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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
Hope Burns Blue"Reach for the stars," they told me,
So I did.
Days and weeks
Passed without event.
I nearly lost hope,
Spica noticed my outstretched arms
And shifted my way.
False ConceptTime is an illusion
And we make a delusion
As if we know the conclusion
Better than the real resolution
How small we are in this c n u i n
o f s o
Of what lengths of time envision
Much greater than our own observation
Our knowledge is a masked intrusion
Obscure in our own consumption
Time has its sessions
And we are just a provision
In an never ending mission
Art Can Be-Skipping and jumping and hopping
And swimming and dancing and
Art can be
You with friends
And a box of sparklers on a
Warm summer night.
Art can be
The snow that melts
In your hair and the warmth
Of the fire inside during winter.
Art can be
You racing outside with no one
But yourself and whatever you love
Whether you can touch it or not.
Art can be
Words on a page or a scrap of paper
Or a napkin at that one diner that got
Art can be
Little scribbles on the back of a
Test, where you're in school and the
Person next to you is exactly at that
Art can be
You with ten other people
Just dancing around like idiots
Or by yourself practicing that one part
In a complicated routine.
Art can be
Random streaks of color,
Whether it's made by light and clouds
And rain, or by paints or pencils or digital
Art can be
A choir of young children
Or a few friends, no matter the age,
Just hanging out singing old songs in the
Art can be
DesperateYou said, to keep my eyes on You,
that the shifting- the raging seas are not to be feared.
You said that with the faith the size of a mustard seed-
that I can say to the mountains, ‘Be moved,’ and they will be uprooted.
I just need the strength, the courage, the faith to believe.
I gasp, I struggle, I am desperate.
Desperate for the pain to cease.
Desperate for the screaming to end.
Desperate for one touch of healing.
One touch to feel that You are with me.
I fight against chaos and deception,
against an uprooted faith, lingering.
With fists clasped, with a spirit roaring, raving.
I scream into the emptiness, the darkness,
void of belief- laced within this despair.
There is a certain hopelessness that comes
when you lay helplessly in a state of desperation.
It leads you to a revelation that paints new light
to an otherwise deadly situation.
I wish I could say I didn’t reach that point,
that family surrounding me was enough
to encourage a fight ins
SpacetimeFor all the philosophy and questions;
No love, always lost. Loved at last.
One day I will die.
But before that I will live and love.
So therefore, do I enjoy my life as it is now?
Or do I focus on what could lie beyond death?
Or do I do both, or neither?
Remembering the one fact of life: its inevitable end?
Is like a butterfly:
And difficult to capture,
For the short moment
When you cup it in your hands.
Never Lose HopeSometimes
In the midst of
A dark night of the soul,
Will perch in the tree
Outside your window
And sing to you
That the morning is coming.
Les querelles et les religionsLa religion des querelles.
Querelles de religions ou quand Dieu se mord la queue.
Une religion reproduit dans les fosses
De l’iniquité et de l’intolérable
Un christianisme de l’inquisition.
Ceux-là aussi se disaient des saint-hommes,
Œuvrant pour et au nom de Dieu,
Qui torturaient et brûlaient l’innocent.
Quand une religion se bâtit sur
Une perversion des valeurs morales,
Il n’y a plus dans sa foi de lueur
D’une quelconque spiritualité.
Il est heureux que les prophètes morts
Ne voient pas cette abomination
Que leurs révélations ont suscitée.
Dieu se querelle avec lui-même…
Via ses propres révélations!
Ternie, l’image de Dieu n’est plus
Que cette caricature de lui-même
En bête sans queue ni tête
Déferlant en barbarie sur le monde.
Tout chacun interprète la Parole
Et le débile qui crie le plus fort
De sa Kalachnikov a toujours ra
in one of the stars you shall be livingi'm sorry i can't save
you with a name
or hold you.
i will never be able
to teach you
how to shave,
how to talk to your
crushes in middleschool
or how to tie a tie,
use a pocket knife,
how to make rice.
and how tell your mother
you're sorry you got an F
in math class,
or how to make her
( alfredo shrimp pasta )
to make her smile;
i have a cheat sheet in
my head to make your
mother smile but you'll
never be old enough to
use it; at five, you could
recite a poem by Neruda
and at six you could draw
in a box,
or a hat
and only we would know
its a boa eating an elephant,
(she'd ask why you drew a hat,
but she would know better)
but if god
exists he should be
and you will hear this
from the mouth
of our father.
the stars will hold your smile
and i will not forget you
i could not stop
the river of red
away from me.
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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