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I. i dream of nightingales, I.
i dream of nightingales,
soft whispers on the wind
ready to crescendo,
to fall and maybe rise up again.
my dreams are nightingales.
She liked nightingales, and,
my sister remembers Her alone,
my dreams are nightingales
and i am not yet ready to leave them.
they used to be robins
with their soft red bellies;
too dark to be rust,
too light to be blood.
He used to be red,
cotton armor clanking, sword raised
to the cobalt blue sky, ready
to strike like a hawk to its prey.
a crow to its nest.
there used to be a girl
that would weave poppies
and roses and lilies, carnations and azaleas
into a tangled braid.
She did not like nightingales.
still my flighty, flickering
dreams are nightingales.
i want to take their hands,
boy of blood and girls of song.
i would rise again, laugh again
to be with them and be happy.
we wanted to win, to play
a game we were meant to lose and revive.
to retrieve and reconquer.
and when i saw Them, when we were
together i laughed, and
Petrified ICrimhildianas of the Niedlan house always hated Record Days. Record Days were days spent inside and behind a desk, reading through the journals written by the dead in order to cleanse themselves of sins. But Crimhildianas couldn't stand that part of her usually fantastic job. She was practically raised outside and under the sky, fighting monsters and darker mejik users before she could even spell her own name. Admittedly, it was a name quite difficult to spell, but all her family's names were of the sort. They were created to intimidate enemies, even though the sharp, bloody spears and the multitude of scars adorning their showing skin usually accomplished that goal. Her house, the Niedlans, were a group of nomadic mercenaries and hunters. She was one of their only women warriors, at least until the day she was captured by her enemies, decapitated, and then disemboweled in a ceremony for their gods.
Crim, as she was called only by her most trusted people, shifted against the hard chair
HolesEach little lie, or hidden ambition
Hides in a hole, as is tradition
Riddled with dreams, and fearful obsessions
That once were loved, in someone's possession
All the broad smiles, each a facade
With monstrous trinkets: knit, torn, and odd
Still broken treasures can easily lie
To thoughts so forced they can't seem to cry
Though cloudy with tears, and false memories
Keeping a hope that fades to the breeze
As such locks can try, but still cannot
Forget what was already hastily forgot
By those that are troubled by labourous pasts
As thinkers attempt to help them at last
Claiming their tales and lies to be so
But what do imaginary people know?
PetrifiedIn its grandeur, a petrified heart can be beautiful.
You say it's not so, as its blackness covers all features,
Shading over each crevice and vessel
Normally colored in vibrant blues and reds.
But can wrongdoings be acceptable?
Most say no, though it may be in human nature
To follow tempting thoughts to a false freedom.
Still, are sins not condemnable?
Especially if unknowingly committed?
For who can say how. Say why.
But is there true sense in darkness measured
By actions and never thoughts?
Yet the idea of petrification could be fascinating
In due time, and over a perfect mastery.
Because it truly is a deceptively sweet smile
Masking devilishly sweet thoughts
That can make up a perfectly deformed human.
Yes, they make up each twisted and shaded heart,
But are such hidden hearts truly dark
Or is it just from perspective?
And who knows just who has their heart petrified?
Dragon's StandCan you remember dragons slain
Over your meek, petty gain?
Do you remember birds caged
From a war silently waged?
And can one inspire change
Over a vast, twisted range?
Still yet, to be simply felt
As kings forced upon one knelt!
Called to battle, arms kept raised
Waiting justly to be saved!
Yet freedom rings, through the night
Without care to those that fight.
Natural states can be achieved,
Through remembrance just to brave
The fire of those believed...
The Princess and the God 02Dearest Carmine,
You write of darkness
At such a moments occasion
As a first letter!
A time of new beginnings and cycles
Before life takes its toll.
I have tried to write
As well, but I find it so, so
What is inspiration?
I ask myself this everyday.
But I find myself recalling your words,
And I smile.
Am I but a princess,
And you a God in this time?
I must agree, though, with your mind to stars
As they are wonderful bursts of light
Do they not waltz hand in hand?
I wish to hear the music, if they do so dance...
I'm so, so regretful I could not reply
At a sooner occasion.
It has been a suitable amount of time...
With fluttering thoughts,
New Note, New TabNew note,
It taunts me.
An empty page.
It stays, plaguing my mind so riddled with writer's block.
I wish to write just what I feel;
If only I could take up my pen or keys
And simply record everything.
My ideas seem to push words forward,
Yet language holds all that I wish to convey far, far away.
If only I could reach up and pull the words I need
From nothing at all except an over-active mind.
Still, I am bound to what I know
And have yet to experience.
Please fill with words and phrases
Intertwining and possibly rhyming.
If only it was simple to write...
Lady of ViennaO Lady of Vienna, why do you cross your smiles and lock away your gowns of lace and silk from times you would prefer to forget?
You used to waltz with pride as you seemed to enrich the entirety of the ballroom and its candlelight with your glimmering smile, tantalizing others with a glance as well as in your partner's strong arms and nearly calloused palms that have never thought of holding another, but he is all you knew and still continue to know.
So why choose to throw away untold riches accumulated over thousands of years, treasures that your people willingly created for you alone, with honest and true intentions gracing their thoughts and generous gifts that matched in an adorable fashion, a sort of simple elegance you were never able to master nor grant to anybody, especially him with his foolish, light gestures you always and easily misunderstand?
