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I Still RememberThose late nights
And wanting so badly
To just stop thinking
And stop hurting
And sitting on my bed
And picking up the tiny blade
And holding out my wrist
And running the blade across my skin, barely touching it
And doing it again, pushing harder this time
And doing it again and again
Until I saw a tiny bead of blood form
And feeling the sharp pain
And then feeling the rush of endorphins
And wiping away the blood
And feeling at peace
As I admired
What I had done
Ramblings 1 On Procrastination and the Future
Man, I sure am lucky I'm smart.
I don't care about school. I hardly try at all. I procrastinate. I don't study for tests. I don't do extra credit work. I do the bare minimum, and just that. My goal is only to pass- just get a D, so I can move on to the next grade, and the next, and the next, and so on until I graduate high school.
I don't want to go to college. God knows my parents would kill me if I don't. But I just don't see a reason to. I'm sure I can find some job, some career, some way to make money.
Maybe I won't even need a job to get money. Maybe I'll learn to count cards and win big at Blackjack. Maybe I'll become a master thief. Maybe I'll make a living doing odd jobs for my neighbors.
Maybe I won't even have neighbors- maybe I'll live on the streets and be a drifter, a vagabond. Never sure where my next meal is coming from, just being satisfied if it comes at all.
Maybe I'm being absurd. Maybe while I sit here thinking about what I
BlackMost people think black is scary
But they're wrong.
Black isn't scary;
It's the not knowing that's scary.
The not knowing what's out there
Of your nose.
But that doesn't bother me.
Because although I can't see what's hiding out there,
They can't see me
Fingertips and Working HardAn Essay on Fingertips and Working Hard
Sometimes when I'm feeling sad or worthless, I'll just feel the pads of the fingers of my left hand, tapping their hardened tips with my thumb one at a time, down the line. Index, middle, ring, pinky. Pinky, ring, middle, index. Often I think that they're the only proof that I've worked hard at anything in my life.
I mean, I have my multitude of perfect straight-A report cards, but I've never really tried hard in school. It just comes naturally. And even if I did work for my grades, it wouldn't be because I wanted to do well in school; it would be because I had to do well in school.
The same goes for almost everything else in my life. If I like something, then I'm automatically great at it. If I don't like something, I'm still great at doing it. My whole life, I've never had to work and practice and study to be able to do anything.
But I couldn't always play guitar. The first time I picked up my dad's 20-year-old Fannon, the
MusicIf you're out of the loop,
Music is magic.
But when you're in on the secret,
It's simply a science.
The River of WordsSometimes
When I write,
The words blend together
Into a river of sounds.
The river flows
Like a well worded poem.
The writing is perfection.
If I lose
My train of thought,
The river is reduced
To a trickle.
If I get writer's block,
More Than FriendsI'll hold you in my hands forever
Grasp you tight, make sure I never
Let you go again.
Let's be more than friends.
Beautiful MusicOne day, a man sat down on a bench in the city next to a young woman. The woman had a set of iPod earphones in. When the man sat down, the woman turned and smiled at him kindly.
The man, being a man who enjoys music, spoke to the woman. "I hope you don't mind me asking," he said, "But what is it that you're listening to?"
"Oh, I'm listening to beautiful music," the woman replied.
The man wasn't satisfied by this answer. "Well, generally that's what people like to listen to. I meant more specifically. Is it by an artist I'm likely to know?"
"You may know the artist, but I doubt you've listened to this music. People rarely do," she answered.
Once again, the man wasn't entirely satisfied with her vague reply. "If you don't mind, may I listen to this song? I love to find out about new artists and music, especially if it's someone that isn't popular."
"Of course you can listen to it," the woman said happily.
"Well then, may I have one of your ear buds so I may hear this beautiful music?" Th
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
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,
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 breath 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
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
california wintersthe tears
I rationed have all
run out. Tuesday comes
up behind me and steals
my breath; my cat snores.
she can’t sleep soundly
since she lost her seventh
life. I’m like that, I’m always
worried someone will try to steal
what I’ve already given away.
I miss color. newsprint sobs
washed me out. I am a
blank canvas, I am a faceless,
I am one
of you. I wake up sweating
and it’s winter and I can’t
sleep because my memories
follow me between my sheets;
jake still won’t listen.
we never knew we were the
lucky ones, we scarred, too. don’t
touch me. don’t want
me, don’t bare my bones
when you think I’m not
watching. I’m afraid of
myself. breathing loud
enough that others know
I exist; you follow me,
needing, laughing, it’s
a game. who has lost
the most, we all want
to win; I’m so tired, so scared,
there’s no one in the world
who sees me. I can’t cry.
we’re in a drought.
Hold the HeartI.
Your heart is like the old wall,
at the end of the street,
filled with random scribbles,
of names and dates.
Though yours smells of wine and scented candles,
cluttered with faulty promises rather than garbage.
I watched you toss it so many times,
like a useless rag ball, but this time hurt didn't it?
She couldn't bear to see her name,
topping the list of a million others,
nor the lipstick print you forgot to wipe,
mixed with the scent of another's perfume.
She added a new smudge to your wall,
a line of black carefully drawn
across the memories and faces,
and firmly stated:
"No more littering allowed at all".
Then she took a hammer and ripped a hole,
wincing in disgust at the decaying flesh hiding below.
Hold your heart in your hands,
the patches can no longer sustain,
there are too many pieces now,
I think you're even harming it more,
with every sting of the needle,
while you desperately try to sew it whole.
Keep in Touch!
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