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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
RockHacking away at a rock with another rock will shape the rock
you are hacking at by time, but the rock you are using might also break.
This can be frustrating and you may want to give up and go do something else,
but that is when you should get back on your feet, find another rock and continue hacking.
You might never feel that the rock you are shaping ends up perfect and you will always see flaws or
improvements to be made. Passion to do something isn't to finish it, it's to work on it.
Hearts of ImaginationStanding near the horizon.
Looking at the world before me and all of it's colors.
Breath taking, inspiring, refreshing.
So many things to say, so many things to feel.
All of this was created by someone perfect.
All of this couldn't have existed.
This was created with a heart that can see perfection.
This was created with a heart of pure imagination.
Imagination is in every heart as the desire of eternity.
How can this be limited and challenged?
It's hard to fathom that all of this was limited.
It wasn't, nor was the heart of the one who rules it all.
Sitting in class, and hearing his words of glass.
Make everything realistic and meaningful he says, but be creative.
Story after story breaks my own heart; where is the imagination?
Where is the one thing I was made for?
In my room I huddle; this class frustrates me.
Papers torn across the room like a hurricane of parades.
I feel torn; I feel cold.
Where is the one thing I was made for?
It all becomes meaningless, and my passion becomes co
Ephemeral MomentsLike the sky above me
And many endless sea-waves,
It seems to me that I am floating.
In the sleep for the past.
In all splendor, in my glance –
Interwoven the butterfly flies
And it is easy to smile for me.
Today matters, but only the true appearance
And far prevail all flaps.
In view, freedom can be almost seized.
Yesterday seems to be forgotten
And the future, beyond question.
Balanced is my wish
To let go all hold.
But shall I chose the sky now
Or shall I dive into the sea-blue?
i fear you
and i love you
you have created the beauty and the life
as well as the misery and death
as adversaries and counterpoints
to your cosmic composition
according to your secret wisdom
you saw everything already
when it was only in germ
in the shining darkness
and before the world was born
even before the beginning
of all you were here
in the beginning of time, on the face of the darkness
shivered the inkling of the breath of your name
of which bright sparkle the world was given to born
according to your divine and foreknowing will
according to your magnificent wisdom
you have send us the purple dawns and dusks
the armies of the stars of the night sky
which twinkle during the long winter nights
together with the moon and the cherry blossoms
of the spring and the multicoloured summer flowers
of various kinds and the shining colours of
They say Christians never doubt
That all we do is look down on people
For being flawed and imperfect
That we think we are superior to all
Let me tell you something
It is a complete and utter lie
If anything we doubt more than most
Because we struggle not to lose our faith
Why fight for it all, you ask?
Because I'll always know
That there is always Someone there
Whose arms I can collapse in
No matter how much I rage and scream
Despite all the insults I throw at Him
Even if I walk away time and time again
He'll never leave, even if everyone else does
The Heathen in Your Midstdo not mistake his presence as a prayer
nor take his poise as an act of attrition
that he sits atop your pew
does not make him one of you
this Heathen in your midst
he has no guilt left to give
and whether you wanted it or not
is no longer a concern of his
he traces fingers along the stone
and makes your Virgin a proud young Mother
the seed of Annikki becomes the blood of Frija
such is his wicked Heathen craft
your symbols do go back in time
where neither Jew nor Christ have breath
symbols of the harvest to be reaped as you have sewn
sigils here are those that touch the Heathen’s heaving heart
do not be offended as this wicked Witch takes your church away
for were you there upon its silent pews
than he never would have come to bother you
Poet has eyeswhen the night takes its step to the kingdom of shadows
then there is liveliness between the told and the untold
then the poet has eyes seventy
times seventy or maybe even more
within all these eyes the poet has fiery look like seraphs
and equal amount of wings in mouth like cherubs
under the poets tongue is a key which opens and closes
everything on the border of the seen and the unseen
but don’t delude yourself because in reality even one eye
or hand or instinct is enough for a human being
to make bright from the darkness of this world
if it only looks within - because look
the kingdom of god is within you and it can not be taken away from you
by angels or thrones or principalities or dominions or powers
The Cross We BearSometimes we are born
with a cross to bear
and to that cross you are not warned,
it is okay to think that unfair
That cross you must carry
to your own personal Calvary
and you must be wary
that all you will feel is agony
Once the cross is made to stand
and just as though it were planned
You will face both The Dark and The Light
only you can choose which way is right
Ascend into Heaven
or Descend into Hell
Can you live with your choice?
Only time will tell...
La demesure de ce monde.La démesure de ce monde.
Nous humains sommes démons et excès :
Ce monde est en démesure d’absurdités.
Quand arrive l’automne
En éclaboussure de couleurs,
En jaunes qui s’orangent,
En verts que le rouge ronge,
Quand la forêt se fait fleur,
Les brumes pleurent l’été en allé
En langueur de lambeaux et caresses
Que le vent disperse bientôt.
Nous humains sommes anges déchus :
Les croyants qui ne condamnent l’ISIS
Font de leur Dieu et Allah, un salaud!
Est-il raisonnable de salir ainsi son Dieu?
La nuit est cette fenêtre sur le vide
Qui habite notre multitude
Sous le champ des étoiles
Notre univers n’est fait que d’aléatoire
Où Dieu n’est qu’un joueur compulsif
Qui a peut-être mal joué ses cartes.
Existe-t-il un univers plus sensé
Où le bien en absolu règne,
Où l’enfant est ce p
There's Words To Sellyounger
behind a wall
and staring to the sky
the blue of
a believed heaven
i am forgiven
if i pray
sought in the most
ill beg the figure
hiding behind white
and running through
that this life
i never lost faith
just wondered where
itd always been
when crying for
the music went
nobody had answered
but ill never question it
of false comfort
the skies sleep alone
because this night
is just like every other night
ill curse my pillow
say a name in vain
and wait for tomorrow
never wanting something
the little girl
inside the shed
but a walking book of lies
my eyes are staring
but they no longer hold
i rely on the living
to steal my breath
just like lily did
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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