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What I Hide...I've come to be a silly fool
who somehow, still belives in fate-
Logically, I know it's wrong,
and fairytales are overrated,
Still I place significance in
actions that I doubt have any.
And though I still believe there's One,
Already I have loved too many.
But here, again, I reach to you,
with another piece of heart in hand,
Hoping I won't lose it to
another clumsy, careless man.
The truth is, I can barely stand
to be near you, but I cannot leave,
I only hope for some reprieve from
unrequietedness. I'm still naive.
I still believe there's hope for me,
for now, I place that faith in you,
the steel blue stare I cannot bear,
I cannot bare my love for you.
I only hope that you will find
something in me no other's seen
And save me from this viscious cycle,
of wanting what will never be.
A Bad HabitYou are the smoke that fills my lungs,
the nicotine that speeds my heart,
and calms me when I am frazzled.
One day, I was dazzled by
the blue in your eyes,
like the tip of a lit cigarette,
burning you to my memory,
and the addiction began.
Now, I crave you,
I am enslaved by you,
and, without a clue, you
drift away, like smoke.
Writing on the WallMost days, there is only you, and I,
and the wall that separates us.
I'd like to tear it down,
to pull you in, and fill Our space with
There were days, before the freeze
that I found warmth in your arms,
and we spoke with ease
but they have passed, and now
there is mostly silence
or small talk to pass the time.
You brought me into your world once.
I felt like I belonged,
like your songs were mine and
I already knew their words.
Days later, I sang them for you,
but you didn't seem to recognize the tunes.
I see myself in you-
but I fear you'll never see yourself
If there is "meant to be,"
I thought this is what it would feel like:
A name that leapt from a page
and etched itself to memory-
An unknown face, familiar as my own.
A heartbeat that now seems to never still.
And still, there is the wall
once filled with you- now empty
as the girl who loves you silently,
just on the other side.
I Forget MyselfIt's too easy to forget I am not desirable
when men smile at me and tell me I'm
pretty and funny and smart.
When they look me in my eyes, I lose my heart,
and feel as that maybe, just this once,
they saw something else. Something besides.
But I know that those are lies, and I'm a fool
for not minding my heart a little better,
wearing it a little closer to the vest.
And that's how I get myself into these messes,
where I am all tears and longing and
wanting and knowing that I should've known better.
But somewhere, beneath these layers of flesh,
hope still flutters up into my chest,
and sometimes, makes its way out, and I believe,
just for a moment, that there is someone
who can love me in spite of it all.
Then it's gone, and I am the quivering blob again,
afraid to meet their eyes for fear that
they will see and laugh in pity.
At what point does hope die?
At what point does one become hardened enough
to realize that people are what they are
and beauty isn't in the eye of the beholder, af
I Can Give You LessI am a tragedy, really.
I love with all my being,
and there’s so much of it.
The laws of gravity indicate that
large objects have a pull-
things should gravitate toward me.
But I defy those laws,
you (and all of them) are repelled by me.
Somehow, being the largest thing
in the room makes me
easy to miss, easy to dismiss.
I am not fit for you,
or anyone. I am an earth
with no sun.
I am not enough for you
Too much for you,
and in all my longing,
I am just a joke to you.
I spoke to you with my eyes,
but you were busy
orbiting some stardust,
meanwhile, I am just
Lackluster. I trust you
can't have missed me:
But if you could see me,
You never let me know.
I would give my all for you,
I must confess,
But if, my dear, it pleases you,
I will try to give you less.
Look not with thine eyesI have never loved with my eyes,
my sight has failed me one too many times,
And I declare, the day we met, they did not
see yet how I would come to love you.
It took the sound of your laughter,
the freckled constellation I could count forever after,
dancing gently on the ripple of your arms,
muscled though they're not.
(but enough to send me shivering, with want.)
It took me by surprise to see your hundred smiles,
and realize what some part of me already knew-
I was destined to take leave of all my senses the moment
I laid eyes on you, and smiled and said "Not this time."
