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Scarecrow Green W. Body ImageSCARECROW
the trees are still green.
ive got a boy in each ear screaming in a strained falsetto, "find god, then fuck, rub war paint over your collar and choke those dreams of adolescent fancy!"
maybe not in that order.
i feel that those might be reasonable demands.
if not, ill stay a virgin forever and stop posting my barely lucid projections on cross walk buttons so the world can join me in confusion.
ive decided to marry myself to this moment, a rubber band ring on my finger and everything.
i cant tell if theyre asking for a fire or a union.
all i can hear is sex and murder, a whisper of masturbation.
the feral cry signifies a busted climax so maybe these boys are in love and the songs merely rut against each other.
its a valid enough theory.
a part of me hopes that they become beautiful monsters when the lights go out.
for them my heart goes.
today ive decided not to believe in love.
its a silly little thing, not suitable for children my age
"just jealous 'cause we're young and in love."
im jotting this down overlooking stairs to the concrete people playing evergreen games until the grass hits and feet sink against the movement.
my fear is the position to topple into bodily harm, she told me because my statements were laced, hardly contrary to the truth. and my knees are buckling, body sways forward and panic spray paints my senses 'til they're all bright yellow. i fall backwards on my ass, knees pressed tight to my chest so i can breathe normal again.
luckily no ones noticed that its happened for the third time tonight.
it might be a bit cliche to proclaim myself toeing the edges of our small existence 63 percent of the time.
eyes closed and learning how to meditate, recite the best poem ever written to the better half of my memory that sits in the dark until special moments when i wish to remember how to make decisions based on my mistakes.
this is different.
im listening to someone else's favorite song, strike to my ski
Sunglassesi look down and my hands are clasped, the light washing over them in broken stretches, intervals like broken clockwork. fingers interlocked atop the plaid fabric draped down and around my hips.
for the past hour or so ive been writing in my head.
about boys and girls.
those who i have, haven't, should've and desperately want to kiss. im 16, so honestly, theres nothing else for me to write about.
i wanted to start this with a sentence in my mental draft that would state, more or less, 'i tell him i love him but im not sure by what definition i hold it, perhaps whichever he feels it to be.'
something like that.
its about a boy who ive kissed despite knowing just how much i should not have. because my decision making skills are just about as flawed as my parents' are.
i guess i wouldve gotten all poetic about it too. about the songs hes sang to me and how hes just a stepping stone that i paused at, knowing it was merely 'til i truly get what i want (sniff, i say, 'what i had'), but no mat
Blackbirdthe sound of breathing over labored guitar chords.
he says 'rooftop', i think E minor, maybe binary code.
its just that simple.
with an arpeggio inhale and the positioning of awkward fingertips.
now hes humming something i cant discern and the song is supposed to be about lonliness, he says, a thin mouth tilted up in the corner.
'lovely melancholy' i say to myself.
but i hear moonlight and silver glinting off earlobes, hollowed in the dark.
dont believe theyre lonely, more but reaching out from the edges.
scribbles in the corner of papers with outstretched arms, to use figurative language.
a tendency to ask what i am writing, always thinking it be about himself (8th grade memories floating like notebook paper, i remember, small smile and bright eyes.)
right now the sound is repetition, shifting soft and to a feeling--green grass like comforters and arena seating.
and i can hear what this is asking for, a mirror imaged and a sideways glance through crowds.
to break his concentration, th
Counter Topi need to make that night seem more poetic when i write it down.
inject some sorry romanticism into those few moments.
felt like i had no face and even with the lilt of eyebrows, creases in the corners of my forced smile, the expression wouldnt have mattered anyway.
they dont explain it to you in those middle school classes.
the overwhelming sense of power found in sometimes hazel eyes, bright in dimly-lit rooms.
yet crippled in knowing how these things tend to mean nothing.
how my knees give out and quiver.
how in the minutes before, my lips mirrored the action, trying not to weep for the need of piteous decisions.
and voices are obsolete.
but breathing means everything.
i might actually call that my own, unless imagination runs wild and my skin goes blank for an open canvas---close your eyes and see anyone else you want to hold.
theres nothing at all beautiful to see when i let myself be picked apart for the sake of wanting someone i cant have, even when hes looping his perfect finge
Criss-Cross Designthe light has then adjusted
some twenty times since
weve been staring
with hair caught behind cold ears
and the irises expanding
for there is no way
to go blind in these rooms
with white-washed vision
blotting out dark figures
as they might rise slowly
in some distance
but you might switch these lines
to different angles
looking out windows
see the dull drone
of brown eyes
against brick walls
im writing your movement
as i stare at this pen
conjuring some demon
kill you dead
with the unrelenting desire
of this swirling madness
out the tip and over the page
so i could draw the distance
of just where you migh
be looking and write
those lines back to my eyes
and my mouth
because they are both open, staring
as you look anywhere but for me
Adenei've got a safety pin fastened through a collar and a name i dont know fit under the swollen rasp of my dry tongue.
