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Brief And Staggering Heights
Ten seconds is all it took.
He sees her, talks to her,
Falls in love, they get married,
Have fights over who-cares,
They have children,
They get careers,
They have affairs,
They talk about separation,
They decide to stay together,
And thats the first five seconds.
In the next five seconds,
He forgets her face.
Romanticism is wasted
On some people.
There is a time at night,
It is seldom seen.
That chill down your neck
Is not from any cold weather.
At this one time,
The puddles on the street
Turn into vast mirrors of ice.
The streetlamps reflect
And shine in your eyes,
and for those brief moments,
I can walk on water.
The Briar Pipe
Mysteries in small and convenient packages litter remote cabins,
where phone lines come pre-packaged in guillotines,
where people walk onto the stage with pre-fabricated character sheets
while they prepare for their big audition,
where giants walk on tiny people and get disgruntled when the ants bicker,
where clues seem to be outlined in neon lights,
yet were not visible in the minds of the innocent, or even the guilty,
where everything is significant, even the trivial,
where cars that were doomed to fail,
with their suicidal tires and their weeping gas lines,
try to piece together how the others got the best of them yet again,
where two plus two takes a predefined time allotment to calculate,
where no man is an island while the others have oars and leaky boats,
where the doorknob is given an unexplained significance,
where death accompanies not the inhabitants,
but the ignorant harbingers of justice,
these are the places where knowledge is built from the ground up,
and knocked the hel
All moments are measured by a standard.
I looked back in the year,
and I saw nothing, you know?
I didn’t see a thing,
so I went to my work
and wondered if anything changed there,
and it did somewhat,
but I didn’t change.
I went to my computer,
I looked through my poetry,
whatever that is,
and I came to the conclusion
that my voice is identical to
when I started the year.
The college, what a bust,
only proved that I’m incapable of change.
I still have the same study habits.
The grades are better,
but only because I’m slumping into the routine,
and if developing a routine is a change,
then I don’t want it.
I often wonder if anything’s changed for me.
Were the changes too gradual to notice?
Maybe I’m a more responsible adult,
God save me,
or maybe I’m seeing new things with older eyes.
Perhaps I’m becoming the horrible adult,
you know the one,
the one that thinks the world belongs to him
because he owns a fancy computer,
who will piss
You drink the waste of piss and blood,
You eat the bricks of bile and mud,
And while my sterile food is light,
I still cant seem to sleep at night.
Your worries put your hair in knots,
and stress has made you bald in spots,
I always get my perfect cut,
but Im the one whos in a rut.
Your car is broke, the tires flat,
Theres no tooth left to chew the fat,
You struggle still from day to day,
Yet now I have turned out this way,
For no account can fill the void,
no rationale can be employed,
Your low rent life is hardly free,
yet Im the one in misery.
I walk across the sand.
There is no sand.
I feel it beneath my feet,
and wonder if this is what I’ve been missing.
There is no sand.
The grains creep between my toes,
the texture being imprinted in my feet,
in my mind.
There is no sand.
The wind rushes past my face,
and the smell of the ocean
brushes past my nose,
just enough to smell the salt.
There is no wind.
I see a lighthouse in the distance.
The walk, which doesn’t exist,
is a long distance,
but it passes by in an instant.
The surface of the tower
is rough and dirty
from years of use.
The lighthouse doesn’t exist.
I see myself standing next to the lighthouse,
and I exist,
but I am not here.
I wonder where this place is.
People see him smiling,
and they dont smile back anymore.
Hes worn that smile too long,
and people have figured out
that its not real.
People once heard him laughing,
and they once laughed with him,
but now theyve picked up his rhythm.
His mechanics have suffered with age.
People know hes run dry.
Every person in the room
has picked up that
theres nothing left for him
to draw from.
Every empty gesture
draws him further from reality.
Almost every emotion has been
drained from his body,
but hell never cry,
because he knows
thats all he has left.
These New Days
I want to compose a short film.
Sad Man Eats Dinner Alone.
Itd be kind of like
Andy Warhol Eats A Hamburger,
but without the famous person.
I imagine the man is eating a green salad.
