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sense and sensesMy tongue drips wet with gentle lyrics
from a passionate soul.
My heart beats strong through the choking,
Burning heat of sorrow.
My fingertips paint the world transparent with words,
Both tender and rough.
My eyes speak ethereal, aching, and silent triumph
Over societal acceptance.
My feet hold ground through the stampede:
ruthless, mindless masses.
My ears ache under the pressing chaos
That constantly invades.
BareTwo hearts thud slightly off beat. Two chests pressed close, bare.
Fingertips in all their subtlety, Brush ever so gently across
A blushing cheek. Eyes close, Tongues dance behind thirsty lips,
And trembling lungs draw quickly at heated air.
Bodies plead in Silent longing. Tongue-brushed lips
Caress one another. Limbs intertwine, seductive
Words exchanged with each Lingering touch.
Their breaths between them interchange form one chest
To the other. Wandering hands evoke tiny sounds
That slip under breath between timid lips.
Bodies tremble, unaware and afraid,
Driven by impulse, feeding from the urge.
Two hearts thud slightly off beat and two chests press close,
Philosophy or stream of consciousnessCan I not partake of the fruit of life itself and live believing the lies that everyone else is meant to take whole heartedly and never question?
Is it philosophy or is it rampant rambling of random realities that, I remember, are not real, but rather representations of repressed emotion?
With open eyes I belittle my own beliefs, believing that the belly of the beast, which I am meant brutally to slay, is brought upon us from behind. It is beneath benevolence. Or is it above?
Not quite intentionally, I inspire myself with inquisitions about the inherently invented world, in which this individual race places itself on a pedestal of inexplicable power.
It is a pedestal that prevents the pretentious people from assessing honestly their predisposed reign of power.
I am meant to slay that malevolent creature which, with malice, made its way into the marvelous and makeshift, meaningless hearts of meaningful people.
The majority of them pretending merry, and misinterpreting the meaning meant
Living Spiritshe paces the halls, her perfume thickened the air like smoke
her gown tattered and bleached of color by death
paramour of the night
taker of sanity
devouer'r of sanctity
her hair laced about her waist
flows in the still air
her sillhouette entrances
steals from you
her footsteps light
her toes brush the floor
leaving trails of blood from years of barefoot pacing
years of splintering wood
bare soles of feet sear in pain
she paces always
searching for the light in eternal darkness
... ...searching... ...
DimitriWander through the trees,
Stare up at the pale blue sky,
Black branches out like claws.
Find you sitting, crying no tears,
Staring into nothing,
With a silver blade sliding
Across the smooth, pale skin
Of your arm.
Golden eyes wide but unseeing
As the blade cuts.
Blood drips slow but steady
Onto your old striped shirt
And I watch without words
As it seeps in- another stain of pain.
You've returned to your old ways
Your wicked, Dark ways of
Skin torn eyes unmoving and a
Look of pain and terror frozen on
Your sculpted face.
Your wings gone, and you'll no longer
You'll not be one of us again.
You've killed too many
Broken us all.
You were our downfall.
So be lost, keep cutting.
You'll not return to us again.
Heaven closes its gates to you
And we keep your wings locked away.
The Title Is A MysteryYesterday, I doubted
Today, I just don't know
Tomorrow determines everything
But today, it seems to glow.
A week ago I cried,
Clueless of the world,
Wondering what confusing life
Into which I had been hurled.
A month ago was different,
Sad and full of stress,
Each day from school to home I'd go
And for hours I would rest.
At night when I would wake again,
I'd gaze up at the moon,
With a tears, I'd wish again,
That the light would shine through soon.
Yesterday, I doubted,
And today I just don't know,
Tomorrow, I'll know everything
But today just seems to glow.
Blood BrothersBrookie always holds my hand when we cross the street. She's never given a reason for it, she just does it. It's become this unspoken rule with us that whenever we cross the street together, she slips her hand in mine and I lace my fingers through hers and we walk hand-in-hand until we reach the other side and she drops her hand and we both wipe our palms on our jeans. Brookie's a little scared of crossing the street. Her poppa died in a car crash when we were six. He was a pedestrian. She's never gotten over it.
Brookie is my best friend going on sixteen years now, which is pretty impressive considering we're both sixteen. We don't have some cute little story about how we were born in the same hospital on the same day or about how our mothers were best friends long before they were pregnant with us and somehow passed on that bond while we were still in utero. No, Brookie and I met the same way ever
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A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More