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.she carries more mistakes than
there are stars, behind her
a lifetime of
a human supernova
.in the night
time you are
skin and stitches
you up with a
purer love, until
the morning comes,
the sun runs his
teeth through your
seams again, splits
.i feel nothing
nothing takes its perch on my
arm in the morning
talons poking holes through
my tissue paper skin,
sits with me for breakfast
i see nothing in the mirror,
a dead-eyed frowning thing
nothing gives me a kiss goodbye and
says it will be here when
i get back
.don't come to me at 2am
when your heart starts to split
its nuts and bolts
and your eyes are threatening to
burst their banks
i will be too busy trying to
solder my own
laying down sandbags and praying
the tide comes no higher
.i have learnt enough about gravity
to know that he can do what i can't, myself
snap my bones like twigs
he says that beautiful things are
the easiest to break
.i am empty,
insides carved out like
pumpkins on halloween
and i will tell the kids that
treats come with tricks
i was born with something even
the night can't hide
His BallerinaA gown of silk, flowing as a stream,
Her footsteps so gentle, perhaps she was a dream,
As he crouches near bushes to glare at the unseen,
And she danced like ballerina.
Her fingers combed her golden hair,
A perfect lady who didn't care
To see the man that would never dare
To touch a ballerina.
But desire grew, and patience died,
As a lovely girl danced before his eyes,
So he buried his heart, pulled out a knife,
And tickled the ballerina.
She fought his hands, in fear of death,
A dirty blade sinking through her chest,
For he would never settle for something less,
As she screamed,
She took her final breath...
And the wind grew calm, barely blowing on the stream.
Her voice so quiet (perhaps it was a dream).
As he closes his eyes, cradling his queen...
His beautiful ballerina.
the devil's in the detailsthere’s a beautiful boy sitting on the curb
of a street somewhere in that time right before
the sun sets and his head is in his hands
and he’s never looked more beautiful or more alone
and you want to tell him it’ll be fine,
that it’ll be okay, that soon he’ll outrun whatever’s
doggin’ his heels, that it may seem crowded now
but there’ll always be more earth
than people, or else we’d be driving
through ghosts and the whole
point of driving is to run away from them.
but he doesn’t have the right kind of eyes
to believe that. they’re red and bloodshot
like he’s been crying too long
to ever listen to you.
you don’t sit down next to him. he does
not expect you to. he may or may not
know you’re even there. if he did,
he’d make you leave because you don’t
belong with him, this angel of a boy,
you don’t want to put him together
you want to watch him finish falling apart
because broken things
a poem on the inner workings of my chaotic mindit isn't like i'm
lazy or anything it's just that
the thought of getting lost
in a crowd of ten or more people
makes me want to puke.
this is not just some
stupid little hang-up that you can
joke about when i'm
digging my fingernails into my palm so
hard that blood is drawn as we walk through
school hallways so packed that it feels
like we're suffocating from too much
oxygen but i just grit my teeth and
laugh "yeah, i know, i just don't like
being around people sometimes."
but you know,
there's just something about the way
my mother says "go out and have a life
and stop looking like the world
betrays you every day"
that makes my stomach drop
or when my dad looks at me and just
sighs, like they've finally realized
i was never good enough to be
and to everyone who believes that
i just need to relax,
to just calm down and think:
fuck you. fuck you for trying to pretend
like you know how it feels when my
bones grind together like broken
gears as i walk by people who may
nightmares and lavender owlsdear night-bones
do not marinade in the melanchor
and allow your feeble surfaces
to become slippy and
under the fingertips of sanity -
don't become a semblance,
of reality, just be.
there's no need for lavender
to perfumiae the dusk garden
that thoughtless flower
does not grow here.
after the broken attempts -
of cracked knuckles
as they claw a representation
of beauty, into soil.
oh, to that intrical fluid
thinly veined cribbages
of capillary and thought,
illusive thought -
don't slumber to a stop
and leave me destitute and dehydrated
of truth, of life.
do not betray me
with your sharp and unsoft pricks
of the reality
into my ribs--
don't sharpen my senses
to the point of self harm by thought,
oh bones and sanity
and the screeching owls
that herald in a death-silence
that coos the word;
do not ask of me more than i can bare -
don't, please, ask me
to endure the blade-in-brain
( 4/03/2014 )Oh,
little godless girl
you talk like
of your powerhouse
are showing through
you’re no nymph,
your own carbon
It’s been 64 hours
50 minutes, &
since this whole thing
& you’re already falling
You left your skilless
in the waste basket
by the bed,
in the alley.
You are your own
& by definition
your work deserves
16The moon renders a highway
As the trees paint the spectre,
You sit with a stillness — unnatural;
You listen for the twigs to snap.
My pulse is a bird straining
Against a cage of flesh.
ashes to ashesi am the girl with
more faith in myths than in
there are more dead bodies in this world than the living.
and if that doesn't frighten you, then i
don't know what would. i guess you could
say that graves are just the closets in which
we hide our skeletons in.
there are ghosts all around us.
and i think that maybe,
i'd rather take my chances down in
the underworld with them than up
here where the earth is slowly
all because of the living.
Bridge + BoatWe are a bridge.
You wrapped a rope around my neck and strung me to a tree, in the hopes that, if you held me taut enough, you could walk all over me. Part of this forced smile rotted and broke off. You skipped over the holes until you forgot they were there.
Eventually the piece you landed on, whilst you tried not to fall through the chasms in my mind, began to break. You hit a little harder each time, and I shook, and splinters left us both with a collection of wounds to remember our days by.
I started to fray. I thought you would tether me again, as you had once before. I remembered the days you had worked so hard to secure me to the earth, to you. I remembered the day you made me part of the pathway to your future. I remembered how proud I was to be part of your home.
I held on as long as I could, soon holes were canyons and frays were the intricate lace of rivers through a continent. Eventually the cracks met, your negligence and my faulty materials, we disintegrated.
You bought a
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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