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Son of a Cannon BallI’m just the son of a cannon ball, hard and heavy,
blacker than any snow white dove. Cold to the touch,
my blunt metallic skin siphons heat away through your fingertips,
leaving your hands cold and clammy, but that’s not important
because you probably only touch me with gloves on anyway.
And I know I’m dull to look at, but if you take me out under the sun
and look hard enough, you’ll see a glimmer of sunshine in my eyes.
I was born in a furnace, in the middle of heat and flame, hammers
and all the hard and heavy things in life, pounding my brothers
on the anvils and pouring out my sisters into molds,
each of them their own tool, implements of sturdy metalwork.
I went out the front door with warlike aspirations
but I never thought about the cost of that, the price
that so many men must pay just for a few brief seconds
of a cannon ball in flight.
I’m just the son of a cannon ball, and my father
and I never talked much. He was just as hard and dull as I am,
Summer WindA weary tire swings from a tree in the warm, evening breeze.
The wind blows through it with ease.
The gust meanders around the log pile,
in these summer months,
and turns to wrap around a tree
that perhaps you and me
And following the August air,
through the yard and all the youngsters there,
we find enough soul
in all these summer days
to buff away the mundane glaze
and climb out of the City's hole
to bathe in the fresh sunshine.
A weary man stands by a tree in the warm, evening breeze.
The wind blows through him with ease.
The cool croon of a slow sax
the radio speaker on my desk,
the platinum blonde said as she entered in
"Please allow me to apologize
couldn't make it to the funeral."
begins to tear up, shimmers like broken glass.
"It's alright, did you see the file?"
"I want to solve this even if
Her voluptuous locks bounced with a casual determination.
After a pause, I looked her square
shards of an iris, carefully speaking
my words like a wild gambler.
"Mrs. Simmons, I have to tell you
that killed your husband, shot him in the head,
The saxophone harmonizes with her eyes.
Communion of Two TonguesTwo tongues speak and slither words,
magnificent in quickened speech.
The journey of their thoughts is heard,
the meeting of the minds of each.
The tongues that dream of stars and skies
beyond our gloomy human view.
But tongues cannot see like the eyes,
that give form and shape to me and you.
The tongues give form and shape to thoughts
which eyes alone can never see.
Their loud, blind sight sees farther out
than men are ever allowed to be.
Thus, two tongues shall here begin,
unraveling their ambling thoughts,
and as they kiss, expose their dreams
beholden in their juicy mouths.
(Loving a) ToothbrushAlas, the gaping maw is opened wide,
to let my dearest love, Toothbrush, inside.
She cleans me up and makes me pearly white,
restoring all my beauty in her sight.
The bristles scrub and scrape with all their rigor,
and thus rejuvenate my ivory vigor.
Now I may shine with alabaster glint,
and sing to her with breath of cloying mint.
Oh, how much I do love my dear Toothbrush;
when you are brushing, sir, please do not rush.
Dream HorseDreams in open fields aren't really dreams,
they are in fact the horses of our mind.
And we are thus the lonely desperadoes,
chasing these mavericks, falling behind.
We ride across our mental desolation,
and desert winds propel our silver steeds,
the iambs in the clip-clop of the hooves;
this poetry sounds better than it reads.
As we, the dreamers, lost in stallion smoke
at last give in, and bid fancies farewell,
we must awake, we must record the journey.
Our heads are full of dreams ready to tell.
Rainy Day TrafficIt's a wet, oily, cold, pastel-gray-blue day. The sky looks like the ceiling of a pub, with low-hanging cigar smoke choking out the sunlight. The puddles on the ground appear like old, dirty, murky, muddy whiskey, and are about as appetizing. With a tired labor, cars and trucks trudge down the slippery city streets, racing through water to slide and splash the imaginary passers-by on the side of the road.
As I sit in class, the lecture obscured by the noise of the earth revolving, I am present for that from which I am removed. The soft bustle of vehicles, the gentle choke and cough of gasoline engines thundering down the road. I am moving with them.
But as the weary drivers watch the green light yellow, and the yellow light redden, their sluggish feet depress the brake pedal, and their mammoth motion halts at the stoplight. And it is now, while these cars are stopped and the others go, that the drivers observe motion without experiencing motion. They witness the bittersweet sensation o
Life is a VaporIt has been said by some, "Life is a vapor,"
and true enough, their lives have blown away,
been carried off by wind, gust, gale and weather.
Their work was not heavy enough to stay.
Some men are small, and thus live their small lives
secluded in some small forsaken town,
and all in all, live in this world deprived
of any chance to garner some renown.
They work their 9-to-5, then they come home
and have their evening meal with family,
and, sipping through the amber beer-mug foam,
resign to kick up feet and watch TV.
They live, they die, their children do as well,
trudging on toward that same grey fate.
The Preacher won't admit they've gone to Hell,
but no one says they passed the Pearly Gate.
