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In my nightmareIn my nightmare
The man does not sleep
His eyes stare blankly
They blink automatically but
There is nothing behind them
A person could stare within for
centuries without ever finding emotion
His heartbeat is steady
never changing, never faltering
His lungs exchange oxygen and carbon dioxide
and in his stillness the rise and fall of his chest
could be the growth and collapse of mountains
In my nightmare
The machine is a monster
Wheels turn steadily
teeth biting one another in rotation
Tall smoke towers reach up to the sky
releasing their chemicals into the vulnerable atmosphere
For miles the sound of the metal creature
dominates the airwaves, leaving all other life silent
The fence protects the monster fifteen feet up
Gateless, fed shock protection by its captive
Its protection is such that no life exists in the ground
for a yard at i
You - IVLate night was once lonely
Loud with the sleeping silences
Twitching under pressure from boredom
Fuelled by lethargic solitude
Now I find myself purposefully awake, alone
Uninterested in dimming my lights and mind
The night is not really different from what it was
Yet the privacy becomes attractive,
The silence: peaceful
You introduced me to this new night
Reestablished early hours with different potential
With you night came alive
Night became a time to escape from pressures of daylight
An oppertunity for companionship over ice cream
and metal music turned down low
At night, my inhibitions dissolved
The careful contemplations prior to speaking left me
Chased away by drowsy honesty and your accepting laughter
To a child, night is a frightening time
Yet we are no longer children afraid of darkness and shadows
At night, with you, I am fearless
Laugh out loud
Are you laughing?
False advertisement: lol
Expression of insincere amusement
Hiding seriousness, lack of enthusiasm
Behind three deceiving letters
Have you broken the code?
Can you tell I'm faking?
It's so simple
My fingers like my lying
Ring finger, right hand
Down up down
Easily created emotion
Why do I bother?
We all do it
Keyboard canned laughter
An empty use of screen-space
For those with nothing to say
First little hint
It's all a game
The Spaces BetweenI used to walk comfortably within
the spaces between phrases
Taking time to rest during conversation
Finding them to be places where I would
I was at peace in those places
A little scornful of those who felt the need to
Yet now those moments of quiet do not offer comfort
They are a trap for my mind
Catching my tongue, stealing my thoughts
Leaving me alone, struggling as
I must relearn the art of speech-rest
Allow it not to rob my of ideas, but
to cleanse my mind of unnecessary information
and allow the e
You - IIII wanted to draw something
to represent you
I gave up, feeling foolish
How could I hope to
represent the way it feels
to have your arms around me?
What colours would I use,
describing the emotions
that fill me when I consider
this thing between us?
Even words don't suit my purpose
though words are all I have
as I write another poem to you
If I were to draw what you mean to me
Paint the way you distract my thinking
I would be satisfied
with nothing less than a masterpiece
So I revert to poetry
Feeling it is less inadequate
I'm not that artistic anyway
Instructions on my MindPsycological mischiefs
The Age of Reason
On my mind
Across the ages
Alternate punishment: Concept/Definition
Shattering stereotypes unique in form
Outside of the time that I have for you
DemonsEveryone has his or her demons.
Some demons come at the bottom of a bottle, or with some kind of drug. Other share large, rich meals with their humans, or dance with the scantily clad women in a dark and smoky club.
His demons are with him always.
They wake up in his lonely bed every morning, and grin through the mirror as he shaves his thin cheeks and combs his prematurely thinning hair.
They share a seat with him on the crowded bus to the university, and make faces at the students and other professors who greet him on his way to class.
It is not that he's depressed, or that his life is hopeless and lonely. Despite the fact that he teaches African recent history, which at times is a singularly depressing subject, he is not a man burdened by sorrow.
He simply never found the energy to drive them away.
He has made his peace with the goblins that greet him each morning, and accepts them as a part of his life. Though they do not bring him happiness by any stretch of the imagination, they
MosaicThe world is a mosaic. It contains a great number of tiny pieces that come together to make up the vast piece of artwork that we call planet Earth. As time goes by the pieces that are part of Earth-mosaic change with the birth and death of all the souls living on Earth, but one thing doesn't change: the fact that variety exists across the planet. Citizens of the world come with many differences that help to make life interesting and Earth-mosaic beautiful in its limitless originality. However, despite the fact that many of us have heard that "variety is the spice of life", we are still constantly finding ways of allowing our differences to create barriers, limiting the connections people have with one another. The truth is, though, on the most basic level we are all oxygen breathing, water-drinking primates and this means that in fact we are all very connected indeed.
