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The Man and the MoonHer mouth corners hung themselves
and I began to wonder if that was the death of them.
A simple, quiet death;
without broken fingernails lining the walls
with the stripes of a despairing end.
I began to ache with the questioning in my heart
with the echoes reverberating in my capillaries
of her face scorching sunshine in her smile
right before it crumpled
and nothing was left but a frowning moon
set firm in its resignation to an upcoming eclipse.
the scars on your shouldersthe scars on your shoulders
are braille to me, so that i
can read your skin, so that i
can know you better.
i like to listen to your heartbeat
and how it resounds differently
from mine, just so beautifully
like two songs played in tandem
to harmonise in rounds;
i like to hold your hands
and rub your back
so that maybe my love
can find its way through your pores
and seep into your blood
(never can i find the right words
to tell you just the way you feel to me)
and to think that and how i nearly missed you
makes me miss you more
every minute and mile we spend
i can't sleep with another body
in my bed,
but sleeping without you
He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.
The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.
But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white a
Overgrown ColorsRed like blood on a rose.
White like bone and stars.
Black like reclusiveness.
Green like dead air.
Orange like the savage instinct.
Purity like a god's heart.
Red like thawing hatred.
White like a frozen, severe cry.
Black like the night's deprived shadows.
Green like the wind in the grass.
Orange like the light in the shadows.
Purity like the sun rising.
So discharging through the moon in a wheeze is like luminous white, dispersed red.
PocketLeftover religion in the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
A key that unlocks nothing
A penny, a scrap of paper
With half of your name
Written in black ink
A song that is usually in my head
In the shriveled carcass
Of a long-dead dream
In the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
With the lint
with thanks to frosttwo roads diverged in a soulless dawn
and you pull over,
idling on the shoulder of route 50.
it's a polaroid morning and
the world is as grainy
as your eyes,
and one million miles
is not far enough.
it plays back, filmstrip,
blurred along the length of
and here you are:
facing a choice between
this loosejointed, hollowbodied
this is what
Condemnedbeneath the beaten earth they lay,
their dreams condemned to ashes,
and our restless bodies stretch,
for forgiveness, for direction –
survivors of the abyss,
amidst wide-eye, silent soldiers –
so many dead, so many maimed,
how many graves are we standing on, today?
A sister is like a soul mate;
Someone who is always there
to guide me through fate.
A sister is,
a part of childhood that I cannot erase;
A sister like you,
is one that I would never replace
because you always know how to
put a smile on my face.
I know I can depend on you
to always be there for me;
This is one hundred percent guaranteed!
I've had great memories with you
in the past;
and I hope there are many more
in the future.
SurelyIt was raining
when we kissed for the first time,
for the last time.
sunk into the shrunken space
between our bodies
and divided us
like nothing could before,
like everything will
until that never again
when we will
see each other once more,
Your eyes were
that bewitching shade
of dull brown blue
with all of the light darkness
in a placid pond
around a pupil
overflowing with vacancy,
and my frowning smile.
The winter heat
fell like a rising tide
for our every breath
was another death
so black and full of life --
embracing our boiled ice skin
as we drew apart,
came together and broke free
Life, Death And A Pork Chop SandwichAll tangled up, hard to breathe
This steel cloud day that swirls
With heat and pounding hammers
I shake in my boots and cough up
Blood, rust and damaged flesh
Waiting for the second coming
Maybe next time around there'll be
Some chance for more than this
A twisted barbed wire halo
Wrapped tight around my skull
Blinding white light aura
Swarming with flies I'm flying
To pieces, thousands of shards
Cannot be brought back together
But I will remember the summer
Of my first Chevrolet in each bit
Gleaming bits of glass in the desert
Each reflecting a different moment
Still, now, enduring until the waves
Of a new ocean sweep them away
Pretty little things called words and dustif you weren't a hypocrite,
you'd be wrapped in the sweetest
how to engulf the ocean
with your lungs
and think of how to cup it
in your hands
your broken prayers and
still be beautiful)
dance with the gypsies
(a quake in
your hips like the thrust
and the faultlines
so, so graceful)
sing with the nymphs
it's growing old,
your throat's burning dry
like a monsoon
faltering in a desert,
be nestled in a king's arms
(oh, you precious
Riddle My tears fall,
My heart beats,
because of the
What am I?
A Night By the FireNo light,
The light sired by the night
All above whilst the day's delights
Now disappears from mortal sight.
Faded away is the sun's power,
Taking the stage now is night's sallow flower;
Now mortals may behold the stars and falling shower.
