|Because you love me and I have quality work? Hahahha what lies am I speaking|
The Weight Of Living (1/?)The pale rays of sunlight were fading fast.The Weight Of Living (1/?) by xoSoul
Cy dropped her pack, releasing a long breath of air through the filters of her gas mask. Scanning the horizon, she looked around for somewhere to camp for the night.
Hotels weren't easy to come by when World War III had nuked everything. Only post-apocalyptic wastelands remained.
She spotted an outcropping of debris not too far off that she could camp comfortably behind. Shouldering her pack once more, she trudged towards it. Her stomach rumbled, loud in the deserted area. It was nothing uncommon, her being hungry. Her emaciated form showed that, though this amount of undereating was the worst in a long time. Her food supply was running low, with only a single can of soup and a limited number of stale crackers left. She'd been saving them as long as possible; the last time she'd eaten was approaching to three days. Her energy and hope were fading fast, and if she didn't find somewhere or something to raid soon, she would starve to deat
This Poem Is Not For YouOrwell never returns my calls.This Poem Is Not For You by allofmyconfusion
I think he owes me that much at least
and when he stood me up in Berkshire,
the groundskeeper told me he’s been
dead for years, but I’m sure he paid
him off. The grave face had no face,
and spoke no words of his actual own.
He was tattooed.
was not a man but a low doorway,
one of too much metal and stone.
My Alice hands couldn’t manage
the doorknob, so I slipped my letter
under the crack. The groundskeeper
read it after I left I saw; it probably
just sounded like madness to him.
Nonsense poetry is the language
I am most articulate in. George
would understand I’m sure.
We were both altered by an era
neither of us lived to see, the day
he passed on the disease
to me; and when I read
101, I screamed. He never
told me that it wasn’t just
an invention of his mind.
It exists in my mind too.
There was never a footnote
for phobia affliction.
On my first date with Margaret,
I told her my love affairs with dead
leo:1. there is no center of the universe.
there is you. there is you and every time i look at you,
i figure out all over again that miracles
exist, because you are not anything someone could ever
repeat—you are a mess of perfectly executed mistakes
and you have never failed to take my breath away.
2. sometimes, the girl dances. sometimes she doesn’t,
but it rains and rains more and sometimes your clothes
stick to your skin but don’t you dare care. promise.
3. you are not an apology, no matter how many
times you say you’re sorry. your mother did
not create you for you to regret the
amount of space you take up.
4. something inside you is burning.
you are fire and ember and you will survive.
you are a storm, a hurricane, destruction incarnate.
you have iron in your blood, you have a spine of steel.
you will survive. you are lighting—you know of
finite existences. you know of leaving your mark.
you are zeus’ child and this will not kill you.
5. you would lo
quirks.when i was a child:
i loved to steal.
i would go around my neighborhood
and steal lawn ornaments.
at daycare, i would steal money
once, i stole my next door neighbor’s
when my parents confronted me,
the lie was smooth and solid:
i saw so-and-so take it.
when i was a child:
i loved to lie.
i would make up stories
to get reactions out of people.
to see if they’d believe me.
once, i convinced my friend charlotte
that i had twenty-four hours to live.
when she burst into tears,
i had to bite my tongue
to keep from laughing.
when i was a child:
i loved animals.
i would lock my dog in the closet
and in the bathroom.
a lot of my neighbors left birdcages out
during the day
so i set all of the birds free.
once, i imagined what it would be like
to kill an animal.
then, i imagined what it would be like
to run over it repeatedly
with a car
so i did it with my scooter
to a rose i found
because it was red
when i was a
the aftermaththe temple of her body was torn open tonight,
desecrated and lit on fire. i swear, gods have burned
and felt less pain than i do as i write these words down,
because she’s crying in my bathroom right now and i have
to go and convince her that the handful of feathers
i have left in my palms could ever equal the wings he snipped
off of her tonight. she will never fly again. she will never
believe so wholly in herself again. her body is no longer
a temple, her body is a landmine, an open wound, a thousand
foot drop off of a bridge, a stranger to her. she will never
again be able to trust her body, to know her body.
this is not the first poem i’ve written about rape. but this is
the first poem i’ve written about rape when my hands
are shaking and i have a twenty second phone call still ringing
in my ears. it’s not about statistics anymore. i cannot
distance myself from the cold, hard facts by using pretty
metaphors about dissolving and beginning anymore
because a gi
8 Things I Learned Before I Turned Sixteen1. you are stronger than you think
and when you tell other people this,
do not be offended when they start talking about muscle mass.
they will not understand until they wake up
one day and are disappointed to find themselves
2. reading books about thin people
doesn’t make you thin
just like writing poems about happiness
doesn’t make you happy.
3. make new year’s resolutions. even if you know
they won’t last longer than the shower
you make them in, do it anyways because
you’ll love the idea of the person you were
washing off of you with the dirt.
4. you’re going to fall head over heels
over ankles over fingers in love with a boy.
this does not mean that you have any right
to keep him.
5. someone won’t always be there to tell you,
“hey, good job on getting out of bed today.
good job on going to school and doing your homework.
good job on surviving today.”
but good job anyways.
6. change your hair color. change your s
read this when you're so angry you shakelittle drops of oil make rainbows on wet concrete
and i don’t know how beautiful you find that,
but sometimes you gotta learn that
the littlest things are the prettiest,
like the shape of your fingernails and the crinkles
you get at the corner of your eyes when you laugh and
when you grow old and i know i said “grow old”
like it’s a temporary thing, but that’s because it is.
you can think it’s forever but it’s really
a split second because you don’t matter, not when
the universe is still growing and speeding through a nothingness
we can’t even fathom, not when color doesn’t exist in space
but nebulas still explode in shades of gold and green,
not when there are stars who die
before their light ever touches our faces. you don’t matter,
not to anyone but the people who have fallen in love
with the way you walk and the way you breathe
and the way you keep doing both.
i don’t care that the universe is spinning and grow
benev(i)olentcaught the higher arc-
[you folded into space waves
as they rushed and receded
never kiss never on the lips
because the past is presently
reappearing, climbing the horizon
in a flat glow. in a fat growl
I say the darnedest things, like four-lettered
words. like once when love left dark spot
s in my vision
and I built around the columns I imagined;
felt the sky fall down around my shoulders
Stop Romanticizing Poets 2K14This is how I write my poems:
You’re blonde and you have blue eyes.
You’re the perfect subject for my next great hit,
a long rambling epic or a two page sonnet
which would start by comparing your hair
to rays of the sun and your eyes to the ocean
at daybreak. Even if you’re more of a dishwater blonde
than sun-colored, and your eyes are less ocean and
more sky, I swear I write this poem and think
vaguely of you.
But here is a secret: I’m not writing a poem about you.
I’m writing a poem about the idea of you.
And I don’t know if it will be a love poem or
a break-up poem or a “please don’t go home and
commit suicide” poem or one of those
heartbreakingly honest poems that feels like
you put your pencil on paper and bled.
I don’t write poems like that often.
No poet does, not really,
we write poems about you and your blue eyes
because we don’t like how bleeding feels,
and it is much safer for us to pretend to fall in l
I write Fanfictions, too! (click here!) |
Right now I have Harvest Moon, and the always amazing Romantically Apocalyptic!... But I'm planning to expand!
Current Residence: CANADA
Favourite genre of music: Various, mostly Rock and Alternative
Favourite photographer: Once more, too many!
Favourite style of art: Traditional art, poetry, and photography
MP3 player of choice: iPod
Shell of choice: Bullet please
Skin of choice: Slightly bruised
Favourite Quote: "Just because we do bad things does not mean we are bad people.”