Song lyrics of [link]
Often I'm told I need to clean up my act
although maturity is something I lack
"You're such a brat [Name]! You are so damn childish and ruin everything! Get out!" The angry voice scolded, his rage fuming from his body.
Her eyes widened and tears started to sting her [e/c] orbs. He never took his anger out on her knowing how sensitive she was, but her careless attitude cost him his patience. "I'm sorry Levi." She apologized, her lip quivering.
Levi rolled his eyes at her, "I don't want your shitty apology. I want you to get out while I clean up your mess." He demanded, his finger pointing towards the front door of their apartment.
[Name]'s eyes fell at the broken vase on the floor. She knew how precious that was to Levi, it belonged to his late mother, the only piece
that peek through
Look in cracks
of this perfect
and see the mess
It's Deathly still
in this house of ours.
Put up curtains
to kill the stars
with plaster walls.
to empty halls.
One would think
but it's a
and you'll find mold
beneath our feet.
I decide on the latter and I'm not sure why. Probably because I can. Life is a never-ending scroll of be-goods, be-happies, be-in-controls, be-okays, be-strongs and be-appreciatives. So what's another day?
Just another day closer to death.
Still, life seems incredibly long, don't you think? So long, it's hard to see the end and nearly impossible to touch even with a knife in my hand that could easily skewer my heart, make it squirm and still like a dying nightingale sealing its death with a pathetic squeal of almost-song.
Life is pain and people in pain are a pain in the ass. Perhaps occasionally or perhaps frequently, they think "Why not just kill myself? Life is hell, anyway. No hell after life could be worse than this."
But they're wrong. The worst is never the worst because things can always get worse and maybe that's why I decided to stick with the chamomile tea. That or I feel tea-sipping is reason to live.
Said the couplet to the villanelle
"You, for all of your complexity
really are a vacuum and a shell
overwrought and odd, compared to me.
You, for all your cunning and your craft
your metaphors and similes and signs
conjure awkward rhymes that make me laugh
strung together in repeating lines."
Said the villanelle to couplet small
"I know I can ramble on at times
but, you know, you are inside of me
and you are complicit in my rhymes.
What's ironic though, you know... doggonnit.
both of us are stuck within this sonnet."
spewing pretty metaphors at me,
for with each elaborate comparison,
I feel a bit more
detached from this world
And maybe I don’t feel so strong at the moment,
but would you be
if you felt like the entire universe
was resting upon your shoulders,
and someone was just there saying:
But you’re stronger than the powerful beats
of a butterfly’s wings
And maybe I do need more confidence,
but would you exuberate it
when the part you hated most about yourself
were the freckles that have speckled your face for years,
and someone was just there muttering:
They’re not flaws,
but rather stars that form constellations
Yes, I can’t help but hate
all those unrealistic metaphors
you choose to pelt at me when I’m low,
yet the irony is,
I know that those beautiful words
are realistic in your eyes,
So I can’t hate you.
Emma sniffled and moaned into her gag. She had a clean pair of her panties stuffed into her mouth and tied in place with a pair of stockings which made a nice, though big, cleave gag. She struggled against her improvised binds but couldn't even move her chair as her legs, ankles and even her feet were bound together with yet more socks. A rather large pair of socks were forced over both of her feet so they could be tied together more easily.
and stillness in the words of dead poets.
We write our secrets on the inside of our lungs
and hide truths on the inside of our stanzas,
because it’s acceptable to wear hatred on your arms,
but vulnerability is a mark of weakness.
I have choked down everything: pain and shame and arsenic tranquility,
to spew forth such paltry words and call it poetry.
A waltz away from thirty eight caliber oblivion
we press back, back
because death isn’t as romantic as we hoped,
and poison is quieter than a gunshot.
- Steve Thompson
Dear Sir. Not sir. It's automatic.
Sorry Steve. Dear Steve. I'm fed
On seven years of autocratic
to teachers." Seven years' emphatic
Faire-sans-dire still in my head.
Dear Steve. Your style was more dramatic
you taught life and art instead:
Stoppard, condoms, mathematics,
goatee beards and Berthold Brecht
and Bigmouth Strikes Again, such is
what you gave us, plus the threat
of a half a term on crutches
for ignoring you. Dear Steve - respect.
and he would lead me through fields covered with snow when i couldn't sleep and hold my icy hands which couldn't warm up.
and then he tells me he loves me and that is okay.
and then i fall in love with him and that is okay.
snows melted and the fireplace went silent.
one evening under the shower of raindrops, he tells me he is leaving.
i lower my eyes and fixate them on a nail i'd broken while trying to wrap a present for him just right.
and that is okay.
if i ask him why, he tells me i'm hurting him.
my mind shouts that it's wrong, but on the outside, that is just okay.
and then there is a boy who wraps his hand around my shoulders and lets me rest my head on his.
he makes my coffee with more cocoa because i don't like coffee but am too tired.
and he knows i love it when he holds my wrists tight until the blood in my hands gets slow.
and he knows i don't love him.
but he says that it's okay.
I rather eat the autumn
skies crushing cold air between my molars
and hiding shaky hands
between pages of dictionaries
and clickclickclicking sounds of typewriters
you asked me why I wrote poems
on the soles of my shoes
and I told you
it was because I wanted to
imprint myself on the earth
then I can create beauty
even if I am not