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The Writers BurdenWriters heed your calling,
Bare arms for your right,
Take up your pen in action,
And prepare yourself to fight
Working until distraction,
In you heart it's true
For these things inside
Make the words part of you.
Writers heed your calling,
Words from your fingers slip,
To put bread into your mouth.
For art you would once happily flip,
Will keep you from moving south,
The cold of winter beckons at your minds door
Make sure to prop it open
so they can come inside.
Writers heed your calling,
You read long past stars,
making you intelligent
with words meant to be ours
but beware Astonishment,
for he is a rouge
who bottles you up
and eats you whole.
Writers heed your calling,
remember the meaning of your life,
the point behind it all.
that even in through the strife
you can't afford to fall.
Brush writer's block aside,
take charge of what you know,
and put the hate behind.
Writers heed your calling,
Trust your fellow man,
that when you are writing,
other's are writing your battle plan.
High SchoolBlank white walls,
Lockers sigh as they open,
contents sliding out,
like water in a stream.
You learn things here,
get new information
even if you don't want it
as the sky beckons from outside.
People rush by worried about
and romantic relationships.
They don't notice me,
I blend into the barren walls.
Doors engulf them,
sucking the students into the darkness.
There are so many things akin to,
The JungleMenagerie of hogs and cattle,
No returning from the machine,
Squealing hogs, swooping penalty,
Scraped, severed, slit, cut, chop, jerked
Screaming, crying, and squealing.
Skinning, chilling, boiling, labeling,
Carcasses inch-deep in blood,
Sinclair, Upton. The Jungle. New York: Bantam, 1981
Striking When I first watched the 1943 version of Pride and Prejudice I was already a huge fan of the book. It wound around in my mind like coil, curving and digging into my brain in some palaces while lightly brushing in others. Not surprisingly, I watched it alone, while my parents were out and I found myself captivated by the actors in the movie. The women weren't today's kind of beautiful. The ideal, big breasted, skinny women that men are supposed to fantasize about now days. They were curvy and a healthy kind of plump.
Their features were striking. I love that word, striking. I won't ever be gorgeous, but I have been called striking. That is my word. The one used to describe me. I am not plain or beautiful or ugly. I am striking. Maybe that's why I love older things. Back in the early 1900s, the more striking you were, the more people looked at you, the more you got to sing and dance. The more you got to be an artist and let your hair down as you
Bird The people in my neighborhood stare at me. It's not because I'm crazy like Jordan, who lives down the road in the blue house that her father repainted before we stopped being best friends. She would bounce down the street like springs were tied to her shoes, smiling with crooked teeth that she would hide when you smiled back with your teeth that were straight like cream, brick walls in your mouth.
I am a different girl, some say. Her head is off in the sky with the birds, flitting around ideas that don't make sense, no matter how hard she pulls on them with her beak. She doesn't chirp like a bird, but she sings. They don't talk about it when I'm there, but I can see it in the place in the center of the eye that betrays all lies and feelings. I'm good at hiding that place inside me. That way no one knows that inside I'm braking into tiny, cutting pieces that tear gashes into the deepest part of my soul. Torn into small fragments of myself as the
A Temporary Freedom In my head, I am free. Free to allow myself to dream of soft november mornings and cool summers where I would not melt in the suns fierce rage. Free to dream that my people are not just people that live in my imagination and spring to life when I ask it of them, like I am the puppet master and they are the puppets in my world. Where I am God for a short while, creating and destroying in turn. Sculpting the smallest detail of a meadow, down to the last blooming bud, while leaving the sky blank and starless for a short while. There, words twist like thread, stringing themselves together to create a tapestry of light in my minds eye. I sail along on the ship that is my conscience, my eyes alight with the strength of my excitement.
But when I look out the window into the other world beyond the sails go slack against the mast and my peoples face's slowly fade to black and the starless sky becomes white and blank like an empty page.
Can you blame me for resentin
he cried because no one cried for himI found Death crying in the alleyway underneath my apartment window. He crouched, huddled, shaking and whimpering out his little mouse of a cry that was muffled by the rumbling cacophony of city night life. He didn't make himself seen, and like the child he was, huddled down and hid his face with his mitten-covered hands.
Death made eye contact with me as I watched him from the fire escape. He stared with bright blue eyes perfectly framed with long eye lashes. The chill bit and reddened his nose and cheeks, and his tears left frozen paths of black ice against his face. I didn't mean to, it was an accident, he pleaded with me.
I watched him as he shamefully picked up his victim, a tiny little kitten that was half frozen and curled tightly into itself. He tried to stroke it back to life, begging and pressing the small animal into his plush winter coat.
I'm sorry, he lisped, wiping snot onto his sleeve as he cradled the corpse like a beloved baby doll. I followed his t
Lib. Ar.She was a revolutionary in her head, the way she wrapped herself in the flag and sang herself to sleep with freedom songs and chain gang chants. The way she wore her hair, unkept and messy and slanted slightly to the right due to the many times she fell asleep on her arm after reading Das Kommunistische Manifest until the early hours of the morning. I never questioned why she always ended on the same page, or why we had to search through dozens of used book stores in order to find an old hardcover copy of the book that was peeling with dry-rot and plagued with dog-eared corners.
She told me her grandfather was a political prisoner, and she inherited his rucksack and his circular glasses--the ones that he used to read his speech the day he was shot by the police and thrown in jail for treason.
