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PrideEvery hour of every day
I live for her in my own way,
trying my best to adhere to honesty
sometimes it's for the best
but usually ends up for the worst.
Pride comes before the fall.
Every week of every month
I live for her in my own way,
trying to cheer up a face
riddled with sadness and anxiety
that I share emotion with
but usually not enough to show I care
so instead she falls deeper than my joy fares.
Pride comes before the fall.
Every month of every year so far
I've spent my nights with her in love,
while knowing she expects me to leave
but no matter how much I try to repeat
she stares back most seconds and says:
There's no way for me to show I care.
Pride comes before the fall.
When I promise something to someone else
and it ends up creating pain in her,
I'm driven to pride to commit to promises,
but driven to shared suffering
as it leads her to blame.
Whether I try to be honest or not,
there is no greater way to fail
than for my pride to come before the fall.
TogetherTogether we travel through space
as dark matter encompassing all
and you, a ray of light
passing as a wave over all things.
Together the nebula of your great beauty
colors every moment as a wondrous thing
ever growing in strength and serenity
behind my eyes of calm and your worried eyes.
Together the whole of space time bends
to one knee before that potential light
that you grace my dark soul with
spanning the cosmos and cracking a smile.
Together I cannot see anything
before that tiny wonder of your light
but great things and loving energy
as the whole of the universe buckles
and wraps its arms around every second
of anxious, yet confident, love
becoming of a force that nature alone
cannot shine bright enough to outlast.
Fissured LakesA man fissured his way down to the docks, wandering through the haggard days of his tired eyes. He found a tree felled before the coming tide and balanced his way across it as the water rolled in. There was little to see as the day passed in a haze of gray, but as the moon began to rise, a face emerged in the ripples below.
He looked down to see a face, colored in the black shadow of the night sea and for a moment thought he saw a face staring back with a frown. Reaching down to the water he put a fingertip in and said to the fauxreflection: "What reason does the sea have for sadness?" And to his surprise the face spoke back as the tide rolled in: "In all the water of this world there is only my face reflecting everyone's joy, but no one to appreciate the tides I bring."
Looking up at the moon, giving light to the see, the man thought for a moment and threw his shoes to the shore. Dipping his legs into the ocean he felt his feet turn to liquid and the voice from below spoke up again: "
Beautiful ListsThe little list of things
I feel I love you for
is a list not so little:
Your silky basalt that blankets
and drapes the face that I cherish
in its length that rivals your height.
Your pumpernickle cheeks and syrah lips
which frame the beauty that is your
loving smile that I try too hard to see.
Your pert handfuls of preciousness
that I cannot stop fondling in earnest
and sucking at for that chance at making you gasp.
Your bountiful hips and fantastic ass
that I both slap for the pain
and hold tightly for the closeness of you.
Your delicious womanness that I savor often
and press against in the hopes of bringing you joy
while you resist its shattered flowering
as I still take you into momentary bliss.
Your every scar and minuscule thumbs
that I trace like lines in the sand
trying to build an image of you beneath my hands
that is quintessentially Christine.
In all your honest worry, my voice tries to succeed
in saving every brilliant thought you have
by keeping your voice true and tears
Live HardThe point of living is to live life
even if it's hard you gotta live hard
gotta make it go faster than you'd like
gotta make a life better than you've any right to
gotta make it all over again every day and night.
Living hard on the back porch
smoking all night long to get shit right
having nothing to get up for in the morning;
got all these dreams piling up
and money from my friends trying to wake me up
to do something important before I go
and ain't nothing I can do to stop them
from becoming another chapter
that I'm gonna make the world read.
Ain't easy bringing life up
but I live without the choice to do
so I do anything I can realizing it's all I got,
pushing it hard and making friends
cause there ain't nothing I got left:
no writing to achieve,
no job to alleviate this sleeplessness,
no wife to alleviate this aloneness
so instead I atone for my failures
and work hard to find myself a place
behind this person I've come to be
a man ready to be me
trying to own up to my faults
Lethe and MeThis rebirth
in this year of new sights
and smells and people and thoughts
is something I have come to adapt to.
I remember nothing of the previous year,
my river of Lethe, my absence of self,
my emptiness pouring out into a new incarnation
trying to come together
into a new form of man
a new man worthy of life.
I did not live and so I do not recall.
All time was spent working,
working to forget and forge anew,
to find another man in my place
that was worthy of life.
The absence was as a creature reborn,
gestating and learning how to feel again
or feel nothing at all,
and so I learned only how to stop existing.
I fear that which I will become
because I remember all things now
and those things are worthless,
aggravating and painful in their absence
of what I want to experience;
full of those people and things I do not
want to become to feel anymore.
I know now my rebirth must take hold
and this person I must become
is to have no say in who I am now
or what I desire to be.
I am pow
Tomorrow Is Another DayI woke up this morning and ate cookies
just like I do every day
and this one turned out
a bit more depressing than usual
because I asked myself what I'd say
if someone asked me why I still smoke.
