|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
don't fall in love with a poetHello, all you gentlefellows and ladies;
I have a piece of advice for you.
Nothing harsh, nothing meant to hurt.
But here it is:
Don't fall in love with a poet.
I'm not saying it won't be brilliant.
Because it most likely will be.
(While it's happening.)
It will be lovely, to fall into the iambic pentameter
of her heartbeat.
And you will adore the collision
of her mouth, and the obscure verse it whispers
against your skin.
She will love you;
or not love you
in whatever way suits her at that present time.
It might be like fireworks.
Or it might be like gentle moving honey.
Either way, it will end.
With a bang!
and loud words (So passionate, these young ones.)
Or then again it might just tail off.
And then you're in real trouble, mate;
She'll pick you apart.
She'll pull you into words, she'll arrange you on a computer screen
perfectly, just how she wants.
She'll wrap you up in metaphors, encircle you in similes.
She'll stab you with razor-sha
I Cannot Forget.I am a modern girl;
I debate complexities.
I get migraines.
I don't know, either way I'm used to the cold sterile
of doctor's waiting rooms
and the bitter bite of medication.
There was a time, about a year ago, now
when even the thought of a germ
made me scrub my hands raw.
I have no qualms about describing myself as such;
this is who I am, I cannot pretend to be my sister
with her proud, broad, sunburnt fisherwoman's face
or my father, and his hands that can soothe panicking horses
and create order out of metal chaos, make something
that moves out of piles of bolts and puddles of black
sticky oil on the floor.
But even so
there was a child once;
a little bob-haired girl, and that girl was part of the dust.
Her hair was tangled and she wore truly atrocious clothes
and even at the age of six she knew that
knotted trees and soaring stripes of ocean over hill
were her - they were owners of something that she owned too.
I cannot ever forget the heat of t
can you tell me, dearest?can you tell me, friend
why my hand reaches for yours?
at the most inappropriate of moments, i might mention
can you tell me why you make me hurt inside?
i actually think you might have taken up residence there
pressing up against my ribcage,
travelling through my veins
and plucking at my heartstrings
(it's a sad melody, but a little bit cheeky;
then again, you do like to tease me)
can you tell me why i'm scared of you?
even though you're the goddamn sweetest thing?
i think i'm scared of your smile
and maybe your eyes too
they're poems that i just can't grasp
because darling, there's no words for you.
can you tell me why we move towards each other
a quiet touch that's oh so platonic
just knees and fingertips and sometimes the brush of your hair
on my cheek
i don't know if you notice it like i do
but hell, my heart bursts every time
i think it's killing me
(but don't move away)
can you tell me, dearest, why my hand reaches for yours?
Epithalamium.Tighten the high collar of your wedding dress
try not to think of it as a noose.
Restrained, restrained, quiet,
bursting at the seams of a thin, defenseless little figure.
Your hair is arranged in perfect
little curling ringlets of sandpaper blonde.
Smile now, dear, who wants to look like a corpse on their wedding day?
Hands run over the slight curve of waist and hips
you've always been your own until now.
dark night thoughts slide insidiously
Slick on the lipstick
red like blood and not appropriate
for pure virginal wedding white
but when has he ever treated you like something pure?
If he's going to trap you
might as well kick and scratch a little.
Or maybe more than a little.
Kitten teeth flash in the mirror.
He won't know what's coming to him.
wantsI want to kiss the breath out of you
until I own you
until your life is mine
and mine is yours
and we could kill each other
just like that.
chipped off nail polishTell me what to do, boy;
my nail polish is chipped off
and I know I am not perfect.
Tell me what to do, please
it's hard to swallow
and I cannot breathe
because you're out there somewhere in the world.
(Where the hell does someone like you come from?)
My lips are bitten
and my heart is sore.
People say that strong emotion is good
that it means you're alive and sensitive
that it's better than the numbing lethargy
And it's true, I've never felt this present
on this blue-and-green marble world of ours.
But oh god, I cannot take it any more.
My shoulders are thin and I am pale and sick
and I do not know if I can survive
any more of this feeling.