Take up your arms so distantly locked away, O Forgotten Lady that wanders through the folds of an untaught history that was never rec
Unpredictable StormsStorms have never been ones for pleasantries
As flighty spirits with unstable desires
That simply wish to bring destruction
To all those that cross their enraged path
With all crossroads leading to an uncertain fate
Because storms have always been
In ways that a mortal cannot comprehend
As their urges are insignificant
But still mirror those of the storms
As they are shaped in a lost image
Once taken to by the ancient summer's day
To shield their pastel figures from the darkness
Cast by sullen clouds over ruined fates
That were beyond the reach of restless fae
The Boy Who Wouldnt EatIf you can flutter
I have failed you,
for you were not forged
to be so insubstantial as that
You were writ
to be an epic fable
of endings ignored,
of outlasting your body
through the sheer will
of a writers starving heart
through a broken, bowed
but bravely abiding body
that fights the soul
to comprehend Beauty.
................written in a frenzy and run-on
and exclamation points
used in rapid succession
words all blurred
so bare bones it's bloody
strung out and on display
in a frightening combination
of paragraphs and stanzas
punctuation gone mad
ellipses my new black
used and abused
then spit out
in gratuitous repetition
there is no word count here
no hearts dotting the i's
just a string of letters
done up in cursive
but not very pretty at all
Five AMPre-dawn darkness again, seething, quiet
A monster hugging the city
How heavy, how suffocating it is
The clock has run down on time for dreaming
A void between night and morning
Ready to swallow everything up
A time for old men's reflections
On love, and loss, and sorrow
Oppressive black sky, you eat everything
But the all-night diner
Where lonely old men sit
Drinking coffee at five AM
QuicksandYou trapped me
Dragged me below the surface
And held me there
You chained me
Put brass around my ankles
And left me struggling
You broke me
Beat me with whips made of hate
And hurt me more
You changed me
Made me who you wanted
And killed me inside
You hid me
Stole me away from the light
And made me blind
You crushed me
Blew my dust in the wind
And danced on my grave
surrounding my body
And now I'm twenty feet under
With no chance of being saved
Sound PoemIthrumden, ithrumden delsum
nith mul thruss elmrissull.
Eth rut mundelliss
Curmiette dessel renrin
irme trell ithrumden.
The partyFlashing lights
Smoke all around
About to pass out
My head starts to hurt
I can't take this anymore
So without saying anything
I find the exit
And escape that place
"How can someone have fun in there?"
Coming HomeComing down the ramp I spotted you in the crowd
Your tenderloin skin always stands out
Your aura was particularly bright that day
Whirling dervish colors in the pale sun
You wore a chauffeurs cap and held a sign that said “Anyone”
I knew that I wasn’t anyone, so I walked away
“Strange days,” someone said, and I agreed
I hate crowds and old garbled memories
Arriving home, my wife and cat didn’t recognize me
I looked in the mirror and noticed that I was someone else
Still carrying my old baggage, I turned away
I should have taken your limo
~days eat days
like I eat potato chips
on a couch whose
springs have thrown out
their backs no longer able
to hold even the remote up.
it sinks between the seats like
I do every lonely saturday night
or every evening I can’t quite
make it to bed, cupped with
similar back problems,
a similar sag.
I’ve begun to
take after my furniture.
"the only unattractive curve,"
a girl once said to me with a few
desirable curves herself,
"is the one a person develops
in their back.”
we dated for a month and
she called me her
hunchback of notre dome
(it’s dame, babe.)
and I called her beautiful.
and nothing else.
but somehow her leaving did nothing
to straighten my bent back but
only managed to deepen
my parenthetical stance on
those who love me
(they don’t exist).
things i cannot doi cannot sleep
and most certainly stay asleep-
with the black edged creatures
trembling at the corners
to trap me in tendrils of nightmare,
i shift too emptily for peace.
i cannot brave an appointment
i need hands to hold
this broken ship
caught in the waves with no crests.
i forget about the things i love,
but things i hate include
how i am haunted everyday
how i cannot seem
to call him by name
or directly address him-
there is no "you"
in my words,
only fear and flashbacks.
i cannot leave an unfinished crossword out of my thoughts
just like a relationship that had tapered off;
i cannot let go of things that have melted into my grip;
i cannot break a heart
VisitingThere is a place
I will never go
But I seem
I close my eyes
It is a place
Where I can
Never ever go
But I always
Can create it
Because it lives
My open mind
Will you join
In this place
Where I can
Still not visit
I wish to see
You standing there
Next to me
I Belong To You I hate rain. Not really, I love it. Just not when the most beautiful, perfect, wonderful, perfect, comfortable, waterproof, perfect coat in existence has been savagely butchered by my so-called friend’s Dalmatian. Every slap of rain on my naked arms is a stinging reminder of the irreparable hole in my wardrobe.
Some people might try to fill the void with lesser coats but I can’t bring myself to betray Valentino, even after her death. Instead my slippery arms grapple with each other in wet shock as I stumble to the op shop, clinging to one last thread of hope. I know in my deadened heart that I’ll never have another coat like her. Yet here I am, blundering through the elements in my vain search for the acceptance and warmth I found wrapped in Valentino’s woollen sleeves.
Thud. My body slams into the door, making the ‘open’ sign quiver and the bells tinkle in offense. I fight for entry, the door’s assault doubled by the stale funk of
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^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