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ScienceThere's a science to things, a definitive reality constraining what does inexplicably define us and what does not. Why then, are some totally blind and insist that I am too?
What is it that blinds me? How long has it done this? How do I find out if I'm blind? What am I doing wrong? Am I doing anything wrong?
My fear is that I'm slowly letting myself be convinced of something that isn't true. And so I resist, I have issues trusting, and, by and large, the truths of other people has a terrible history of breaking me into nothing. But the fantastic part is, that I'm always able to come back up for air and life once more due to my own energy. Everyone who tried to help me towards a certain path vanishes, and irrevocably causes much loneliness, but what am I to do?
All of what they said turns to nonsense, they fade from memory, and yet their faces and some skewed broken mirror where their face should be remains. It's that I hate to see
Your nothing, nothing's wrong.
So much angst, and so much dreadful song
there's nothing here, just a bit of pitiful fear
contact to nowhere, stare, skin laid bare.
Stock photo's never lie,
Look upon the empty eye,
your done, your nothing's wrong,
keep singing your song.
Locked in a dozen hugs,
only a dozen, nothing more,
no kisses, no smiles, not anymore,
your ground down, down to nothin'.
Corrective vision circulates duplicity
a fuzzy life of lies,
and a clear sight of condescension,
when the mirror's stained with shit.
Worthy lives that populate
a world beyond all hope to date
inside a bubble everyone takes for granted
you can't bear to burst it.
by lw end -
Torture lifeTorture life
There's so much elegant careless wrecks,
you cannot inflict upon me
even if i were tied down and screaming,
in the depths of hopeless idle apathy.
One is the waiting I see so many people do,
waiting lets the moments grow into catastrophe,
tension and tremors written across your veins,
a masterpiece of suffering.
Another is the questions that poke holes,
in the clouds, and the smiles on your face,
turning every brightest sapphire into crumbs,
the doubts grind me into the ground.
And finally, the cruelty one wishes to inflict, is dealt out
by myself against my back in endless tides,
and I come to twist it around my heart,
while it beats in ferocity; and I take every moment to strike at you.
The last, truly the last, is the death that takes decades,
every breath is poisoned with loss and rotting bread,
the plywood is breaking, the coffee is cold, every smile is faded,
and there's only stale empty air to breathe, and cigarettes to burn.
by lw end -
Hope*A letter scrawled in a forgotten journal crammed into a bookcase, as if intentionally hidden there*
The death of a man
The fight against such things, intangible poisons that collect in the vestiges of our souls scratching at the flesh of our flesh, the blood of our blood, breaking new bones, new nails, new cracks and snaps amidst the flies collecting around the single flame in the middle of a room, must continue, must evolve.
We aren't so easily made, our delusions, our passions and our hopes, and we aren't so easily destroyed. Even dead, we speak beyond the grave with shrill voices of rebellion, of hurt, of your betrayal despite all we've done for you. So sorry, but you know I always fight for you, we say.. we shout and scream it to the stars, but they rule us and so we strive to end them.
"Albert, is this what you wanted?" A feminine voice speaks out in the dusty silence of the abandoned room. "You couldn't tell anyone because no one would un
The greatest silenceThe greatest silence
When you hear nothing, not even your own heartbeat.
a wraith drapes over your back,
chilling you to sleep,
and you never quite die.
When you no longer hear the city
or the animals crying within,
screaming at the painted walls,
and the scraps of meat left in the wastebin.
When all you feel is your chest heaving whole oceans
carrying the weight of terrible realizations,
lightning bolts striking trees in repetitive harsh motions
and no amount of rain can calm these sensations.
When every word take a chunk of your heart
sinking into dampened pillows
and a truth is made from art
gracefully dying like a weeping willow.
And when it finally grabs you
as some godly force was withholding all release
all you can't say and all you can't do
all the wrong lies cannot, will not, cease.
lw end -
"They break through the clouds there, they're call them sun dogs."
My father said, so many eons ago, while I looked out a window at the clouds
hanging like ominous fortresses of churning cauldrons still, and yet
moving with ferocity, at the speed of a misshapen face twisted in a bolt of lightning.
The clouds over Corcovado, when all else is basking in the eminence of Our Lord
I watch the stairway to heaven, and know that it does exist...
and a religious experience, when i'm eye level with the cosmos
and all memory of smoke, fire and ashes.. become distant.
I see a face of rage, but the voice is far too loud,
far too extreme, i'm not ready, but it hurts anyway
and a hundred years later, I hear it again and the same nerves fire,
the muscles clench, and I'm reminded, like it was yesterday...
A moment outside a house, I can't move, the rain is striking hard,
the sky is full of rage, and I can't.. breathe, I can't think...
so much, because I've never had it befor
Change this lifeHiding in the shadows
Resisting in secrecy
Trying to find a way
To change this life of misery
The future is unknown
The past is to forget
The present is dull and boring
Is this what life has to offer?
I want to change
And I keep trying
Only to fail miserabily
Every single time
eight ways you've made me small1. I wish
this was for you.
