|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
fallingfollow me as I sink,
and washed up clothing,
hung upon wires
perhaps several shades whiter
and just a few things
that linger and flow
across this dome stretched,
to reach far away
from you and I
now the earth
hues darker than what we have seen, above
seems a small distance away from home
they spread within
and sometimes around
from the slightest of touches
a look in the eye
a little game of words
it lends not to them
shades, deeper or brighter
of green or yet some other earthly hue
for these roots, they settle inside
or on the surface – creep -
dark, strong, pliant yet definite
enmeshed in the rags of the ephemeral
to paler shades of gray
no longer holding on
I shall cut sift and plough
sow seeds and
whatever else you ask of me
around the clock
about the calendar
I shall give you this gift
Somewhere Aloneunder sodium lamps we saw
a world devoid of color
deaf dumb and harshly blind
an atrocious blend of silence
and moments all but empty
that beckoned us away
the little circles of light
all promises and plans do
tittering and tottering
to vanish at the edge...
dreams they made us hope
and smile and laugh
and weep and cry and gag
all real yet nothing
but possibilities fabricated
that multiplied and divided
until all that we had left
were bits and pieces
some truths we shared
and the rest we buried
for half-truths and lies
sometimes held us together
searching for solitude...Tonight I walked
Towards a lonely star
Ever bright and constant,
As it shed little drops of light
Down a grim painted sky.
Tonight I stood
Upon a wobbly metal bridge,
And stared at that window
In front of your bed;
I breathed and searched,
When the scent I found
Was not yours but
Of the cold listless night.
Frigid. Deserted. Lifeless.
And yet, I looked, on and on,
At your dew stained window
And wondered why
I could not see past the dark.
So I called you and you answered,
Your voice so sweet and broken by sleep-
Telling me about smiles,
Because yours is the only one
I so fondly remember.
And we talked and talked,
About things that matter,
About things that will,
And things that never did.
We talked about love,
About never leaving,
And never letting go.
Yes, we talked all night.
After a while, you told me
That your eyes need rest and so do you.
I smiled, even though I knew
That I wanted to hear you speak,
For just another minute, another second
or perhaps just a moment alon
Realizationsrealizations while staring out a moonlit window, on a cold winter night
Here I am,
Here I am,
Here I lie,
dream of you.
Here I sleep,
and wonder, about
of your right hand.
Here I am,
Here I am,
in every little moment
in every little breath
with you by my side.
Here I am,
I can hear you singI can hear you sing
as you sing your song
with words still hushed
and music mute,
with a masked city-sky
and a moon complete,
with the yellowed light
streaming across the streets
I can hear you sing.
I can hear you sing,
somewhere here in me
this little ache to miss another beat,
Yes, I can hear you sing
of red roses and wreathes
that follow you and
and scant memories.
I can hear you sing
of years that you will never see,
of lives you could have healed,
of friends you'll never meet.
Yes, I can hear you sing.
And yes, I know,
that you think I will never feel
every gasp of pain,
every sigh of grief,
every breath of fear,
between you and me.
But, I can hear you sing
and I know the words are not for me.
Yes, I can hear you sing
a symphony of tears and rain,
And I can hear you sing,
I can hear you sing.
Deny MeI couldn't care less
about your eyes;
be they amber,
blue or amethyst,
and your tresses,
be they cropped or long
dark as midnight
or red as sunset.
I don't give a damn
if you're fair or dark,
or if your hands
are soft as petals,
or if your fragrance
should remind me
of rain wet roses.
But every restless night
and every endless hour,
I am haunted and taunted-
not by shameful moments,
not by tender memories
but by a heart too fickle.
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
diaryi thinned recall,
strangled memory until she screamed black
or blue, strung her source of voice along
the willowed incline of vein to wrist and down
let the curl thirstily imply
just how cut it is to pain in numbers:
one scar for extravagant wine dates, three
for the number of times we fucked crying,
eight for forgotten promises of ever after
i heard a sordid song in your tallied matchstick
bones, victorian in beauty & proper repression
of the bloody details like a bruise we push beneath
our hollow skin with dirty fingernails
see, the past is not a headless infant with knives for
playful fingers, though it is not to say
that cribs or birdcages hold anything more than
what we leave them to engulf
i swallowed you whole, ocean— basked by the enchantments
of soft-spoken life, bathed by neurotic erosion.
they taught me that the cleansing of your body now
fades the transient you of yesteryear, speak in familiar tongue:
bathroom stall mirages of rounds, clocks, convey
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
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
Makers Of The Cage. Holders Of The Key.Our eyes are the closest thing we have to freedom.
We see endless blue sky, and the stars beyond.
We see the beauty of the world.
We see our reflection in the mirror;
the reality, and the fantasy.
Our eyes see far and great.
But the rest of us cannot follow.
Our hands probe the steel bars around us.
Fumbling in the dark.
Cut by the sharp edges.
The bleeding never stops.
Our feet shuffle around.
Trying to go places.
But we walk in circles.
Our emotions go from red to blue;
orange to green;
yellow to purple,
mixing in a haze.
Our mind goes to dark places,
and only wanders deeper.
Oblivious to the place right next door.
It knows the freedom,
it knows the pit.
There are endless paths to take.
There's a cage we need to break.
There is a key ourselves create.
In our hands, it's never too late.
a cherry pit dog heart.she holds a cherry pit dog heart in her hand, arrhythmic
beats like children playing pots and pans in kitchens
mother builds from scratch, black bean soup prepared
for dinner by a creased artist; wisps of white
upon a grandfather's head remind his daughter's child
of winter as he talks of horses in cuba who scratch
their backs on wooden posts; the first time she eats
ox tail is at an uncle's funeral, sitting in the basement,
surrounded by her surname, wondering why everyone
seems so happy; her grandmother keeps having
that dream where she's cooking and pours hot oil
on the animal in the kitchen, singeing his skin—
she cries out at midnight, sobbing for her daughter;
black eyes watch as her child keeps growing,
inspecting her process for future improvements,
while she takes pride in getting her sleeve caught
on twigs as she runs through the forest; motherhood
enters her every so often, at times uninvited, but
never for her prince in white, the bundle curled up
on her bed, floating
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
don't ask me whyThere she was standing
As our voices rolled
Upon waves and waves,
And waves that kept
Our paths changing.
Did you see me?
As I walked alone
On my way, just away
From what I knew
We weren't feeling.
We were never there,
and we never saw those waves
because away was the only way
we were heading.
You never saw me fading,
and you never saw me wait
because you never knew
what I had to say.
Our DutyWe swallowed the path home
Because we were hungry,
Though starving is an ongoing
Story, an empty bag
Dancing in the streets,
Full of an unfastened voice
Walking through the house,
Wind unchained, heart admonished.
Heaven fills its eyes, crawls away,
That sleeping boat content to follow
The vacant waves, intervals
Of dying that we dare not interrupt,
And we watch the kind ear shrinking
From our charcoal docks; heaven
With a full stomach crawls away.
This is what we were put here for.
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