the name like peril, little girls in sunday dresses, celestial in the songs they sing.
as if i knew that definition.
maybe stringing descriptions along branches and stuck with metal points, rusting red through the sides.
spelling out letters with stick tips in teh dirt and memorizing lines on her knees, with her hands upon the ground.
with hair threaded through like loops about her fingertips, passed through pink tinged lips and breathin in her air through filters, left there speechless.
reflecting the sun and leaving their sketches on tree trunks.
the countours gold, eyes closed and blind to the moment.
spit at her feet and found mud squished through toes, causing dissension among the ranks.
and she speaks quietly to the pins in her shoulders that whatever youre seeing, its not happening.
i say Adene, you draw a picture and the lines overlap.
running like water.
We Can See Thisive found out that these lives are like movies and the voices set are scripted pieces of beauty.
my gaze, taciturn, green grass in graveyards.
lifting his chin with the tips of my fingers.
as if holding the pose, fighting breath under water.
and walking away, found an exit through hanging branches of willows wilting in the heat of some lost summer.
the glances then fashioned are disguised 'round my fingers in trying to remember why i could not look away as he tread over flowers, skipping over their stories held in the words chipped into cold stone.
unless laying on the park bench and closing my eyes, finding letters encrypted in the stones thrown at my feet.
if set to the chorus of the soundtracks so celluloid, you could find our names up in the lights of grocery store tabloids.
because we are stars.
pretending out way through the moment of fake love, shielding faces from sunlight in late afternoons.
Hair Clip in Those Bedroomsdarling
i can hear the quirk in your voice
so i know its not okay
and im not gonna tell you i approve
but hes gone on an ego trip
and it extends beyond the hours of jet lag
that pulls you into his arms
from whence he might throw you upon the ground
to hear his drunken hero stories
the fatigue breathes alcohol into his thoughts
and theres that girl that we know
the one that i love more than the world
who whispers two names into everyones ear
and plays off the repercussions as her innocence
so lets all nod and call this okay
i remember the summer
when we smiled
as they played out the night in the comfort of bedrooms
it was okay wasnt it
the dialogue of deception
and hes lining your ears with it
its not the soar of piano concertos
and sonnets spoken with the bow of stringed instruments
if he looks you in the eyes with sunflowers in your vision
know to stare away
because is it not preconceived in the hours that he travels back in time
back to you
to whisper that hes not sure of what you ar
Steven AnthonyFuck Nihilists,
and Nihilists with Realist guises,
and a Realist who Nihilistically surmises
when he counts his passing days,
graphs millenia beside decades,
defines a pointless human condition
brought on by a predispostion
in our repetitive cognition,
so he says, "
Suffering isn't tangible,
and perspective is a fallacy,
and faith is stupidity,
Charity an inverse to productivity,"
though I can't help reaching --
we are shameless specks
in a clear glass.
The Ungrateful Soulsso ungrateful are we the sons of man,
i see it now looking through the caps,
bottle caps like contact lenses to dull my senses,
and display a new worldly perspective before my eyes,
past the broken glass and scars of lethal habits,
past the darker specters that loom ever on the horizon,
ungrateful are we to those who cast their lives out before us,
who sacrifice blood and tears for us,
how ungrateful are we to them who would die for us,
to those who would feel for us,
and put themselves before lash and stone,
look upon the world and see the grace of man,
cast down upon the blackened stones around us,
in this newspaper world of gray tones and scarlet hues,
are we not the most ungrateful of beasts?
Just a Regular Highschool Day"Stupid" "Loser" "Kill yourself".
I hear it everyday.
These hateful words not towards me,
just a regular highschool day.
Queens and preps,
Complain all the time,
and are such a big chore.
morons, and geeks.
Don't walk into the bathroom,
they were in there -- it reeks!
the emo / goths.
Just float around drunk,
fly to drugs like moths.
Where am I, in the midst of this?
There's something I don't even know.
I'm trapped between drama by "the Queen",
stuck in this circus show.
Counting down the days that are left,
but miss each day that passes.
I guess after this I'll hold on to my friends,
so screw those other asses.
I wish I could just start all over,
take a break from mistakes I've made.
I used to be funny and confident,
but those feelings are starting to fade.
Nobody likes me,
and nobody knows.
I cry in my sleep,
there the memory goes.
I wish I was happy,
I wish I was fine.
I wish I'd love my life,
and believe it was mine.
But I can't
Mi piace il modo che hai di parlarmi,
occhi negli occhi, senza esitare.
In questo silenzio non ho più armi
e dentro di me si agita un mare…
Mi piace il nodo che ho qui nel petto.
