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Similar Deviations
Briskly comes the bloody winter wind’s vent
Gray dusk looms over my shattered homestead
The crow’s caw makes known the warrior’s descent
Across the dying pasture, misted red

Glory, comes now my once sweetly adored!
Fighting brothers with valiant reluctance
His tender eyes shut, his breathing no more
His body lies stone-cold with stiffened stance

How well he fought for his country and lass
Like Prince Paris, fighting for what he claimed
Now laid ready for a still, somber mass
His face in my conscience forever famed

Gone is the restful warmth of his skin
Gone is the honey-like voice from his tongue
Yet, here he lays, surrounded by my kin
His bluing ears deaf to their praises sung

His eyes like mirrors reflect my despair
His hand is unresponsive to my grasp
Though I know his spirit now watches where
He can escape all maddened soldiers' clasps

Heaven’s bells peal, the seraphine choir sings
For he has joined the chorus of angels
I can nearly hear his pleasant voice ring
Though his body be marred, his soul lives, dwells

I long to feel his gentle touch once more
I so long to know happiness with him
I long to see his stance at the door
Instead of his lifeless, blank gaze, so dim

As we were to be wed this snowy moon
We’re now separated by the cold ground
He had gone to find his glory too soon
And was placed warmly in a warrior’s mound

My braver soul mate, though he had gone home
To God the Father, and laid in the earth
Like Homer’s Penelope, I shan’t roam
I’ll wait ‘til we reunite by the firth

When this war is ended, I shall come
And lay forlornly by his graveside
I shall then say to him “sweet, we are home”
And I’ll feel complete, his never-wed bride
Whoo! I hope this cleared up my writer's block (I'm not quite sure yet). But... I like this poem! It's an elegiac poem (a poem praising a dead person) and it makes vague references to being set in the American Civil War. It's about a woman (who is possibly forced to turn her plantation into a war hospital) who finds her fiancé's dead body in the yard, and she both mourns him and praises his bravery at the same time.





Please leave, nice lovely constructive comments or I'll come and egg your house. Word.


EDIT: Fixed some stuff
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There's a band aid on her ankle
bleeding up her thigh and onto her neck.
A right handed whiskey bottle slung
over her razor wire shoulder .
Today, the train track was a catwalk .

Nothing about her  hair or her lip ring
cried out "Help me".  No, she was the
collective pulse and the sun couldn't set
until she took off those shades.
…I couldn't leave until I found her eyes.

She shouted over the whistle of an approaching train.

"Sometimes you can find lumps of coal tucked between the rails.
They turn into diamonds. Didn't you know?"

"I think that process takes a really long time."

"Time is all I have…and coal."

We stood off to the edge as the beast rolled by.  
I think we both thought about what would happen
if we stepped in front of the next one.
Both in different ways.

"You should leave. I feel silly being watched."

"Diamonds right?  Aren't they all about pressure?

"And heat."  She smiled and removed her sunglasses.  

Suddenly the stars were out.
I wrote this after seeing this picture. [link] It was just a very inspiring and peace invoking picture in my opinion and I don't think I did the picture justice by I tried. He has many cool pictures in his gallery so check him out!
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You wake up and it's spring again.  The kids have all grown up and moved out. Your neighbor needs to mow her lawn but she is too seasoned for long exposure to the southern sun.  It dawns on you one night when you're grilling steaks for your family.  Your daughter calls you over to the table. She's on her third glass of wine. She met a man in graduate school.  He doesn't drink.  They clear their throats in unison and announce that they are engaged and plan to be married next January.  You're happy for them but that is getting further and further from your mind.  Your eyes shift over to the tall weeds growing only feet away from your wife's roses.  You think about the fact that your neighbor never mentioned grandchildren.  She never mentioned anyone.  You think about the boy down the street who died in that car accident this winter.  He always took care of her yard…for a price.  Now, there is crab grass growing so close to your Tall Fescue. The last thing you think about for awhile is that you can't remember how long it's been since you have seen her.  Not since spring began.  You hug your daughter and shake her fiancés hand and walk over to the neighbor's front door.  You ring the bell and continuously knock.  You don't think about why she isn't answering because you already know.
Thought about this during class the other day. The title is still a work in progress. If you can offer constructive feedback on this piece I would appreciate it.
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Lure me in with silk and gold,
beaded velvet, satin threads
drawn across lips still red with wine.

Draw me down beneath the world
into some secret, wanton lair
while Carnival still beats within our veins.

Wall me up behind the dark
and leave me with my silver chains
to think on wiles byzantine,

Montresor's bleak design.
Written for :iconlit-visual-alliance:

For the original image, visit by :iconkrazypenguin:
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Monsters are real and they like to tell stories about us.
We're scary because we can walk around in the day light.
We only check our closets to make sure no one found the skeletons.