2. my journal pages - the
brown one with all our monologues -
were jarred with hollow vows of
last poems of
letting you slip into a coma
of bad memories, watching you
fall to your death off
a cascading cliff of disease
and dis ease.
it was never
easy for me
3. there's a reason I ask
whether you're grey
(dark white, elusively black, in between)
or blue (behind the clouds, under wave-foam,
whateverthefuck runs through the back of my
palms); I'd rather have
than the arms
that once held you half-
heartedly. you had always been
my harmony and I
would have killed
to have been yours.
4. it could never have been just me, the way
it could never have been just
5. disasters are not beautiful,
but how is it that you
managed to make my inner linings
converge into bows
and explode into wings the very
night you decided to rebuild your walls
to a lower height?
6. I wish
diaryi thinned recall,
strangled memory until she screamed black
or blue, strung her source of voice along
the willowed incline of vein to wrist and down
let the curl thirstily imply
just how cut it is to pain in numbers:
one scar for extravagant wine dates, three
for the number of times we fucked crying,
eight for forgotten promises of ever after
i heard a sordid song in your tallied matchstick
bones, victorian in beauty & proper repression
of the bloody details like a bruise we push beneath
our hollow skin with dirty fingernails
see, the past is not a headless infant with knives for
playful fingers, though it is not to say
that cribs or birdcages hold anything more than
what we leave them to engulf
i swallowed you whole, ocean— basked by the enchantments
of soft-spoken life, bathed by neurotic erosion.
they taught me that the cleansing of your body now
fades the transient you of yesteryear, speak in familiar tongue:
bathroom stall mirages of rounds, clocks, convey
Whenever I hurt myselfI have a feeling
Someone is watching
So I look around
But there's no one to be found
ExpirationWith you I always feel like I’m
to break in the wrong size of shoes.
Sometimes I sit and stew
over how you’re seventeen and
you think I’m a princess
the trapped-in-a-tower kind
and how you wear suits and talk about politics
and think you know the world.
My throat interrupts with an affronted gurgling sound
sometimes when I think about you,
you deal out advice where it just isn’t called for
you quote science-fiction to justify war
and you’re seventeen years old and you think I’m a princess
and you just have no blooming idea.
Darling, one of these days I will tell you my mind
But until then we’ll never fit
I’m afraid –
that even after that day
you’ll still be trimmed hedges and
Makers Of The Cage. Holders Of The Key.Our eyes are the closest thing we have to freedom.
We see endless blue sky, and the stars beyond.
We see the beauty of the world.
We see our reflection in the mirror;
the reality, and the fantasy.
Our eyes see far and great.
But the rest of us cannot follow.
Our hands probe the steel bars around us.
Fumbling in the dark.
Cut by the sharp edges.
The bleeding never stops.
Our feet shuffle around.
Trying to go places.
But we walk in circles.
Our emotions go from red to blue;
orange to green;
yellow to purple,
mixing in a haze.
Our mind goes to dark places,
and only wanders deeper.
Oblivious to the place right next door.
It knows the freedom,
it knows the pit.
There are endless paths to take.
There's a cage we need to break.
There is a key ourselves create.
In our hands, it's never too late.
on bradbury and table dancingYou are not a wordsmith
whatever you might like to think. ('Smith'
indicates precision and coldness and fire:
words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.)
It's a difficult road to follow, and not many
make it past the fork. Choose a path,
Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders:
I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming
rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery.
Notebooks scattered across the landscape
of a child's room, to be stumbled across,
read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night.
When the bough breaks
a hanged man laughs. He carries typewriters
in his pockets, and cigarettes in the soles of his shoes.
I will never be a word mistress,
whoring myself to the speech of people I do not know and will never know me.
The oven is set to Fahrenheit 452, but the words were already aflame
before they ever took shape under your tongue.
You love everything they've ever written, and carry
unabashed loathing for every syllabl
Death to the LoversHe screamed,
He tore his hair from his scalp;
But it didn't bring her back.
The beautiful girl
With the gorgeous smile
And witty remarks
Would always lay six feet under.
She would lie in her death bed,
Her arms folded on her chest
And her face full of peace
Known only to the dead.
He would be the first to rot.
First his health,
Then his sanity.
She would forever feed on his emotions
Like a pretty little leech,
Sapping his well being
And happiness from her underground world.
And he would let her,
For a fool like him
Who allowed himself to love,
A cure for hateA cure for hate
Is ascension, contaminate the sickness with the light of archons
and angels gleaming from the inside of our throats.
Twisting our lies, into the flies spewing forth
with rainbow lice burrowing deep into the black ice.
Is a moment of disbelief, stricken on our faces,
as the immutable stone turns to ivory mirrors,
we see the conditions collapsing around us
decay, and the brutal decisions to coerce doves into vultures.
Is realization, collecting in our dustpans,
sweeping up the cooking oil splashed on the floor,
left over from a bubble bursting like a pinata,
blinking and open mouths swallow entire rabbits.
Is a well spring, yearning forth from the divide,
the connection that fills with butterflies fluttering
ignoring the swarms only to rise above the mess,
and weaving a tapestry of shining threads in the sky.
A cure for hate is only to turn around and look
gaze and see the ruin of crushed flowers,
putrescant smell, and have the unnatural urge
by the grace of gre
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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