Next to him is a small glass of water.
He doesnt look sad,
but there is something missing
from his expression.
Despite the title, he is not alone.
No, there are hundreds of people around him,
leading their own lives,
talking to their friends,
Nobody is with him,
but people are there.
He wonders for only a moment
if hes the cause of this
particular low point in his life,
but theres a fresh green salad in front of him
that reminds him hes only there to eat.
Everyone knew there were people. They said hello to their family in the morning. They went to work and got lost in their thoughts. They came home and went about their business.
It was around this time somebody discovered the sound. He started playing it, and, finding it mildly better than the usual silence, he took it with him. Over time, the noise got louder. It prevented the man from thinking, but it was still better than silence, so he kept it around.
The sound grew even louder, and it spread out across the world. Now, people couldnt talk anymore. There was no way to communicate. There was no way to think. The only thing that echoed through peoples heads was the sound. That, however, wasnt enough.
Soon, the sound took on a visual form. It was a spastic ball of energy, bouncing around, constantly bombarding peoples eyes, trying to get the worlds attention. It was doing remarkably well.
There was no thinking. There was no hearing. There was no seeing. If it was
.you should have
emerged with life; your
little roots should have
clutched the soil in their
tiny white fists, and
i did not mean to trample
you, i did not mean to
let my body kill
the mystery of loveyears i spent,
never knowing what the word
"love" really meant
or how it really felt like
knew that it was spelled
l o v e
and that my parents
apparently still possess it
seeing as they've been married
for 20 years now;
years i spent,
falling into society's trap of
believing that homosexuality
is a "sin"
and that i would be punished
for being one
when maybe, it is me who is
the lesbian all this time.
all this time i spent
waiting for a prince charming
to come sweep me off my feet
when maybe i should be waiting
for a princess charming
to come take my hand and
lead me to happiness;
all this time i spent
crying, getting jealous,
frustrated, hating and
blaming myself when i should have
stopped denying who i am and
started accepting myself.
[i still don't know who i am
or where i belong,
but i know that someday
true love will find me
and i'll be
ready for it.]
following the north stari.
stars formed sheep
of which she softly
counted to herself,
trying to sleep on
her way to where you
were waiting for her;
the bus made its
way into darkness,
yet she never doubted
that the sun would
awake her in her new
place of belonging.
only a backpack full
of personal belongings
needed to survive:
about $15, a day's
worth of clothes, your
photograph, and your
distance always did
make the heart fonder,
and she never doubted
that destiny would be
the map in her heart,
leading her straight
it had been 15 years
since you two were
high school prom king
and queen, 10 [years]
since you were forced to
marry another, and 5 [years]
since your parents passed.
she had a gut feeling
that soul-mates existed and
your cursive carried all
former and elementary emotions
she remembered from the past;
it was time to reconnect
you're just a question marki met you so long ago
but back then our bodies were made of metal
and nowadays they’re made of the blades of
grass and dirt settling
underneath my fingernails.
my fingers are having a hard time
reaching the keys and
my organs are shaking mostly because i haven’t
eaten in two days but also
because i’m worried about the things you're doing to yourself.
we didn’t meet very long ago at all but it feels like forever ago
and you say you don’t know me
that you don’t know anyone
but baby you're turning into a skeleton and i’m peeling back my skin
to try and reach my bones, just like you.
i hope you're happy,
i’m covering the hard wood floors now
the bits and pieces splattered.
they are calling it a suicide but i’m calling it
a way to see my brain and
just how dark it has become, and honestly
i don’t want you to try and see about your’s.
i’m mourning the loss of my heart and wish you weren’t either -
I often wonder if machines wait.
I mean, they can sit there for decades,
in the bottom of a box,
shitty, leaky batteries and all that.
If you turned one of these machines on,
is there a hesitation in the circuitry,
a moment where the machine wakes up,
something we might call shock.
Do machines want to be used?
Do they get annoyed when we
intrude on their sleep?
I sometimes find the old machines,
like a “handheld” board game
or an old, bulky calculator.
I wonder if I should power them on.
Maybe that will make them happy.
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