What you became is something that I find difficult to explain.
I promise that I try, but sometimes my mind won't let me.
I'm still fighting the instinct to protect you, long after you're gone.
If I wasn't cursed with hindsight you would remain a child in my eyes.
Do you truly deserve that kind of liberation?
Nobody wants to play an equal role in helping me destroy these memories.

Yesterday, I heard the echo of our laughter in the cries of a lost child.
I held her hand and waited for the mother to come rescue her.
She hugged me and thanked me for keeping the girl safe.
I never feel good about myself anymore.
It hasn't felt right to touch anyone accept the ghosts I see in my dreams.

This isn't about love or leprosy and I'm not a rat floating down the river on a wheel of cheese.

Do you see what I mean?
No.

I think you would have laughed, but these are words you'll never read.
I know that.
Please.
Please.
Please .
Understand that I know I'm talking to myself.
I also know how to build a wall and
I know how long it takes to scrub blood stains off your hands.
Forever is a blind man's estimate.
What you knew was how to breathe while running and
why it hurts when people grind salt into an open wound.

True story-
A young couple moved into the house where you used to live. They were unpacking and boxes littered the yard. As I was driving by, I got distracted and accidently honked the horn. The man was carrying a rather large mirror and must have startled him because he dropped it.  The mirror shattered and I felt terribly guilty. I thought about turning around and offering to reimburse the couple but when I looked in the rearview I decided to keep driving. The young man stood in the driveway with his wife, staring at ten thousand copies of their own frowns.  Six months later I drove past there again and a for-sale sign was pounded into the front yard.

Don't tell me things don't happen for a reason.
There is such a thing as "bad luck"
I woke up one day and decided that I loved you.
I don't think that I will ever get back to sleep.

I walked you home from the bus stop one day.
We were only friends and it was winter.
Neither of us knew the finer points of staying warm.
You punched me on the shoulder when I said goodbye.
I threw a snowball at your head when you turned around to go inside.
The last thing I remember seeing was the sun peeking
through the clouds as you tackled me into a snow drift.
I took you down with me.
I didn't feel guilty for being happy back then.
I didn't know that monsters were real.
What boy would have seen anything other than the girl in his arms?

So many things shattered in front of that house.
God, I hate the cold.
Think I'm off my game. This is really long and rant-like. I hope that some find merit in it though. Comments/critiques welcome.
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I’m fully aware that I’m alive.


And in this life, I find it hard to believe

that I could allow so many nights to

pass unnoticed and unaccompanied.


And in this world where seven billion

souls crawl over one another,

being alone is something of a miracle.  

I haven't been writing very much poetry lately.  This past year has been a rather strange, un-creative time in my life and I quite honestly feel like I wasted the lion's share of 2013.  This poem is a rather simple and short result of that feeling of disbelieve and shame that comes with wasting so much of your precious time.  I hope those who read it enjoy it for what it is.  As always I welcome any feedback. 

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My childhood home, a gray, old farm house, sat nestled near the small town of McKean Pennsylvania.    My father moved us there from Pittsburgh in 1954 when I was no taller than a limp potato sack.  I was their only child at the time. He said the city was no place to raise a family. We needed room to run and explore and my mother needed a quiet place to work on her writing. However, in three years of living there she gave birth to four of my brothers.  So much for peace and quiet.  There must have been something in the water.

Folks in town liked to whisper about that house like it was some kind of architectural Jezebel.  By the time I could spell my own name I had heard dozens of rumors and stories surrounding our home.  There were certainly enough to keep my young mind racing through many sleepless nights.  Some of the more elaborate stories suggest a mass murder of the previous occupants by their deranged mother. My classmates claimed that this woman then buried the corpses of her husband and three children in the walls and that they walked around at night looking for revenge. I made sure to always keep my door locked.

Another urban legend told that this house was a Union hospital during the Civil War. Although I could see the possibility of truth in this yarn, I never believed the part about the secret chest of gold that a defecting soldier buried somewhere on our property.  My rolling eyes and smart remarks never stopped my younger brothers from searching for it though. God bless them.  Occasionally, when I didn't have a book to read or chores to do, I would humor the little pirates and go hunting with them.

One afternoon, I believe it was in late summer, my brothers and I were out by the old barn just snooping.   My eldest brother, Earl, came across a nest of milk snakes hidden underneath a patch of tall weeds.  The snakes scattered, slithering everywhere as we tried to catch them. Their low, hissing sounds perfectly complimented the summer heat. It sounded like the world was cooking in a skillet.   Earl raced inside to grab two glass jars from the kitchen cabinet. He hurried back and we spent the next hour or so catching the foot long critters.  I lost track after about thirty. We were so proud of our find. I poked a few holes in the top of the jars so that they could breath and we ran inside to show mother.