Sfondi barriere e freddi invernali.
Sono pianura e tu l’architetto:
a questa natura cambi visuali…
Mi piace il tuo modo di fare l’amore.
Noi appena svegli e, come animali,
lasciamo che tutto il nostro sudore
spenga e consumi sogni infernali.
Verbs of a LifeListening to the rain
Wishing they were tears
Remembering my dreams
Wishing it was reality
Feeling the bass thump
Wishing for a heart beat
Pretending they care
Wishing to God I didn't
Knowing I'll someday crack
Wishing it'll never come
Loving being still alive
Wishing others felt the same
Spouting streams of lies
Wishing my lips were kissing
Writing terrible poems
Wishing I could do more
Goodnight, Goodnight, and Farewell"There are some habits I cannot change.
Like saying goodnight
amidst the evening's chill
and willing you to hear me."
the sounds my teeth make in the eveninghabit of spitting blood on crt monitors.
tongue bit clean through yet exceedingly sonorous
and greedily i fling the flood. drink deep this chronic spurt
or link me a fitting deed honorer,
for inking my omnibus would waste time
surer than a spaced line.
oh, i did that anyway, my
prerogative is fogging up the lenses
and clogging up the senses
so i suggest you chase that clartin with patience.
paint me on the pavement and observe my perfect placement
while i idly comment on my lack of common sense and payment.
i compensate with plague drenched prattle
and pointlessly addled statements.
what good is order to a vagrant?
Te domannai 'na vorta de spiegamme la raggione
der perché si te guardo io m'abbrucio de vita,
co' 'n core grosso che pare 'na fiamma 'mpazzita
che scrocchia viva e m'ariscalla mejo de 'n tizzone.
M'arisposi: "Giovino', io c'avrei la risposta
che tanto vai cercanno 'nder quesito che me poni,
ma si te la dicessi smonterei mille illusioni
che te seguono da che m'hai visto pe' la prima vorta."
Nun te chiesi più gnente, m'abbastò quer discorzo,
de butta' giù castelli in su pe' l'aria me ne moro!
Perciò ancora te guardo, ancora scotto e nun me smorzo,
ma recito la parte brutta dell'amico d'oro.
Che pena che me fa vedette ride 'nsieme all'artri
girandote 'gni tanto come pe' famme 'n dispetto,
spero tu ce lo sappia che li maschi so' scartri
e si rideno co' te è perché te vonno drent'ar letto.
Lo voi sape' che fo? Me sa che me ne vado,
che tanto de soffri' pe' te nun c'ho più fantasia,
quell'occhi li conosco e scusame si nun so 'n grado
[I giochi da fa' so' sempre li stessi]
I giochi da fa' so' sempre li stessi
D'inverno è profondo 'r buio alle otto
Questo quartiere è 'r più malridotto
Scritte 'nfamanti, fatte coi gessi
I giochi da fa' so' sempre li stessi
So' 'n regazzino, de anni ne ho otto
Dormo sur prato, c'è 'n passerotto
Vola leggero, passi sommessi
I giochi da fa' so' sempre li stessi
Sempre più solo ar decimo lotto
Me s'avvicina quel ragazzotto
Dorci parole, sguardi dimessi
I giochi da fa' so' sempre li stessi
Nella sua casa poi m'ha condotto
Vestito sporco, piove a dirotto
Vetro appannato, senza riflessi
I giochi da fa' se fanno perversi
Striscia er serpente visto da sotto
Er sogno sur prato è stato interrotto
I giochi de sempre me li so' persi
I giochi de sempre me li so' persi
Ecco er veleno, è stato introdotto
Cambia 'sto corpo e vola de botto
Adesso realizza i sogni repressi
Adesso realizzo i sogni repressi
Volo e sorvolo 'r cielo distrutto
Nulla me sfugge, io vedo tutto
Vedo le stelle cadenti n
Melting Into My Sighttoday it rained, hard and cold and making puddles everywhere
the concrete glistened maybe shone with the
wet sparkle of small pools left here
and there-- with ripples sounding
through windows, hiding in the sky
i stood on the cool set of grey
beneath frozen toes in broken shoes
and watched through curtains
of small and shiny bullets
falling from air
my eyes wandered through the scope of staircases
how they differentiate
cracks and bruises of something
supposed to be unbreakable
when i lay underneath and hope
i do not die
before fully realizing the extent
of self-imposed importance through streams of misery
but everything is grey--even
being as it is
and i can hear the sound
of tires arbitrarily sliding
over wet ground
and again i hope i do not die
suspended above them
flying away from scattered phobias
just like wet leaves on the ground
everything reminds me of my mortality
and absent faith
how i dont wish to meet fallibility with unseeing eyes
girls crying, those who think im beautifu
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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