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Dream books: chapter 1: The assasin"That won’t be enough."
"It already was."
"But it doesn’t hurt at all…"
"Because you have nothing to feel it with…"
"I can still see you."
"Yes, when you die, you still have the awareness."
"It’s like… I’m still inside my body."
"It will change soon."
"Yea, I see it now."
"Goodbye! Mission accomplished."
I hate to sleepI hate to sleep. Those untold legends of darkness, who's shadow is greater than any earthly possesses. Those metaphoric forms of death, those impure resurrections of your (so believed to be forgotten) ground-shaking traumas, or pillars of menace in past or future.
But these are not bad. These are milestones.
The real deal here is: Whenever I decide to set my eyes shut, I order my world of aware to go stop. I jump, shake my body, back to reality: "Where's my world, where's me?" I ask ‒
Before my conscious world will fade to black.
But what all this mess for? Why do I do this, when all Untouchable's treasure, land of wonder is there?
Because it's a metaphor: it reminds me of how I did, or would close my eyes in reality.
My very loved one, my awesome sweetness sugar l...When I look at your pale eyes,
Pale moon, your glassy gaze lights,
Fades, sparkles, plays,
Glow, shade of lives,
How my love still hits,
Burns, but turns faces
Of fairy, silk,
A heavenly angel,
Touch, like milk,
Will I ever see you again?
Or do I see you even?
Even now, a dream made,
You, you little, how cunning you are,
My thief of wonder,
My heart is yours,
Of blue-white plunder,
You pounded my heart,
I'm yours forever.
PoemShreds, riposte feelings,
Heart drowns in silence.
Shades of grey,
The back of a goddess in sight.
Strings with fur,
The dissonance of a violinist:
Pulled with an arm consisting of bones.
Skeleton. Guess, what it is.
Playing, dancing around comically, sarcastically,
With muffled sounds and clapping bones.
Such an irrational sight.
Yes, it's irrational, it's not a skeleton,
Afraid to put up the skin,
So I stand up, and pull myself together.
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 Pumpkin SentinelsI sit on the concrete steps on the front porch and admire this November night. At my left and right are a few jack o' lanterns, their motionless grotesque faces staring into the street. It's the day after Halloween and my porch is the only one with jack o' lanterns still lit. They give off a faint pumpkin smell, likely a result of being singed constantly by the candles within their hollow corpses. There are no sounds, aside from the occasional faint rusting of leaves and the sizzle and pop of the moths that, every now and again, fly into the candles through the eyes and mouths of the lanterns and burn to death. The flickering, glowing faces give some security, as I'm not fond of what lurks in the night, and they look like plump little orange guardians, warding evil from my doorstep. A crackling of leaves, like irregular footsteps stirs me out of my daze. I see a shadowy figure, upwards of 4 feet tall walking down my street, giving a wide berth to my porch, much wider than any ot
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
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^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