Set in a pit Nature's skyscraper ablaze
And revel in the emanating heat as you gaze,
Looking down on occasion when you hear a crack from the fire
And witness "fireflies" flying away from mother's blaze;
Dying shortly after but not lacking burning beauty do they desire!
I look out towards the teasing shore
And meditate as we sit upon her door,
Thinking on what my future has in store;
Who I am now and even
Why meI wanted sleep very badly
I tried my hardest to rest
I closed my eyes and laid there
But sleep didn’t come easy
I would doze off
And wake back up
Why me? When I know I have to be up at 3 AM.
Not The Love PoemHe picked me up, he spun around...
it wasn't as high off the ground.
Dry throat when he said "I love you"...
and his eyes were not as blue.
My love used to spring from me so easily,
now I don't know where it went...
I didn't feel the way I was supposed to...
is there something wrong,
too many things I was supposed to do...
This is not the love poem,
I thought I'd be writing now.
But when I find him, there won't be enough words
exploding from my finger tips...
I'm not a princess, no where near a queen,
and we do not live on silver screens,
Most people can settle for mediocre,
so why the hell can't I...
He was a moment i
Lost in DreamlandThe summer of twenty twelve was one straight out of a romance novel. In stories, these imaginary characters some author or playwright would dream up would have a perfect teenage love affair over their summer vacation, then be torn apart by the coming of autumn yet destined to meet again eventually.
Of course, these typical star-crossed lovers would meet in some vacation spot, such as a beach house or hotel. Maybe I had never experienced a summer romance because I never went away. My family could never afford it. Besides, who needs to travel when you live on a lake?
Anyway, every year, my summer consisted of meeting a couple friends for a day
The PhotographI can remember
two heavenly blue eyes,
burning bright through the dark
like gleaming headlights.
Uttering words from our lips,
just between you and me.
You told me you would stay here,
so why did you leave?
I can remember
the gold and amber leaves,
fluttering in the autumn wind,
clinging onto the trees.
Those Saturday weekends,
on top of thin piles of sand,
with a navy blue tee shirt
and the touch of your hand.
Now I have
run across this
the time that we laid
down and laughed,
with your lips
pressed against my cheek...
I can remember
your pair of blue jeans,
shouting to strangers
and running down the street.
Then I will
A Moment In TimeOne does not simply approach an account of one of the most horrific tragedies in the history of mankind casually.
These words I am about to write will not compare to the eloquence and grace of the words that have inspired me to write this. I do not think any words I ever write will compare. However, one does not simply walk away from reading those words without writing an entire paper in their mind.
Some time a long, long time ago in a world that no longer seems to exist, there was plenty to believe in and plenty to hope for. Despite what other people may say about their experiences, I don't think you know all at once. I don't think there is
They Call Me CynicalLong, deep and hot breaths into the palms of my hands.
Morals, how pointless they are when they have gone to waste.
I sat on the receiving end, too young to understand.
Broken hearts, how amusing to mock, how sour they taste.
The Pretty Things He LovedI find it strange
that I can still remember,
in crisp detail,
every pretty thing he loved.
Every pretty, innocent little thing
he would gracefully and shamelessly show me,
and I would love it
only because he loved it.
the beauty of his interests have melted away,
the sweetness of his quirks has gone bitter,
and the ashes of the memories I've burned
are wicked little things.
But he never was.
And he never will be.
I have not seen him in some time,
but I am seeing angels and devils,
and they all have his blue eyes.
God's EyesSore throat, headache.
Skin peels in white flakes.
Sour icing on a dry cake.
The sun dips behind the hills.
Deep inhale, swallow pills,
and the whole world stands still.
just keep your head
above the water.
Minutes pass, silent phone.
Always away, always alone,
answer me, dead tone.
Only time can tell.
She's doing real well,
in her hell,
she throws herself down
a wishing well.
I'll fly with my bride,
all dressed in white.
She says she is going nowhere,
trapped in one long nightmare,
scratching, ripping out hair
but no one cares.
She says, she goes to sleep crying,
all the secrets and lying,
Keep in Touch!
`anmari has been spreading her infectious positivity throughout our community for over 6 years. Throughout this time Ana has been at the core of all things devious, passionately developing an eclectic gallery, helping organise devmeets, participating in chat events and also recently completed dedicating her time as a Community Volunteer. We are absolutely delighted to bestow the Deviousness Award for May 2013 to `anmari, congratulations! Read More