These men are not the men that we adore,
the glorious of whom our History boasts.
They leave us hungry, wanting something more
than the ordinary meal befitting most.
The Human Soul demands, by God's Design,
the satisfaction of a life lived well,
a legacy that's worth leaving behind,
a story that is
She's a WriterShe sits at her desk
Her headphones in,
The world shut out.
She bleeds for others
As words fly from
Her mind to her fingertips.
She stares at the screen,
At every little comment,
The good and the painful.
She forms her emotions
Into books and poems
To throw away the hurt.
She's a writer,
And her best weapons
Are her mind and her pen.
Do you know what it feels like...To be lonely?
To be bullied?
To be called ugly?
To be unattractive?
To be compared to other women?
To be considered unnormal?
To be unloved even though you give love to others?
To face issues that you don't in reality know how to fix?
To think that your goal you're reaching for, is unattainable?
To feel like the cause of many people's problems?
To be held up on a high pedistal that you can't get down off of?
To realize that people don't like you based on your personailty?
To at no avail, keep up your happy and upbeatness for others?
To look at happy couples and wish that you had someone to be happy with?
To stop fighting for anything anymore?
BetrayedI won't swallow your lies anymore
I can't stand your presence
You used to be my friend
But you're nothing to me now
And soon you'll be
Another bad memory
I won't be able to forget
You AgainOh, it's you again. I must admit,
The crooning has
The lies have been
And mine are like swords
It's just you and me
In this sick game
I can tell
You're pulling me in,
And I don't have
To pull you down
Sometimes, I've had
And all I see is
Then it became
I don't know
How to escape
Dark to see.
And all I can
Wonder at every
Turn I make
When can it be
By the LakeSat beneath a Christmas tree in late-March.
The ground is damp but pliant, it pretends to accept me
and then sneaks its cold fingers through my clothes
to dampen my spirits further with its chilly undertones.
I stare at the river, plump with soon-to-be April showers.
It does roly-polys over the smallest of obstacles and goes on.
It reminds me of what I should be able to do.
It runs as I grind to a full stop, and consider my life sentence.
The sky is blue; not like me, but bright and crisped;
Its been blurred by an amateur around the edges with cloud
But they don’t threaten me with rain just yet so, for now, we are friends.
The sun is missing. No one knows where she is.
She could be dead, by now. At the bottom of the lake.
Could have slunk there in a midday sunset.
She could of drowned her sorrows in the ricocheting tides
of a man made dam and its loosened throat. She could be.
She is not, she is hiding.
The sun hides from the world but leaves a blue sheen behind
to let everyone k
flower petalsi know that when we touch
that my energy is yours
that we are like flowers
because at our roots
we need water and love,
we reach tall as we can
to get to the sun
and stretch our leaves
to welcome it all;
and when we touch
i know that our skin isn’t skin
too soft for this world
when it grows rough with gravel
so i invite you back to our bed,
soft with the earth
where we can lie gently
and sleep until it is time
Reasons We Love Homestuck“Reasons we love H O M E S T U C K.”
Why do this love this web comic, you ask?
Maybe it’s just the way the fandom rolls,
or how mean Andrew Hussie trolls.
It could possibly be Eridan’s accent (WWyeh?)
or even Feferi’s keyboard trident. (---E)
Some people say it’s Equius’ broken bows and arrows, ( D →)
but what about Nepeta’s meows and roleplays? (:33 <)
We really do love Sollux’s lisp,
and also when Karkat’s pissed. (FUCKASS!)
Including Kanaya's fabulous lipstick,
it's also Rose's amazing magic.
How about when Dave starts rapping
and Jade Harley begins napping?
We love Vriska’s eight-pupiled eye,
and how John is such an adorable guy.
Or maybe it’s with all the sprites
or how prospit glows bright.
Can’t forget about Derse’s darkness
or Gamzee and all his soberness. (WHOOPS.)
There’s also this thing with Tav and stairs
which he t
ConfrontationI shed a tear
The damage will be severe
Run away in fear?
I'll fight until the coast is clear!
An artist (revised)
Staring blankly at a white sheet of paper
Can truly be an artist’s worst nightmare
An artist’s duty as its shaper
Their thoughts up in the clouds somewhere
Looking for bits of inspiration
Their eyes searching the skies
Nothing can break their concentration
Nothing can blow out the passion in their eyes
Being an artist does not always mean you are skilled
You do not need to be Picasso or Bach
It means you want to see your dream fulfilled
And that you will never give in to an art block
BloodBlood is the essence of the heart,
and Music is the wound.
Blood is the essence of our life,
stored in our heart,
pierced by the song.
And it is pain that frees our blood
to bleed and drip and run,
to live outside the confinement of our hearts,
and to stain the garments of our world.
Music is the pain that frees our lives to bleed.
Keep in Touch!
Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More