|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
SlitHow many times do you cut your eyes before your heart starts to bleed?
Why do these eyes when fueled by sighs, try desperately to fill the need?
How does it pass that every word you ask can never buck the trend
For any thoughts that give you naught, only quicken the end
Catharsis is the king of fools, the jokers bottled in
And every time those eyes do gaze, they prick the soul with pins
The end proves the beginingI have little time you anymore. I almost forgot you existed these last two weeks...
How did something that seemed so free and endless die like a smoking candle wick in the night?
Joy to darkness slower then the stars march in the sky...
Almost imperceptible, but a little less with each passing day...
You called, I looked back, but my neck hurts and I don't really have the will or the time now.
How many times can I say "No, no I can find it again! It can be like it was before" before I drown in the hypocrisy of it all?
Mouth full of snakes and venom that burn like a white flame so that the body enfolds itself like a shell, inward, inward... Ever inward... There are no answers left outside.
I asked so often, but the answers never came, just vapour in a void, no ripples to disturb the pool heart beats more frozen then the poles...
So here we are at last sitting on fences throwing stones at cherry trees filled with red dreams that never ripened...
These merry go round horses w
In slumberCaged in sleep I scream
Life runs on without consent
In this shadowed realm
For a night condemned to keep
unholy vigil in bed and sheets
LidsInside the window sits
shells of her eyelid
to squint against the fissure's
oh how the casted die does roll
Lost LightsPeter Pan, with his hands cupped,
tempts the Moon Mother with his smile.
Shy stars peek past her skirts,
wondering why such a soft soul
holds heartache an ally.
"Look closer, children; he's here
to guide ghosts--lost lights--home."
*Powercut*Climbing stairs by candlelight
Darkness thick with mystery
Alert to danger, cold with fright
Curiosity this dark night.
Candle's flickering shadow
Dance macabre clearly seen
I'm not intrepid blood runs slow
Sinister spectre, malevolent glow.
Frozen moment on staircase
Imagination likes to tease
All is well powercut ended
Electric light - the stairs a breeze.
The Princess is DeadHer survival was hung on a thread
For her body was covered in red
The only taste she had of life
Was quickly ended with a knife
For, alas, the princess is dead
She lay in her eternal bed
As her deep wounds slowly bled
Death clasped her soul with malicious grace
As lifeblood taints her gorgeous face
For, alas, the princess is dead
The young girl was then led
To a place to escape her dread
She watches the spirits through sun and snow
Her home now Hakugyokurou
For, alas, the princess is dead
A Day OffOn a day of no responsibilities my conscience sleeps
allowing me to become a part of a movie,
fly through stories as I read,
time with loved ones who are so much more than friends
reverberates laughter sweeter than music
and lets me slip into myself, completely relaxed.
I lay, stretched, looking like a cat in its blissful state for relaxation
dozing and waking, dreams and daydreams blurring as I go in and out of sleep
Soft sound comfort me, and I sing along to the musics
Tunes from movies
mingles with parodies made by friends
all recited in a lazy perfection, as if I were seeing the words in front of me; reading.
No one watches my actions, or attempts to read
my thoughts so that I might never relax,
instead I surround myself with old friends:
warm pajamas, fuzzy socks, and a forever sleeping
doll. Our story rivaling those in movies
set to instrumental music.
Should I choose to make music
through flipping pages as I read,
or setting a soundtrack to the inevitable movie
that will follow
Willows and WarThey used to meet there every eve
beneath the willow tree
and then war came and there it ended
the stillness of waiting peace
yet every eve he crossed the bridge
to the other side of town
and waited neath the willow tree
where they used to meet
rain and fire
bombs and tired
he still traveled every night
several years passed and yet
of her there was not a sight
he went there one last time
marking when first they'd met
and found her neath the willow tree
A Sestina on Growing UpI had always been a timid child
One who hid from monsters
And shrank from daunting roars
Which threatened to swallow me whole
And, I think, I used to be more afraid
Than most, for people terrified me too
When young, I used to feel too
Much - others were un-emphatic and this child
Was loathe to not be afraid
Of the way humans were monsters,
Those who appeared hale and whole
And then turned and taught with roars
Louder and louder, grew the roars
I braved the jungle of courage but it, too
Large - tangled - chewed and spat me - still whole
Onto the minefield of maturity. Which child,
When confronted with such deceptive monsters
Would stand fast and tall, yet not be afraid?
I, it appeared, was brave - and afraid
I stood fast - slouching - but the roars
Were harmless - I realised that the monsters
Would not harm me, and this too
Clicked, connected with a thought. I was no more a child
Who ran and hid from the behemoths - I was whole.
This happy thought was fleeting, but whole
The creatures r
Judgement, Part 1until you breathe against your will
for long-lost hope, caught in a lie
by desperate screams for one last pill
to stop life warping, but your eyes
still see, and insomniac fear
(from blood-soaked wrists at two a.m.)
twists the world you once held dear
to shreds. Only you can see Them,
eyes mocking every crimson smile
you paint - but it's the only way
to hide yourself, just for a while
before they whisper: that girl's cra...
Wuthering Heights - A PoemHer ghostly presence still haunts his dreams,
the central force behind his schemes.
Each decision is carefully planned,
maneuvered by her cold, dead hand.
The seeds she planted long ago
have only now begun to grow;
they germinate slowly at first,
sprouting with an unquenched thirst.
Some nights he still hears her voice,
unsure if it’s insanity’s choice;
Across the arid wasteland calling,
as the stinging sleet is falling;
toward the lowlands of the dead
wherein ancestors’ ghosts with hollow eyes
search amidst endless sullen skies,
their ice cold fingers pierce the skin,
in an attempt to reach the soul within.
Barren air is filled with Ravens’ cries
and forsaken lovers mournful sighs.
He’ll call his Catherine from her cold,
attenuated, barren moorland road.
Back to Wuthering Heights, bringing her home,
no more gnarled paths shall she roam.
Out along the frozen moor
wherein deep snow falls and northern winds roar,
Catherine’s spirit passes through th
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