My brothers trailed after me as I presented mother with our spoils. Always seeking her approval, I crept up to her as she was mending an old quilt. My grin was met only with her disgusted frown. She didn't laugh like I hoped she would.  She didn't marvel at our cleverness and fascination with nature. She just scowled at me and made a noise very similar to the sound of the hissing snakes. She stood up and proceeded to drag me into the kitchen where I was sat down at our large, oak, dinner table.

Mother sat across from me. Whether it was because I was the oldest and should have known better or just because she didn't like me I have never figured out, but I was the only child punished for the serpent concentration camp we had created. I remember almost every word of that lecture. It was the sternest tongue lashing I had ever received. Mother raved about how disgusting and inappropriate it was for a young lady to play with such filthy creatures and how my father would be so ashamed if he found out that his little girl was handling snakes. She fumed about pride and manners: "What would people think if they saw my daughter rolling around in the yard like a hog in shit?"

According to her, it was time to start acting like a young woman. At thirteen I was now expected to spend less time adventuring with my brothers and more time domestically educating myself. If I ever wanted to find a suitable husband I would have to forgo these childish experiments and keep my hands away from those slimy, diseased creatures. However, of all the reasons she found my actions unacceptable, it was the soiling of her glass mason jars that sent her over the top.

It was the most my mother had ever said to me in one sitting and half the conversation was about jars. She never talked to me again as much as she did that sunny afternoon. I often theorize about my mother's secretive reasoning behind her anger.  I knew it was wasteful and slightly disgusting but the jars were only a quarter each. I knew it was wrong to keep God's creatures locked up in such poor conditions, even if they were snakes. I knew it was unhygienic. Yes. I knew all these things. There was just something I wasn't seeing and still to this day don't understand. I could only keep apologizing and asking why what I had done was so horrible and why my brothers weren't getting the same lecture. I could tell when she had grown impatient and fed up with my cluelessness and saw the defeat in her eyes. She stopped talking and sat quietly for a minute, only looking at me.

She broke the silence and asked me to bring her the two jars. I obliged and went into the other room where my brothers were on the ground, staring at our scaly pets. To their dismay I snatched the two jars from the floor and ran into the kitchen.  When I handed her the jars she took them in her hands and smiled at the tangled mass slithering around in their glass prison. It may have been my childhood imagination adding drama to an already dramatic scene but I swear I saw her tongue fork out of her mouth real quick, almost as if mocking the poor critters.

"Burry them." Cheerfully, she stood up and grabbed a small flower basket off of the window sill, placing the jars inside. She walked outside and I hesitantly followed her. Mother handed me a shovel that was leaning against the tool shed and we marched out into the middle of our corn field.  Her finger shook as she pointed at the ground. She was still smiling though. "Bury them."

I begged her to let me release them but she would only shake her head and repeat the same thing over and over again.

"Burry them."

I pleaded that they were just harmless snakes and I would be killing them if I buried them under the ground.

"Burry them or I'll give you such a beating your father will feel it." I reluctantly took the shovel to the dry earth and dug a hole about three feet deep.  She handed me the two jars and I cried as I put them in their grave. She pulled the shovel out of hands and began filling it in, burying them alive.  After she was done, she walked over to me and slapped me hard across the face.  Through the shock and the pain I think I heard the words whore and idiot. It's hard to remember everything after all these years but I can still feel the sting of her hand and hear the sound of dozens of snakes hissing in my ears.

When father came home I begged him to go save the snakes but he only shook his head apologetically and said they were surely dead by now. They would have suffocated.  I remember my parents arguing that night and many nights after. Through the walls I could hear their screams. If there were dead bodies walking around at night they probably would have found somewhere else to live.  I knew my father was enraged by what my mother had said and what she had done to me.  My cheek was bruised for a week and my brothers cried all night long when they learned of what had become of their pets.

I met my husband at sixteen and we married two years later. I loved him and I loved the idea of leaving that small town even more.  I left that town and all those memories behind, only visiting a handful of times. My parent's passed away a few years ago within a month of one another. We inherited the old farm house and my brothers had to beg me not to have it torn down. Occasionally, I go up there for a picnic with the kids and sometimes go looking for those glass jars.  I was certain I had marked the grave and etched the location into my memory but it appears that I forgot the exact location. Every time I go digging I never seem to find them.  Perhaps mother dug them up and hid them in the walls; more bodies to roam the house at night.
This is a story inspired by a story my grandmother told me. It was well received by my creative writing prof and I'm considering entering it into a contest. I would love some feed back on it. What you like or don't like?
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MONDAYMONDAY.
i met him today.
i met you today-
the boy that will change my life.

