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Ghost Fingerssongs drift slowly
from rooms filled with peeling wallpaper
sometimes i feel you wrapped around my heart
touching places you could never reach before
we have a story
worthy of a best-selling paperback
the kind of story
that's only sad when it belongs to you
i try to intertwine my fingers with yours
but it's not really the same
unless you're there too
The BalloonShe hated him so much that she wanted to love him. She wanted to love him more than anything in her life. She wanted to wrap him up in her arms and promise to keep him forever.
But they tell her to leave him. "We know his type," they say. "The minute you begin to care about him, he leaves you forever and you'll be left to pick up the pieces."
She knows that they're right. She holds him by a string while he's miles above her. She loathes him, but her heart races every time she thinks of letting go of the string. She closes her eyes and the minute she opens them, she has to frantically reach for him.
Purple shadows grow beneath her eyes and blisters form where she has him tied at her wrist.
"Let him go," they whisper as they try to loosen him from her arm.
She shuffles, sleepy-eyed through the park, dragging him along behind her. A woman runs up behind her and points to the string.
"He is absolutely lovely. You're very lucky to have him miss," the woman says.
She begins to remove him fro
ImpressionableYou left impressions in her skin and they sank straight down to her heart. You always told her that she was impressionable, but she never took it quite so literally.
She was holding memories so tightly that her hands started to burn. Each day a layer of skin would char and crumble. She swept the ash off and carried on.
Sometimes when she felt lonely, she would take old blankets and wrap herself in them. They smelled like the people who used them before her. They have absorbed their dreams, their feelings, their hearts. She liked to hear other peoples' dreams because she never had one herself.
She never felt quite at home. She worried about getting caught in a gust of wind and tossed down in a field somewhere, but secretly, she hoped for it.
She missed you. She wouldn't admit it, but I could see it in her face and hear it in her words.
She lost her right shoe one night. She walked a half mile in the rain without it and arrived at the front door with a big smile on her face. Sometimes I
The DoctorWhen I was seven, I was diagnosed with emotions.
"Poor girl." I heard them say. "She'll never survive this one."
I laid with my face towards the ceiling on the cold examination table, listening to them discuss my fate. I felt something breaking in my chest and something burning inside my throat. A small tear slipped down my cheek.
"Doctor! Look at this!" Shrieked my mother, "Something is coming out of her eye."
The doctor rushed over to me and wiped the tear from my cheek. He touched the top of my head as he whispered, "I am so sorry." And then he turned to my mother. "It's a tear. It means that she is sad."
"Sad?" My mother asked inquisitively.
"It's one of her emotions. This doesn't attack the same way that normal diseases do, there are all sorts of different symptoms. Right now, she is sad and the only way that I know how to explain it is that she is feeling down."
"What do you mean by down?"
"Her emotions can best be described as ones that are upwhen she is feeling good, and
I'm Just Waiting for the RainHe keeps his umbrella close, but never opened. Storm clouds roll in and out of his life, but they never stop to even wet the ground.
He wakes up every morning at 6:15, stays in bed for another five minutes, and takes a shower that lasts eight and a half minutes. He eats two slices of buttered toast and a small tumbler of orange juice. He dresses himself in a blue button-down with a striped tie and shines his shoes so that he can see his face. If it's cold out, he wears his black trench coat and if it isn't, he just wears his sport coat. He carries his briefcase every day, along with his umbrella. He can't forget his umbrella. The train leaves at 7:00 and he is at the station by 6:55. He hasn't missed a day of work in eight years.
His career isn't exactly what he hoped it would have been. If he were to think back on it, he would realize that it isn't even close. Thankfully, he never does.
At 7:45 he goes for his morning coffee runblack with two sugars. Provided the line isn't too
FFM VIIISomeone once said that not touching people was a good rule to live by, and they were right. I was touched by a boy once. Not touched as in skin-to-skin physical contact, but touched as in he made me feel feelings when he turned corners and said silly things.
So much so, that I forgot to write for a week. If we hadn't gone down that road, my creativity and heart might still be intact.
When Growing Up Becomes Growing OldShe thinks it hits at 35. She watches her husband blow out the candles on his birthday cake, the smoke tendrils hovering in the air before they are swallowed up by the fan in the window of their new home.
By 35 you have settled down and started your family, and if you haven't, it's the year your mother begins to tell you that it's "now or never" and that if you chose the latter, you're going to regret it.
Their friends all sing an off-key version of Happy Birthday, holding long-stemmed glasses of red wine, except for Marie, since she's six months pregnant. She cuts her husband's cake into sizable pieces only to have three of the women decline as they are "watching their weight."
She looks down at the cake on her plate and thinks of the blank application for a gym membership on top of the refrigerator as her friends swap workout stories. She nods her head, gasping every so often and finishes it off with a lot of sympathetic grunting. The men have begun swapping work stories n
Day NineI don’t know which
I’m more afraid of:
breaking your heart,
or finding that you don’t
even have a heart to break.
the physics of love."matter can't be created
or destroyed," he says softly. "it just
is what it is, forever."
love.your fingertips are not butterfly wings,
and your kisses are empty graves.
your promises are not sunrise,
and your breath holds not my name.
love is not a spoken word
but a powerful, powerful verb,
and you, my love,
are not love
and so i'm letting go.
two truths and a lie.you are not in love
with me, you are in love with
ghosts, ashes, and bones.
and honey, i am
alive and alight, and i
should not be sorry.
the writer.you can tell by my quivering voice
and mismatched breaths
that i am not a storyteller.
i was never meant to write.
i stretch these words until they snap
because i long to make them more lovely
than they are supposed to be.
i cannot settle for less than infinity,
less than insanity.
i cannot settle for reality,
for the stupid stupid stupid echos in my bones,
for the parted lips that will never make a sound,
i cannot settle for honesty,
pure, clean, feather-light honesty,
so maybe i'm a liar and maybe that's a lie
but what more do i have
to hold close to me at night?
we are electric.we love like we invented love,
like we made it,
between our lips,
like it's running through our veins,
a white-hot river of lightning
scorching from cloud to cloud,
from cloud to ground,
through the thirsting desert
of our souls,
and whether now or forever,
it never ceases to amaze me
that God gave me you.
semantic satiationi have become
in the form
love love love
love love love love
love love love love love
love love love love
love love love
i am not frank sinatraFrank Sinatra's last words were
That's the thing they don't tell you
the thing that you try never
to tell yourself.
You're mentally ill now, part of the club;
but you never let yourself think sickness,
never admit it. You're sick.
You're sick, I stand in front of the mirror
every morning, check the bags under
my eyes and the tremors in my fingertips.
Don't get arrested today,
you'll smudge the prints, you're shaking.
Hold out your hands flat, you're
watching minescule mountain ranges
You're sick. The doctors say there are
pills to take and words to say that might
but what if they don't. You'll still be sick.
The mirror doesn't say anything,
doesn't care, waits for you. If only I could reach
through it, find a world where all I have to do
is stand there, is feel nothing.
Pressing my landslides to the glass,
I kid myself that I'm already there.
I feel like I'm choking. I feel like I'm scared.
I'm sick, I'm sick and
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
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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