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Black BagsEvery so often, she would take her loving eyes off his and glance across the room, at the black bags where the other pieces of his body lay.
The ScientistThe Scientist
The Thief gurgled helplessly, mind blank and throat dry, attempting the Sisyphean task of finding a suitable word. Naturally, one came to mind: Why? - The Thief stared on at the spectacle, hidden away behind the distant gravestone, watching his love slip back. Was he not perfect? And... And... The turmoil boiled, peaking, whistling inside him, blood seeping from under his eyelids, thin and dark. He stood to his full height. He marched over the wet graveyard to his loveless and his enemy, and:
"You!" The Thief roared. The Lady spun, her face contorted.
"It's what it is. You've stolen my heart, as I did you." He unsheathed an iron dagger, and extended it to his loveless. The Lady backed, and The Scientist guarded her - a stricken look in his eyes.
"Please have sense, sir. You needn't do this." The Thief continued his glare at the Lady, blood seeping down.
"But. But. I cradled your heart. I mended it. I gave you everything I could, and that was damn near everythi
RequiemYou are sitting in a car on a blocked motorway, as you do, watching the sun. You have always thought that the world would hopefully end with something spectacular: like a zombie infection, say, or a black hole caused by some aspiring evil genius who got it wrong, or maybe even a mutated school dinner - which you know wasn't just a regular Vegetarian Lasagna. So, naturally, Heat Death wasn't on that list.
The sun imploded seven minutes ago, but you only see it now. Being in your shitty little Morris, your radio is bust. And you have no battery on your Nokia. The scientists told you the news last week, but you weren't listening, and you switched over to the game. Your team lost.
People scramble out of their cars, a cacophony of horns blaring under the increasingly red sky. You don't leave- because the heat has slowly melted the door into the rest of the frame, trapping you inside. Plus, why bother?
You begin to sweat and gasp as the sun shrinks in the distance, taking off your shirt... Y
Be Blunt With MeNo, my faith is almost gone,
Said I, four forty... My time.
What, you're scared and I'm not?
You asked in your mind... Maybe.
A Poem On DoorsA Poem On Doors
Grip, twist, tug-
into something new.
into something new.
And the doors came a-creeping,
Hesitant of the past,
Hesitant of the past failures,
Hesitant of regret.
And she ran askew-
into something soft and ready to catch.
And she arrived-
StarsailorLen never knew the universe. He never saw the stars; only a short, offhand description from his parents. His parents. They were the ones who always stopped him from exploring. Two Chemical Engineers- what good was stars and gravity and physics to them? Who had the need for physics?
"For dreamers," spat the father.
"For madmen," spat the mother. That's who, and Len believed them. But he still had a curiosity only a child could have. When he wasn't locked in his room or memorising the Periodic Table, he was playing with magnets, or watching water drop from a tap, or - and these were rare occasions - Len would take a glimpse at the stars. How pretty, he mused, how luminous. But his mother would catch his eye and exclaim, "Oh, what's the need for stars when you have Neon?" and whisk Len away to his room. Oh how he wished for the day that he could explore would arrive! But his day came all too quickly.
Len's moonlike eyes shifted between the large black umbrella and his father handing it to
Being Humanmy actions are finally lining up with my words
but the line i walk as i take the actions that will define me is very thin
walking along either side of an edge
to balance my life along those very edges can sometimes push me to the brink
but to the brink of what?
is it insanity?is it a full surrender to the process of change?
does it make me less of a man to tell you im afraid?
does it make me more of a man to pound you into dust until you fear me?
the question isint what makes me a man?
because the answer is im a human being,its just that simple
i feel pain,i feel love,i hurt,i feel joy,i feel everything
and that makes me perfectly human,no more or no less of a man
when i was brought into this world i was a baby
we should all consider ourselves children
they are the most human of us all
they love unconditionally,they express themselves without fear of judgement
because nobody has conditioned them to fear being that human
are we brave enough to have the courage of a child?
they will look
The Prince of MarsOn the bare mattress, he trembles;
praying for his white knight to come back.
