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why i keep you (on the inside of my head)it’s a big feeling when you realise
how close we are to each other in this endless universe.
what seems so far to us
could be a step for someone else;
like an ant on a daisy
saying to another ant on a daisy but an inch away,
"I am too far away."
we are too small for this sky,
too small, and we look up
and the sight of the space is too much for one of us.
we need to eat,
we need to drink,
we need to sleep,
we need to be close.
(i need to be close to you and this is why i keep you
on the inside of my head.)
still on nights like this, it seems
that the drainage holes of Heaven
make me feel like you are just around the corner
instead of across the deepest sea.
Quiet AnswersIt's God, you see
The muse that makes us all seek our completion
It's the hungry hunter
Searching for his meal;
It's when we put
Our words onto a highway to be ridden
That we realise
The stories could be real.
And for so long
I've held it all inside a bony prison
For fear that others
Would not understand;
But here it is,
The truth that is all that really matters:
It is Love I write,
And Love will heal all man.
From a Great HeightConfused, I sat
on the edge of my mind
and asked, why
do we feel like dying
when the only solution
Half-lightI imagine you here.
When I wake, when I drift,
When I daydream
Or take the elevator.
I see you in the curtain-light of dusk,
And passing through the hallway.
I imagine you sweeping the stardust
Off the kitchen counter, and saying
How strange I am. Your hands
Engulf mine and I imagine
You tracing constellations on my back
As I fall slowly, softly asleep,
three twenty a.m., or misty dawn for you I am miles away from you, and I can’t sleep.
I can’t think straight, either. I have been sick today and everything seems sad and strange and blown out of proportion. I know that I should be trying to rest, but instead I sit in the darkness of my room and listen to the night sounds. Cars pass by outside and cut through wind; their headlights travel across my ceiling, leaving shadows as the sound of their motors lingers in the dim lit air. I breathe and try to remember what night sounds like from your bedroom window. Ah, it comes back to me. The sound of stillness, of moonlight and the Milky Way coursing through the arteries of the sky; sleeping animals and fog creeping swiftly down the summer hill before the first light appears.
Thinking of those things makes my body relax. I breathe again and notice my headache is gone. Sitting soberly with my legs under my quilts, I feel the winter on my hands. It isn't as if I miss your hands linking with mine; no, it’s
we have stars, you and I I have stars on my shirt.
You have stars on your car seat covers, and in your night sky,
And I have city lights and aeroplanes that fly low over my apartment buildings. At least it looks very low from my windowsill. I wave and wonder if, from up there, they can see the plaid pants I’m wearing just like I saw and felt everything when I lifted off from your country.
Life is a funny thing. So is love. So are people. I think we have a hard time reconciling the good with the evil; the happy with the sad; the joy with the hurt; the you with the me.
We lean too far towards one side, and we dream too much about it all. We try to cut holes in ourselves so that other people’s odd puzzle arms will fit perfectly into ourselves and so we can go “Look! We fit!” and pretend that we are soul mates. But that’s not how it works. We cannot expect to find perfection with imperfect people and surroundings. The only thing that ever can be perfect is the God in how we
Home is More than a Nounhome is our souls
and what we do with them.
not the decadent tramp of well-worn
boots on familiar sidewalks,
not the shadowed breath of cool
pine in the summer afternoons,
not the heart-dreams of sleep, not the
safety of curtains
nor the wildness of your lovesick thoughts
like the largest thesaurus.
our lives are what our souls say to each other,
their cores being the the earth
of our purpose, and the roots
of our reason.
so you see,
our home is our souls
and what we do with them.
his name is calmi still have our secret codes
from many, many years ago
the legend written on notebook paper in his
scratchy twelve-year-old handwriting.
but as it were, we had no need
for scribbled languages of our own
when we felt it in the air, and in the electricity
of when he looked at me
and the lyrics of all-too-perfect songs
that i wished i could sing someday.
then like that splintering moment
when you realise that you have dreamt this dream before...
we were sparks in the silver winter, and something of a shooting star;
miles above the earth
and he was the only thing that kept my fires burning.
because he was my safety, my belonging,
familiarity and mystery
all in one.
he was growing up, and
he was the lyrics that i will scatter like sugar crystals
throughout my life.
and i could have spent every hour of my waking day with him,
every hour of sleep-filled night and
still lie gazing at his turned face
as if it were the face of everything.
i could have wasted
time with him
but instead i, in my g
Black and Whitetonight
I will die, like any other night,
when the cracks of my bedroom door
become liquid with ink,
and sharp at the edges.