TUESDAYTUESDAY.
my feet sink in this blindingly white carpet.
there is a trail of yellow flower petals winding it's way across the floor.
i would follow it, but i'm not sure what's at the end.
i throw away my nerves and thoughts and slowly step along the  path.
it's you: you're the end.

WEDNESDAYWEDNESDAY.
I lay in the dark and wait for the part that you sing to me. When I called you my little songbird, you grinned boyishly and gave me a half hearted shove that caused me to laugh until I fell to the floor, holding my sides. You held my hands like we were playing london bridge and told me that this was  f o r e v e r .

THURSDAYTHURSDAY.
You pushed me into the pool, but I held your sleeve, causing you to tumble in after me. We laughed and tried to keep our heads above the surface. [You cannot float when you are dragging eachother down.] We floated perfectly. my.life.is.perfect.

FRIDAYSATURDAY.
I don't know what made him so sad,
but as he hung up the phone and turned around,
I could see his eyes were blank with shock and rapidly forming tears.
all he said was that he needed to "get out of here for a few seconds"
before he quietly shut the door.
he comes back with the stale smell of alcohol sometime early morning
and when i see his resigned look, i have a feeling that he won't ever be the same.
ever.

WENESDAYWEDNESDAY.
we trace our way through lemon trees and breathe in scents like a drug.
i think this will help clear your head and take your hand off the bottle.
but no,
you're too far gone.
"Hey treefall, you're landing will not be graceful."

THURSDAYTHURSDAY.
"we can't float at all, anymore."

FRIDAYFRIDAY.
the droning of the airplane outside my window.
a sound that i sing to, a distraction that makes me concentrate, harder and harder.
I stare up at you with eyes that should walk right through that haze.
"God. Baby, when you open your bleary eyes, someday you'll have regrets."
Focus. Focus on me. Focus on what I'm saying.
Please.

SUNDAYSUNDAY.
Today I stood next to my lover who was passed out cold
and thought about the carnival just last Sunday, where we rode on the ferris wheel
and kissed in the sunshine.
i continue to long for the sunshine.
"I am writing this to help you remember how it was."
journal of a girl who falls in love with a boy who turns into a drunk.

myb soon to be scrap.
i threw this together fast. sowatchout.
but i need to submit some goddamn thing.
i think i hit the best stuff i've ever written a long time ago &now i'm going downhill.

[please don't critique on lowercase, spelling, style, etc. because i know.]
:heart:
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They said you were like a fish-
spending your life in the depths only to resurface in a world you couldn't breathe in.

And I always thought
you were a wonderful prelude
to a damning life.

Now cover girl, you don't cover up anything.
Your makeup does not hide your flaws as you walk to the ocean and drown yourself.
The beach is your last runway, the lightening your last flash.

You yelled          "Call this one 'Hollywood'"       over your shoulder.

[He told me you do not know how to swim.]

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"He's so handsome."
Yeah. He can't keep his hands off other girls and then some.

The boy took away the air you couldn't afford to lose.
He stomped on your lungs when you overheard him-

"She is the balloons that touch the ceiling at a birthday party.
After a few days you will want to throw her away."

Your smile crashed in the same way that the waves do.
You pulled yourself back and felt your heart sink.

Tonight you do a breathy version of "Itsy Bitsy Spider"
where the sun doesn't come out.
"la lalove washed ME out"

You put your hand up to my ear
in the way little kids tell secrets
and whisper
"...the world itself is a bad dream."
[That was the last thing you told me.]

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The ocean blue swallows you and the splashing stops.
[Tonight that boy turned famous.]

He grabbed your hand to lift you out of the water for a moment and said
"Angel, I won't wake you up so that you have more time to have nightmares."
Your fingers slipped out of his grip and you coughed and sputtered until you started floating.

I pull you out of the water the same way you used to pull the whole world in.

Your name was Vogue
and you did not smile in your pictures.
story: [you might want to read this description AFTER reading the actual poem]
a famous model falls in love with a boy and overhears him talking about her. no good. he's using her so that he can get press coverage and be well-known. [which he eventually gets because he's the cause of the magazine covergirl's suicide.] she feels trapped in the shallow world that has become her life. [in this, i'm her best/only friend.]


this is the first poem i've written in months that's actually my style.

which means it jumps around.
alot.

ohwell,
:)
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Were I not me, and you not you
I might just say I love you, too.
I'm just too much myself tonight
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