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DustDusty fingers move quickly,
When they are sickly.
Clean Fingers make haste,
because they don't have the time to waste.
Lopsided FeelingTears run down my face, I cry
Inside and out but you dont know why
It because of your skull of steel
That my thoughts dont turn your wheel
Im weakened and starved by your words
But that doesnt meant Ill allow my flesh to be eaten by the birds
I amI am the child that waits
I am the child that fears
I am the child that worries you'll never be here.
I am the teen that hits
I am the teen that cries
I am the teen who is always asking 'Why?'.
I am the adult that works
I am the adult that fears
I am the adult of the child that waits for me to be there.
Excerpt from OAJ:TSO1969A1979 The soft hues of the sky were contrasted by the dark rich colored ground. The feeling of the dirt squeezing through the cracks of my toes tickling my senses. The intoxicating aroma of home-made food made by caring hands. Tender words of controversy whispered into a young boys ear. Hands sending shock waves of pain.
So thats howd you describe that summer if you were a strange looking at your situation? She questioned with a snooty manner. Yes, but I doubt anyone could tell it so vividly as I, since I am the one who experienced it, The man smiled almost challengingly. So what about- She began but was immediately interrupted by an angry burst from the man. Thats over now, Ive been here for how many years? He paused as if he wanted her to answer. Ten, ten years Ive had time to heal and get over it. It was a small incident that has never been repeated! I was confused, sure, but Im over it
A lifeA life
when i stimulated the prayers of rib-beat
when i licked the temple of my teeth,
speed pushed my fingers shaped like confessionals
clasped holy, carved my throat to fixing-
lover; i did this for the anthem of your eyes,
the feel of strangled feet crushing the fame of stars
for the glow of streetlight worship, for the moons
of your crooning throat, for the halls of your arms,
the strayed revels of your arms,
lover: you manufactured a god out of the drugs i used
and had me addicted to the divine, to the dignity of music
you pressed in my direction: just what i am, hallelujah,
marijuana, day and night-
lover, i fell in love with your culture
that preached the real definition of dusked kneecaps,
the plea of closeted throats, the whisper of bless,
unlearning how to say please god in borrowed tongue,
i fell in love with your attention, nervous grace
lover. i levied the rubble of my sins
Synesthesia - III have learned not to say
when your voice burns under my tongue -
learned not to shiver
at the cold of sirens on the street -
learned not to describe
the pricks and strokes and touches.
I have learned that skin cannot hear,
nor ears feel
(whichever it is).
How strange to think:
I may travel all my life
and never find a lover who can hold my laugh in his palms.
Even The City KnowsIs it at all easy?
Being by yourself, I mean.
Sitting in a car, on a train, on a bus--wherever you might be now, isn't it hard to be a drifter?
There are no men with newspapers, no women with strollers, no love-crazy teenagers, no annoying toddlers, no anybody.
You stare out the window, like there are people out there, calling your name. The trees are out there, and they've lost all their leaves, all their buds--they've lost everything, just like you.
The sky is out there, and it's gray and colorless, just like you.
The stars are out there, and they're so blown-out-of-proportion, and they're just like you, too.
But the trees, the skies, the stars, they're used to being left alone.
You lack the ebullience of your drink, but it, too, is fading.
Frost has gathered on windows, on the ground, on rivers, everywhere.
Frost comes and goes, just like you, when you finally melt away.
The city draws to darkness and quiet--it disappears, just like you.
But, even frost
the tattoo artist.she finds gems hidden underneath my skin and
rips them out with her teeth, the sores
along my arms swelling with pride and red; never
has she wondered if the pain would make me
grit my teeth into powder—no, she knows
i take it like a man takes steak:
raw and tough and bloody, like my fingers
after picking scabs to let some fresh air in; her
words are etched on the point of a needle, and she
is a tattoo artist drilling ink into my body, her lines
thick with moxie: "alive" splayed out across
my wrist, "awake" above my heart—she paints
a vision on my eyelids of an endless sky and
tells me it doesn't belong to me, but that i
can have it; perhaps foolishly,
i believe her every word
Where my corpse is foundAs I lay here,
On the guest room's bed,
My grandmother exchanges the oxygen
for the delectable scents of cinnamon, sugar, candy.
She does this through the magic of baking
Gingerbread Men, Gingerbread Houses, Yule logs, Candy Canes.
While I smell my cruel ex-boyfriend's suffocating tangy cologne.
I hear the laughter of people outside the streets.
Their loud, cheerful voices show the huge smiles on their frost bitten faces.
While my ears hear the bitter melody of arguments.
My parents' failure to stay together as promised in a holy place
caused my lovely imprisonment here at my sweet grandparents' house.
Through the slight opening of my door and through the windows,
Color penetrates the Darkness I have worked hard to create.
One usually embraces the Illuminating Decorations.
While I lie down here to reminisce my friends
Who are Traitors;
Proof of their conniving betrayal was the broken art project
of A Christmas Star
sitting alone on the floor.
People at this time feel w
Red Letter Day - Prologue
So here I am, writing.
I’m writing, I’m writing – just as you told me to.
I’m writing, I’m writing, I’m writing.
Have you ever noticed that when the sun goes down, this flat changes? It does. The walls are white during the day and lingering brown at night. During the day, I’m with you and the light from outside paints the walls that heavenly color. But when that sun goes down, the demons wake and I’m alone again, even though you’re just a room away.
Somehow it seems less threatening tonight, and I think it’s because you’ve given me an assignment to try and fight off the darkness. You gave me a stack of papers and a pen and told me to write everything that comes to mind.
It’s a strange feeling to have complete freedom. These empty pages are mine to do whatever I please – I could even wipe my ass with them – but they’re also terribly intimidating. The blank page has always been a nemesis of man. It&
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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