I will slip into a blazing white sleep,
where I become the scent of black, and a ghost
then I am only concerned with
curves and rhymes
that slowly make up my breeze of a mind.
I'll lie dead in my grave
of assonance and metaphors,
and my epitaph will read,
"here lies she, who more
wrote her death
than died it."
I am a MouseI am a mouse.
I am quiet, I am nothing.
I am a book that nobody has read.
I am an eclipsed sun and a cloaked moon.
I am irrelevant and unwanted, a broken toy in an attic.
I am the dust in your rear-view mirror that you leave behind.
I am the air that you breathe in and spit out as something different.
I am the palest white. I am the darkest black. I am the dullest, emptiest grey.
I am the old man with forgotten memories and the baby who has yet to make them.
I am a forgotten word, dangling on the tip of your tongue, hanging on the noose of your lips.
I am a dried up stream. I am a felled forest. I am an abandoned cornucopia of resolute nothingness.
And there is Hell burning in my eyes.
PainParalized by the suffering
A shiver down my spine
Images of my past haunt me
No one can save me from this hell
to me you are perfect
I do not know the reasons
for all those scars burning
against your bright skin
you've been soaking
a pain reminiscing from past
we both cannot recollect
yet you are so beautiful..
when night gets darker
and I am the one...
who's hungered to undress
the spirit of you
slowly revealing the layers
coming off from shadows
disguised in desires
craving to be fulfilled
I will caress every corner
of your silhouette
until I figure the true shape
of your heart
I will rub those blisters
softly until every nerve
of you gushes into a river
and you moan into a life
I had promised you
years ago when we began
to breathe into each other
for all the truths
I must swallow
and lessons I must learn
you are the one
I am destined to discover
what it means
to love in perfection
A void within meAlone on this inhospitable night, once again
I let my memories guide my lost steps,
Wandering amid the ghosts of my past.
As I walk along the quay,
I stare at the feeble Seine flowing:
She's dying by the street lamps' hands
While the whole city asphyxiates.
Reflecting my own lack of humanity
Over the river's lighted surface,
Griefs come and go at the water's rhythm.
Once again, on this breathtaking night,
My feelings are sealed and my chest hollow.
Purple rain, chills of cold.... Or regret? I crave
My musical drug, my remaining salvation,
Spreading a sweet poison within me and
Eroding the remaining happiness I still have.
I plug my headphones...
A grin of relief appears on my weary face,
I flee to lenient lands, where a familiar Angel tucks me in.
These notes of violin split the immutable silence,
Fill the hole in, lit a bonfire to my soul.
This mermaid sings my dreams to me,
i can't keep walking on these dry-rot bonesoh, i am not a poet;
like the ink scratches
of plath, i am
specter boy: decay,
dispose, & disappoint
because this is the way
that writers wane -
(this hangman head is no
survivor story, & gods
do not burn out
you talk like a travestyoh, mercury boy, you can't
write your way out of this
body or out of this mind;
you can pray like it's high-fashion,
insist you're only burning yourself out
(but tell me - do you feel like a god yet?)
if only for murky mirrors &
silver cicadas caught
in your ribcage, you've
got a knack for decaying
The PointIt’s the taste of cake mix on the spoon, that first time you ‘help’ bake a cake.
It’s seeing the bright world afresh after a dark nightmare, when you first wake.
It’s when you make them laugh and, in that moment, everyone loves a clown.
It’s when your heart stops before the roller coaster plummets down, down.
It’s when the lights go out before your favourite band plays and you scream.
It’s that moment you look around and everything’s perfect enough to be a dream.
It’s the anticipation of waiting for a new episode of your favourite television show.
It’s the first time you listen to your favourite record and you just sort of know.
It’s reading a book cover-to-cover and a million times more and still crying at the ending.
It’s the stiff, tight, real feeling of a smiling scab as you watch the wound mending.
It’s when you first meet your best friend and you hate each other (but in a good way).
a sensory afternoongolden-turning,
bare skin, muscles aching...
we closed our salty eyes
and feeling the sun, spread our l i m b s
on the surface of the echoing blanket
while leaves dappled the amber of the long, late day
the smell of petrol and strawberry-marmalade
washed over us,
after warm, sleepy wave
a caramel jawline, caught in the corner of my eyes
spoke to me of a hanging mid-afternoon, sad and sweet
like a decade-old song in the air.
but our fingers were long and limp on our laps
through lines of flushed rhythm, my seafoam blood was smiling,
my heart a wine-press,
my eyes shutting their flicker lenses
to paint this skin-glowing picture
with drowsy, syncopating brush strokes
on the september backseat we sat...
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