"But the Man diluted my spirit, leaving me here having to fight for the rights my granddad sacrificed his life for. They never did free him," she always told the newest per
Tissue, muscle, bone and blood.Tissue, muscle, bone and blood. Together they create a frame, holding together a central purpose. Without these frames, there is nothing to display, yet without having anything to display, frames become a simple structure, without purpose; tissue, muscle, bone and blood. There are those who drape themselves in stark, and claim a dull proclamation; we feel nothing more than a complex matter of equation, we are built on nothing more than architectural cells, and our world moves despite how still our hearts may stand. Yet we are still hungry- we are still starved of knowledge. There is more of what we desire, then more of what can be explained.
They say that without the comfort of others, we are incapable of survival- we crave to be spoon fed with the affections of another. Yet there are those whose affections lie deep within the soil, whose affections cannot, or will not, be blossomed by the rays of the sun. They claim that affections remain false, that the sun can only do so much as bur
PostbellumIn the half-darkness of the orange-lit night, I can see myself in eyes that flutter between my nose and fidgeting hands. Somehow in those glimmering orbs the reflection is less warped than the one I hold within. Heavy silence leaks from two silent lips, but in collision the reaction creates warmth seeping back in. Discarded tissues litter the worn porch-boards from a smashed box smelling of lint and mud. I watch stages of expressions flit before the mouth opens once more –
“It’s good to have this. Someone who–” But they already know, I can tell by the intent eyes that somehow hold the both of us together. I can see the skin still recovering on the knuckles that were white and tense, still glistening with salty wetness. A wry almost-smile curves a matching damp cheek, a cheek on which I can almost see the unnatural colors like stains in my own mirror. I look into those eyes, determined this time to not to let this pass as countless had before
Contrary to popular belief, this Christmas was not a white one. Rather, the air felt heavy with the smoke from the factories mixing in with the fog rolling in from the Thames which stank with the rotting detritus from the many warehouses and factories that used the river as a dumping ground for the byproducts of their particular industries. Coaches, Brewery carts, and Hansom cabs clattered their way up and down the cobbled streets of London amid the haze of the pea soup fog. Gas lamps flickered along the avenues, alleys, and streets guiding the way for the various pedestrians who moved like shadows through the night.
This was the city of shadows, and amid the city which hid both pleasure and vice another world dwelled. It reflected that of the world above. Small feet dashed to and fro dodging cart wheels and horse's hooves. They moved among the manicured gardens, through dank sewers, along rooftops, through the homes of the
The Souls at Night"You wanna know something?" she whispered as dew crunched grass settled between my jeans.
"I like to think that people's souls are the stars."
"Yeah, I mean just think about it, there are billions of twinkling little lights up there, and when you clear your head of yourself and your trivial matters, you can see everyone."
"So?" I questioned, gazing into her sickle sweet freckles coated on her barely there skin.
"You just become overwhelmed by the sheer mass of souls that exist so close, and yet you're so distant from them...." her voice faded out and I could see the fog sheen that covered her storm clouds ridden at sea eyes when she thought of-
"Why would they be stars?" I saw her eyes focus back on the backdrop of souls and a small smile grace her bubblegum cherry lips.
"Constellations." She responded simply. I rolled over onto my elbow, crushing fragile grass dreams in the process. Without turning she continued.
"You see there are those that make up a group, you know a c
Silent Screams of Non-ExistenceCan I please get some help with this? No? Oh… Okay. Fine…
… Actually, not fine.
Why won’t anyone help me with what I’m going through?
Can’t you see that I’m in pain? Can’t you see me at all?
Am I still here?
Am I even alive? It doesn’t feel like it. But, then, it does; when she sees me, hears me. It makes me feel alive when we talk and play. That doesn’t stop people from staring at her weirdly when we do, though. It doesn’t stop her mother from giving her sympathetic, almost pitying, looks when we walk into the kitchen. Always at her, and it hurts me when I see it.
----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----
What do you mean? Of course I’
Conscience InputSomewhere within the last few hours, she'd turned into a jitterbug. Sitting on the edge of a panic attack and not knowing how to handle it, she did her level best to throw herself into something that would calm her nerves. But every time she attempted to really get into the rewriting of recipes into a spiral bound book, she found only more setbacks that stopped her from really getting stuck in the work.
“That does it!” she swore quietly, yet the volume of the words did nothing to hide the menace in her tone. She picked up the cold chili she'd set down on her desk a few hours ago and promptly ignored. Digging into it like she hadn’t eaten in days. While the time since she'd last consumed food had been more like a few hours, it still felt like forever ago. She was surprised to find herself hungry, usually she did her level best to forget that she needed to eat, much to her irritation when her body finally mentally put it's foot down. She shovelled food into her mouth as
The Mirror GirlI am crouched over myself, trying hard not to fall over. The nerves in my feet send telegrams to my brain, screaming at it to stop me from moving. I hate this, I hate this, I hate this! My mind is on repeat, the recording forever replaying, over and over. The other girls can just move and she smiles and claps, her fingers the only things that move faster than this endless tempo of music that sets my nerves on edge. I glance at the clock. An eternity until I'm free.
"Moorea!" she shrieks in that voice that is too sweet to be human. To pink to be real. "There you are. Will you try the steps, now?"
I shake my head, praying that it will come off so I won't have to step out there in front of all the other girls and stare at myself in the mirror that seems to portray different people than the people I know. The girl in the mirror who grimaces stares me in the eye. She feels the same thing I do and I can take comfort in that. At least she understands. She turns as I do, the same awkward, clun
Crown of ThornsShe wakes up with red staining her pillow
and the taste of blood like iron in her mouth
It stains her teeth and leaks from her lips, and as she
rinses her mouth out, she can’t help thinking that
it’s better than dirt and ashes
it feels like she’s wearing a noose
of broken promises and shattered glass
that tightens around her throat with every day that passes
She nails a smile to her face
and doesn't let herself think the word dying
Keep in Touch!
^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