Consider a map of the world. Immediately many people would call to mind a map of the globe, perhaps with the Americas i
Change this lifeHiding in the shadows
Resisting in secrecy
Trying to find a way
To change this life of misery
The future is unknown
The past is to forget
The present is dull and boring
Is this what life has to offer?
I want to change
And I keep trying
Only to fail miserabily
Every single time
eight ways you've made me small1. I wish
this was for you.
2. my journal pages - the
brown one with all our monologues -
were jarred with hollow vows of
last poems of
letting you slip into a coma
of bad memories, watching you
fall to your death off
a cascading cliff of disease
and dis ease.
it was never
easy for me
3. there's a reason I ask
whether you're grey
(dark white, elusively black, in between)
or blue (behind the clouds, under wave-foam,
whateverthefuck runs through the back of my
palms); I'd rather have
than the arms
that once held you half-
heartedly. you had always been
my harmony and I
would have killed
to have been yours.
4. it could never have been just me, the way
it could never have been just
5. disasters are not beautiful,
but how is it that you
managed to make my inner linings
converge into bows
and explode into wings the very
night you decided to rebuild your walls
to a lower height?
6. I wish
Whenever I hurt myselfI have a feeling
Someone is watching
So I look around
But there's no one to be found
ExpirationWith you I always feel like I’m
to break in the wrong size of shoes.
Sometimes I sit and stew
over how you’re seventeen and
you think I’m a princess
the trapped-in-a-tower kind
and how you wear suits and talk about politics
and think you know the world.
My throat interrupts with an affronted gurgling sound
sometimes when I think about you,
you deal out advice where it just isn’t called for
you quote science-fiction to justify war
and you’re seventeen years old and you think I’m a princess
and you just have no blooming idea.
Darling, one of these days I will tell you my mind
But until then we’ll never fit
I’m afraid –
that even after that day
you’ll still be trimmed hedges and
on bradbury and table dancingYou are not a wordsmith
whatever you might like to think. ('Smith'
indicates precision and coldness and fire:
words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.)
It's a difficult road to follow, and not many
make it past the fork. Choose a path,
Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders:
I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming
rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery.
Notebooks scattered across the landscape
of a child's room, to be stumbled across,
read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night.
When the bough breaks
a hanged man laughs. He carries typewriters
in his pockets, and cigarettes in the soles of his shoes.
I will never be a word mistress,
whoring myself to the speech of people I do not know and will never know me.
The oven is set to Fahrenheit 452, but the words were already aflame
before they ever took shape under your tongue.
You love everything they've ever written, and carry
unabashed loathing for every syllabl
Death to the LoversHe screamed,
He tore his hair from his scalp;
But it didn't bring her back.
The beautiful girl
With the gorgeous smile
And witty remarks
Would always lay six feet under.
She would lie in her death bed,
Her arms folded on her chest
And her face full of peace
Known only to the dead.
He would be the first to rot.
First his health,
Then his sanity.
She would forever feed on his emotions
Like a pretty little leech,
Sapping his well being
And happiness from her underground world.
And he would let her,
For a fool like him
Who allowed himself to love,
The Most Selfish Poem I've Ever WrittenPlease be
Just half as broken
Please just once
Have a problem so big
All you can do
Is cry it into my chest
Please let me
Stroke your hair
Til you’re calm
Like every single time
You’ve stroked mine
Please can you
Just be so hurt
That you need me
A Dying BreedI am--
Not an artist.
A writer, a mediocre one at that.
Not an artist.
I don't know what to do.
I'm a writer.
On an artist website.
It took years to get my niche.
And that niche is still small.
I don't belong, do I?
Another day of second guessing myself.
Another day of not measuring up to standards.
Empty the gallery.
Empty my mind.
Keep what's recent.
It'll be trashed just the same.
Nothing measures up.
A waste of space.
No one reads anymore, anyway.
A dying practice.
A dying... art.
I'm a writer.
Not an artist.
I paint with words.
Not with a brush.
No one reads anymore.
They look at pretty things.
Let others craft their imagination for them.
I am a writer.
A dying breed.
Black and WhiteThey have no colour to them
No creativity, no mystery
They are a stark obvious contrast to their surroundings
uneasy within their conspicuousness
They wear exagerrated masks
No guessing games as to the emotion they present
Their names are bold and bland
Dull eyes observe the antics of the colour-brave
Their life is as clear as newspaper-print
Routine of mediocre set
Change is just a fantasy-dream
Individuality is regarded as a curse
How long will this black and white people survive?
Will they too be swallowed up by creative conformity?
Someday their lifestyle may be dissolved by liberal minds
But for now they prevail with a colourless existance
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More