Tell me what to do.
and the demon saidhey there, angel
with the dusty hair
the apocalypse is here;
hold my hand?
let us abandon our masters and
drink wine in the ashes
chess pieces should never
have learnt to love
complicated mechanismsthe disjointed pounding wide-eyed
wonder that you are,
i'll always remember how it twisted my heart
when i realized you had dimples.
i pull up the straps of my dress as
we play cat-and-mouse on the floor
it doesn't fit me quite right
oh, please don't call me by my name
the sound of it on your voice
a little raspy from the sleep you didn't get -
will dilute my blood and thin it out with happiness
and hum inside my brain
i don't think i'll ever know you;
you have gears inside your head
and they are not visible to me.
i would pry inside but it's so delicate
and you don't mess around with complicated
mechanisms that you don't understand.
i am just a sick little girl
weakened by myself
and you and your mysteries hurt me
and of course i cry, do i ever do anything else?
don't let it go to your head.
i will dance
whether you are beside me or not.
greyscale pretensionGod I want so much
to be black-and-white and fleeting
and open-mouthed and to
write all day surrounded by cigarettes and
city and people who roll over in my bed
tangled in sheets, long-legged
and sleepy-eyed muses who press
themselves into my lips and in
faded serif type press themselves onto my
poems, little typewriter clicks of love,
little typewriter kisses, kisses that are the
smoky punctuation of my smoky
writer’s life. I want to paint over all my imperfections
of colour (the drack brown of my hair) my
imperfections of life (why can't I write today,
why is the world so uninspiring, why)
I want to stud myself through with silver
and tar my lungs with a paintbrush of
nicotine-rebellion and pretentious
hatred of The Man, and I want to laugh
openly and brokenly and let everyone
hear that break in my laugh, and invite millions of
beautiful souls into my home and let them tell
me their stories, lay out their words on the coffee
table next to glasses of wine and sift through
Look at the Girl...Look at the girl who's happy; who's laughing
Look at the girl who's never snapping
Look at the girl who's strong; who's proud
Look at the girl who's always so loud...
Now look at her when she's out of the crowd.
Look at the girl who's sad; who's weak
Look at the girl who's always so meek
Look at the girl who's broken; who's dead
Look at the girl whose arms have bled...
Now look at her and what do you see?
A girl whose mask is worthy of reverie?
A girl who's broken, sad and alone?
The girl who never wants to leave her home?
You look at the girl and tell me who you see
A girl who's confident; courageous or a girl like me?
:The Suffering:He stands alone, mindless and uninspired by ideas by the looks of shaded characters.
He is out of curiosity, inspiration, and doubt. Blinded by the pain and sorrow he carries.
Tortured to be left dead, brainwashed by the people who want to longer see the kid alive into convincing him of the thought of suicide. Swirling around him are words being said to him no person could handle. He hides his feelings and bottles the hatred and pain in. Compressed to the point to swear to kill someone. He puts a smile on. His smile convinces everyone that he is okay. Happy, inspired and caring. He acts as though nothing can stop him. But his smile is fake. Look in his eyes. The pain and suffering of a horrible tragedy. His eyes do not lie. All he wants to do is have a friend. He still hides it. Still depressed and hateful. He will explode. But, there are only few to change that... His life is like chess. He is the pawn. He is used. He is played. He doesn't want to suffer any longer. But his Queen & Ki
Grace W.She stays on the Internet until
Her dad comes yelling at her to get off the damn thing
And go downstairs.
But going downstairs implies going to bed and
Going to bed means falling asleep,
And she's never really done that well.
Fall asleep, I mean.
She lies in bed and plays games
Like counting backwards from one hundred
And counting Sheep, but the Sheep always turn into
Failed Test, Failed Friend,
But the worst is the ransom game she plays,
Where she's been kidnapped and her parents don't pay the ransom.
But some nights they do, and then decide she's not worth it
And try to get a refund.
She keeps trying,
Because if she's only good at one thing,
She's good at trying.
So, she counts numbers back from one thousand
And gets stuck wondering
If she's on 673 or 674.
Her sheep mostly stay sheep.
Instead of kidnapping scenarios, she goes down
The list of the people who've told her
'I love you.'