I have no job and am slave to my friends,
living off their friendliness.
I have no love but my computer,
which is currently broken behind me.
I haven't had sex in over 3 years
and while that doesn't bug me much,
it would get the point across better, I think,
to someone asking why I still smoke.
I woke up this morning
and that was my first mistake.
Doing laundry, watching crap,
eating food I didn't enjoy;
these are the first world problems
of living with someone who will soon
give you the means to survive.
A first world problem is very similar
to a child's problem of not having enough
of what they want.
It isn't so much that I want more things,
it's that I'm not getting what I need
to feel a reason to keep on waking up.
Needing YouI need a muse
someone to sing
a siren song
of a life enjoyed
so that I might, too.
I need emotion
and I only get it
from someone I like
spending time with,
so come to me
and give me that little gift
that simple need
your joy and pain.
I'll find time to complain
reasons to be annoyed,
but do not give up
on the human
I stubbornly am.
Don't find me wanting,
just find me
so that I can live
through you and with you
and let that be enough.
I need a muse
a titan, a god, a person
to live forever beside me
and give me the strength
to choose to live
instead of just survive.
I need emotion
and I am not going to get it
on my own.
and you have
only to give a little
so that I can feel
that smallest breath
against my neck
that makes me keep trying
to be more than just a man;
that makes me be more
Escape from What isCasey got away
and I'm still here
trapped with a man
whose weight on my heart
pulverizes my hopes.
Casey, my dog--
more like my son--
passed away after a long life,
but I'm left with my debts
turning what's left of my life
into a Sisyphean nightmare.
Not long after, Gremlin died too,
younger than Casey and smaller,
but he escaped his pain
while I'm left to stand
and feel my back break
under this labor of life.
Gremlin was blind and didn't care,
he got on with his life
until his best friend
and all that remained
were cats and new smells.
Still, I was left alone
when he died
as a Tantalus in quicksand
sinking deeper into despair
the moment I desired
I wish the world was fair,
just this once,
so that maybe my work wasn't torture,
and my money wasn't spent all on bills,
and my heart was free
from bipilar icecaps
constantly melting my marriage
and my chances to succeed.
In the end, Casey got away,
and I miss him,
but what I miss most
is the life that was,
DollBarbie’s thighs were not meant to touch;
her hair is devoid of split ends
and there's this deadness in her eyes,
impossible to mimic—a quiet crawlspace without light.
There's a pastel pale to her skin,
hairless and unblemished,
a blank un-crevice between her legs
and her rouge-stained lips are ever smiling.
She is nothing like you, child.
But do not forget
that she borrows your voice.
Jack FrostOh, how lovely it is,
To peer out a window from the cozy warmth of your home
And see the whole outdoors kissed in crystalline brilliance!
As snow and ice decorate the earth
It's still amazing to think that,
With a single giant and chilling breath,
Jack Frost turns an everyday world into a sparkling,
Floored PetalsHe drowned the cheap motel room
in smoke, back in ‘53,
when I was just a bud of seventeen
who had watched herself bloom
in the mirror in her mother’s closet.
I had seen the bloom and the bud
and had wished to be deflowered.
So I had leashed myself
onto the back of a bus
and roared into New York City
like the little dragonfly I am,
falling into deep dreams
on the laps of strange men.
A pale girl with a patched-up suitcase
off on an adventure in the city
with nothing but a few dollars
and a fear of the dark.
The hotels were musty
and the dollars digested,
but the lights lowered
as the jazz flew upward
into a shower of sparks,
and I, a flower shaking off her petals
as she swung into his arms
and into his life.
A life of roads and roaring,
and sitting half-still in the smoke
as he mused long into the night
and down the drain, saying,
“Poetry is daydreaming on paper,”
wiping his grey lips on discarded poems, and
crashing between the waves of sheets.
A life of racing
the King and his moon.i.
this is an ode
to the King. We
watched him blow
away like an ocean
of black feathers,
and our Father muttered
that he was
forgiven, always, truly
forgiven. But we
all know that
nothing gold can
stay-- he had to
go. It was written.
that was when the
Queen cut her hair. Again,
we watched it fall to
her chamber floor
in heaps of strung
gold. But we already
knew that it would have
to go. We already
knew that she
would go, for it
was written, and it
was already forgiven.
the Prince grew up
with the memory of
black shoes and hair
littering the halls of
an empty palace. The
Queen was busy, always
busy, and then she was sick--
and then the Prince put on
his black robes for her, even
though he always remembered
her in shaded of red.
on his father's throne,
the boy-king realized that
this was the place
that swallowed up his love,
and it gave way to war.