Devoured by the very thing he consumes,
his disposition now mimics the windows he's painted black.
No sunlight does he ever permit,
for it invokes the mischievous shadows that challenges his fight.
All reflections he forbids,
for fear of the stranger that triggers his fright.
The insatiable hunger makes him devoid of deference,
and he's willing to sell everything he owns.
All this for the few hours of heaven,
that can be bought with precious stones.
Borrowed WordsI have often read the sparking souls of rare, bold men.
They have fed me pointed words
running red with blood
and thunder, staining
everything I've said, everything
I have. Often read the sparking souls of dead old men,
their flaming, spitting thoughts.
When your tightened lungs are stirred
fill your throat with coughing birds,
put your thought into an overwrought mouth as
I have, often. Read the sparking souls of dead old men,
the trolls in their cluttered dens
surrounded by the scrimshaw bones
of ravished brides, of wasted wives.
Soapbox words scrawled across the same bodies
I have often bled the hearkening souls of. Dead old men
have led the red, hungry eyes
of Rottweiler boys
for years as they tramped through
foyers,foam dressing their blackened lips.
We have often fed the snarling souls of dead, cold men,
gone to bed with hot coal men
with lead in their veins.
Their words are a well
the world knows too well.
Too often have I read the sparking souls of red-coal me
Pure and DirtyMet a girl, told me she was pure -
Filled with hate,
for people she called dirty,
stained by past mistakes or joys.
Told her sex makes us
neither good nor bad,
that you should live not
for the misery of others,
but to be happy with yourself.
habituallyand thank goodness we wear paths
to our chosen art forms
while we're still young-
reaching adulthood means
carving ruts for ourselves
under the rickety wagon spokes
and packing them flat,
soiling the soles
of our wonder-washed feet.
True GentlenessGentleness is not weakness.
It is not frailty.
It is not false humility,
Or saving face.
Gentleness is Strength!
It is virtue of speech and manner.
When careless lies and curses scatter
It stands like stone; rooted in its foundations.
Gentleness is Boldness!
It is not blind followings or idle tradition.
To be the stability of one’s beliefs
It is firmly set with experience and ardor.
Gentleness is Robust!
It is the ferocity of forgiveness.
When the world plots and whispers,
It breaks the bonds of vengeance.
Gentleness is Resolute!
It is the cornerstone of understanding
To embrace of what is unknown.
It is a willingness to learn, accept, and respect.
Gentleness is not a ‘woman’s‘ virtue.
It is not feebleness of mind or body
To be lauded over for unseemly stillness.
It is not a lack of force or incompetence.
Gentleness shames the mean.
Gentleness disdains the vulgar.
Gentleness disarms the unjust.
With the authority of simple truths and
Night Sight SeeingYelling through a crowd
that you hate your parents
act like a deterrence
To the people clean
Writing things like me
Am I right in thinking
That this compulsive drinking
Wraps your mind
And straps you tight
To all of this
Is the light still flickering
In your eyes
As you pass out
Preceded by violent blinking?
Yeah I guess you're cool
Rolling around in
what you ate at school
I'm sure you'll feel it
When you check your pocket
And realize your about
£100 down you fool!
Is it money well spent?
I bet the girls think you're
A real gent
But do they care what you're like outside
Or just your generosity
Right here at the event?
They don't even know your name
All too familiar with your game
I've watched a few like you
Believe me, you all end up
The Bullet and The BalloonThe child let go the balloon.
The balloon, sadly, is a metaphor.
And that metaphor is her life.
Her life, like a balloon, popped.
From a gunshot - from a blunderbuss.
The man on the blunderbuss wept.
He knew he popped the balloon.
The bright balloon obscured his vision.
His vision on a woman lonely.
His bullet was love and tenderness.
But bullets missed become simply bullets.
And bullets through balloons - is death.
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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