It's a long list, but she can't help thinking
She'd trade every
AbortionLife hadn't have even begun
Conceived wrongfully from harmless fun
It's conscience clear and pure
Slowly growing inside creating a bump
Stopping your monthly cycle you begin to panic
You take a test to find out the truth
The horror and shock sends your heart to the floor
Instead of hitting a high and punching the roof
All alone and undisturbed to you
Your hatred builds your cowardly courage
'Thou shall not kill', but this is alright?!
After all, it's not even become an age!
You take a pill to flush it out
Poor thing never stood a chance with you
You're happy that you have your life back
But only from becoming so selfish too
Months pass by and you wonder 'what if'
Ponder how their voice would have sounded
How their smile would have been looking at you
And the sound of pitter patter as their feet pounded
Now you'll never know the outcome
You're a murderer and always will be
I hope you think twice, long and hard next time
Because your first mistake could have been me
SilenceSilence, all around
Nothing to be found
The more I think, the more I ponder
It becomes clear
I shouldn't wonder
Solitude, somewhere near
Hiding out of fear
I should not repent, I should not regret
But send silent thanks
To all love I've met
Maturity, not to be seen
Childish, living a dream
But can I help it? But can I end it?
Do I so want to?
Or will I mend it?
Welcoming DeathIs there a point
When all one hopes for
Is to die?
I would never
Bring it upon myself
There have been times though
When I would have welcomed my demise
With a smile on my face
I would have given Death
A deep embrace
Until he took my very final breath
AnxiolyticAnxiolytic: preventing or reducing anxiety, antianxiety medication, tranquilizer
"So, you want me to take a pill?"
It's oh so easy.
One little pill and your problems disappear.
Obviously you have trouble coping,
everyday feels like you're stuttering,
and this one little pill will make it go away.
Chemical imbalance somewhere between the hemispheres,
Didn't you know I'm sitting here cycling through all the bad things.
If I have to take pills how am I supposed to pretend I'm normal?
my heart's racing,
My chest hurts,
I feel like I'm dying but I'm not.
Are you telling me a pill could make me ok?
I've never lived without the anxiety,
it's become a part of me,
one piece of why I'm screwed up.
Did I tell you I couldn't cope,
to feel...To feel someone's arms around me,
To feel a kiss, passionate, and deep,
To curl up together as we sleep.
Hearing your heart beat as i lay on your chest,
Holding you close, forget the rest,
Being happy with each other, no less.
Walking hand in hand down the street,
Not caring about the opinions of who sees,
Knowing despite what the world believes,
This love is real between you and me.
This is the simple happiness of my dreams,
Nothing extravagant, just having my love with me.
I don't have much hope left,
but i hope this will come to be.
A Collection Of Emotions.Horror: Spiders crawling up and down the spine, burrowing into the spinal cord.
Depression: Something weighing down the limbs and numbing the brain. This something is unidentified as yet. Guilt and other assorted secondary emotions swirling in a thick mixture, sometimes located in the gut.
Love: Clinical insanity. Symptoms can include the disproportionate swelling of the heart, and a surprisingly pleasant sensation of nausea.
Heartbreak: Glass that has shattered inside the chest. A single memory, sight, reflection or comment may cause these shatters of glass to shift and aggravate already present wounds.
Shame: Hatred of one's self, located between shoulderblades.
Ecstasy: Fizzy bubbling of the blood, an effervescence akin to champagne.
Life: A combination of all these and many others. Incurable.
MercyOh sweet God how the grassland
ignites in moonlight tonight
I must thank you for creating
her tangled fingers' slow pace
through the handsome rain Her
trochaic kinesthesia to rhythms
in Stravinsky's The Rite of
Spring Is this how you meant
for us to love you Yahweh
Tumbling clumsily down hills
of sheets into perpetually
immutable silence I could love
you like that I think I've been
practicing on this Savanna
for days and months Lost in
her crystal canvas Rolling crests
and troughs And when she touches
me Oh fair Lord I'm dragged into
your city past Gethsemane's
pulsing green and gold
Please hold us together
under this luminous stretch
Oh Father We are live
unclothed Our reflections awash
with the skin of your sun
Keep in Touch!
A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More