You know what they
say-- "A heartbrok
The tragedy of the mook and how it died one dayThe fickle sky presses
Against the glass of the windows
And the dry strung up heat of the winter sun
Spilled over the anemic asphalt
Our shadows seared into the bottom of our sneakers
Moving with a sort of blithe nonchalance
Searching for the speckled grey of a familiar horizon
The apathetic footsteps and my clenched hands
Quiver beneath the setting sun’s bloody smear
Across the over populated sky
That was no longer clear
Rather it was the looking glass phenomena
Spread eagled across my retinas
And during those grief stricken days spent
Hanging off your rooftops and skylines
I've contemplated replacing
my heart with another
Liver so I can
Drink more and care less
And I can vow that sleeping is only
For the dead or at least
The heavily medicated and sadly
I can no longer tell the difference between
Winter's SnowThe snowfall brings joy, fun to children, and allure to the world
Although, many dislike it
It's too bitter, makes them ill,
Or is a bother before they go out and take leave their comfy warm abodes
But it's soft powdery white scenery brings out so much hope to others
The twinkle and sparkle within it
The happiness it will always have and will bring
Snowmen and snow angels everywhere,
Snowballs in the sky,
Icicles on the edges of roofs, wires, and tree branches,
Intricate and fern-like designs dancing upon window panes
People see it as a winter wonderland
Especially when it first falls
The world never knows though
That I bring them this kind blessing, this satisfaction, this wonder
Yeah me, Jack Frost
The one who people say I nip at the nose and toes
Well I'm very grateful for those who do believe in me
And I will keep coming once a year for a few months and grant your wishes.
spun out so far, i can't be true to you.he's still the way i watch the stars
and how i run like no one's watching
he's what i dream of when i'm awake
but maybe i'm done waiting
maybe it's you
maybe it's me this time
and maybe that's enough
he still races through my veins
and no, my heart is not steady when i see him
but i was never one for patience
a year is too long to hold on
and he is conservative
and button downs
he is beautiful
but i am wild
i am dirty feet
and summer evenings
i am mud-caked nails
and cider throats
i am sun soaked
laced with drunken poetry
i am watercolour
he is oil based
he is canvas in london galleries
i am doodles on napkins in mediterranean restuarants
you are cheekbones and dark eyes
coffee stained fingers
smirks and accidental brushes
i don't intend to know anything more
he is confidence
i am uncertainty
i live in the wind and the forests
we both spend too much time in front of mirrors
but whilst he kisses them
i crack them
and all the while he is leather
Not That DifferentA writer sat down beside an artist,
Notebook and pencil in his hands.
The artists’ curiosity lead him,
To stop his sketch and take a glance.
And so the young artist asked the writer,
“Is there any chance that I could look?
Because I need words to paint a picture,
Could I look inside your notebook?
The words you have written on the pages,
Are the inspiration I need.
My hands itch to draw the scenes your mind made,
A poem, or story I plead."
The writer only laughed at the artist,
And then he simply shook his head.
“An Artist was what I used as my muse,”
Was what the old writer then said.
"Today I’ve learned something I won’t forget
I need your work and you need mine.
The threads of our works, they are intertwined
What a pretty thought and clear sign."
They looked and smiled as they swapped their works,
Flipping through pages both called art.
The only difference that separates them,
Are titles that keep them apart.
Dark WorldSo much crowd in here;
Everybody passes by;
Giving no sign;
And neglecting all
I’m creeped out in here;
My brain tries to scream loud;
But my heart is so weak to handle it
This dark place;
Even with thousands;
I can see no one in front
This cruel world;
Compels me to do this;
Not affecting anyone, just me
Some give sympathy;
For what I do;
But it doesn't matter much
This shadow of those;
Cover-up the emotions of all;
Leaving behind cruelty
And making this world hard to believe.
WreckI keep waiting for the moment
to look up from my monitor,
only to find that everything of Hers
and everything of mine
doesn't matter at all.
I'm lost in a sea of light
as the metal wraps around my torso
and the whole of the world stops
to remind me that I'm going to die
only to let me off at the last moment
upon impact as glass shatters around me
instead of into me.
There's time enough to look right
and see Her lying there unaware
in shock from the impact of the crash,
but I've been trapped in this car
and I can only hope
that now that we've stopped tumbling
end over end
and hit a wall
that she'll notice we're not on the road
I climb out and press against old bruises
remembering times when I cared,
frustrations trapped under skin
from the too many times I've tried.
There's nothing left of the car
but she's still unscathed,
as she hoped the whole time
that the car would be okay
and that we could keep on driving
toward some other spot
where tumbling end over e
a hospital bird with soot in her lungsshe slept through a car crash
that almost killed her,
through whitewhite walls
where her lover dies
nobody thought she'd make it
but she woke up a few months later
with flowers in her hair
and ash in her airway
trying to remember how to start all over
but forgetting to remember how to live.
fall slipped from her open eyes
and winter crawled in for a long hibernation
to her the clouds looked sick
and pale like they might
let everything inside them out,
but she opened up wide instead,
spilling blood where there was none to be spilled.
her heart slipped down the street
and with unsteady hands
she stitched in a bird and cut off its wings.
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