast and
drown with libraries for fun,
I can almost allow myself to forget
And it doesn’t want to make
me kneel on my shoulders
or pluck the weeds
from my scars;
I can see it try so hard
to be my friend.
But if I could choose
polka dots over tail lights
and sun screen over
I wouldn’t think thrice
or even once
not to blow the candles
on my grave.
That’s why I keep
the colons of analog clocks
under my tongue;
so I could keep the
figures eight of cliché’s
as keepsakes for old age.
I like to think infinities
have loopholes; tree rings
that dissolve into each other
with exhales for a caress.
And just when the tones
of lyrics would enter the
eutony of names, only then
would I drift into love.
When I wouldn’t be holding
my blood in my temples-
when all I am is a thought.
The running footsteps
we’ve come to cla
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