These eyes have lied again, They're not designed to
control a heart or make up a mind. And now that I am thus resigned
I can only hope that your eyes, my dear, are just as blind.
KirigamiThose were more than paper dolls.
Their shapes were like shadows,
and I could feel every scissor slash.
I watched you with her, later.
There were shreds of paper beneath my feet,
and I wanted only to cut myself away.
I don't belong there, I well know.
Though lately, I've wanted to,
It's clear that I must go.
They say that I am crafty,
But judging by your laughter,
I'd say it's her hands you are putty in.
And I am just some starving artist
Cutting out a paper heart,
and then ripping it apart again.
You see only "Her" as art,
and you will covet that,
as I do- from afar.
But being artless, I confess
that you're far too near to suit me,
The Death BedIt's a curious thing- a memory foam bed.
Will it still remember me when I am dead?
Will my shape haunt this mattress-
the arch of my back become the curve
that you caress when you miss me most?
Will my ghost tangle itself in bed sheets,
and instead of roaming restlessly,
remember only where it sleeps,
And if you weep, would it feel the tears?
Would it recall the years we spent here?
If I could, I'd offer you my feather pillow,
And wrap you up in blankets
if you promised not to cry
as you remember how we shared our nights:
Turning off the lights and kissing our days away.
If bodily I cannot stay,
Then let me rest in our duvet,
And pray for you to feel me there,
or smell my perfume in the air,
Though I were gone, I'd still be near
and fondly should recall this bed
bought the day before we wed
Where you lay me, and our heads now lie-
if I should lay me down to die.
Blue Eyed BoysThere are blue eyes again-
They always are- the ones that
tear into me, leaving scars
in places I cannot show:
Kissed by burning flames of desire.
I dare not dream that
fire is meant for me, but
some foolish part of me fans
a tiny ember of hope.
My heart has bigger plans than
it will ever realize,
and your eyes are just the kind
to keep that notion alive.
The feel of hot skin
against mine, and normally,
I am inclined to shrink away-
pretend it means nothing,
But I must say,
I could not tear myself
from the warmth
of you pressed into me-
Is it meant to be?
That's no mystery to me-
A great beauty (I'm sure you see) I am not.
I shouldn't give a second thought to
you with me, but then I see
those eyes, those painfully blue eyes.
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.
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
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?
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
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
SightStars in the night sky
I see beyond that and through
Greatness into darkness, I can fly
Here above the earth I can see the truth
There is an angel that will love me until I die
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
I Don't Come with the Edgesi.
It cries the way dragonflies leave ripples
in the rain. On days I swallow
whirlpools for breakfast and
drown with libraries for fun,
I can almost allow myself to forget
And it doesn’t want to make
me kneel on my shoulders
or pluck the weeds
from my scars;
I can see it try so hard
to be my friend.
But if I could choose
polka dots over tail lights
and sun screen over
I wouldn’t think thrice
or even once
not to blow the candles
on my grave.
That’s why I keep
the colons of analog clocks
under my tongue;
so I could keep the
figures eight of cliché’s
as keepsakes for old age.
I like to think infinities
have loopholes; tree rings
that dissolve into each other
with exhales for a caress.
And just when the tones
of lyrics would enter the
eutony of names, only then
would I drift into love.
When I wouldn’t be holding
my blood in my temples-
when all I am is a thought.
The running footsteps
we’ve come to cla
One Man's TrashGot it cheap at a thrift store,
left by some anonymous patron:
maybe an old woman,
cleaning out a closet,
significance lost to time and a
fine coat of dust?
Or did she suffer the loss when
she passed it, still on a hanger,
to the man at the counter?
Did she falter when he offered
only a smile and a "we'll be happy
to take it off your hands" as condolence,
like he'd be doing a great service,
bargaining off her past.
Then "keep only what you use"
the mantra of some clutter-busting
self-help book drowns out
the fifty-year-old strains of "Sleepwalk"
from a high school prom
and her hand slips from the fabric,
saying "You can have it,
God knows I'll never need it again."
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