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Lullabies of The DeadBarren as a desert,
is the heart of many
-They don't know what is about to come.
A crying child,
is the pleasure of many.
A raven sits,
upon the shoulder
-Eyes like fire to see the soul.
A master of disguise,
is this fine little advisor.
The sun rises,
and her lips move
-An intimidating smirk to bring down armies.
A raised hand,
will calm the storm.
Eyes will shake,
and bones will break
-A feared ruler to cast the first stone.
Shadows of the dead,
will sing the lullabies.
Small TrinketIt stood there in the meadow,
Glaring at the grass and overturned rock.
Its life was not known to many,
but it continued to prance happily down the beaten path.
Many times were its brothers and sisters slain,
Yet it only knew peace and forgiveness.
It liked to nibble on the heads of the daffodil,
and take sips from the gentle brook.
Though its life would never be more than a dream
Its presence would be everlasting.
Like the ancestors before it,
the small creature danced to the edge of the world,
and jumped into the sky to be with the stars;
Making sure to leave a small trinket behind.
Wars and BirdsTo all the birds that cried in vain
-let us not think of the past,
but instead think of how the sun rises.
The how and why is unknown,
yet we still try because our graves are not set in stone.
We may not know who we are now,
but our reflections do, and they are just.
At the end of the battle no bird was ever left unworn,
but they held peace within their scars.
Dusk never fell on those who saw,
but waited until the sun hit their backs.
Love Like IceLove Like Ice
Which Grips Like A Vice
Nothing To Spare
When Payed With A Fare
With Love So Grim
Chances Are Slim
Survival Rate None
What Is To Be Won?
II.Newborn and Mother
III.No Child Left Behind
Dry cleaning mayhem.
Wings Of StoneHe reached his hand
to take the stale bread
salty tears dripping down his cheeks
he could not grasp it
A soft voice spoke to him
"Take it," it said
With a furrowed brow,
he reached again
There were others like him
What was to become of them?
Wings of stone,
He could not fly
But pure of heart,
He could love
This man was strong,
they could see it
Patience was his only virtue,
yet there was a burning desire,
waiting to be set free
Little FinsScales of orange, blue and green,
gleaming in what little sunlight there was.
It's tiny fins making life against the harsh waves,
only creature with enough will to push through the coarse tide.
Like a memory it floated along the murky waters,
never looking back, never returning to what it once was.
The Body Is A BridgeThe body is a bridge,
the tollbooth our judgment.
A wise man once said that our judgments do not reflect what we actually see, but instead are constant reminders of the insecurity we have within ourselves.
A builder takes his tools and builds a bridge,
while a man shapes his image by posing nude.
The Iron, Timber and Nails hold the bridge.
The tendons, nerves and veins embrace the human.
Handrails are our peace of mind,
Foundations are the muscles that support and endure.
A commoner watches in fascination as the waves crash against the pillars,
but a wise man reflects upon himself,
and wonders how his own arms compare.
A nude man stands at the center,
Supporters and haters stand at opposite ends.
And the wise man repeats, we burn our bridges in anger, but build new ones to connect. A man has never been so proud then when he stood naked in front of his own kind.
Writing Tip Three: A Day With Your CharacterYou're going get some weird looks for this one. You're welcome <3
I'm going to be completely honest with you the only way you're going to learn how to develop great characters is by knowing them inside and out. The only way you're going to be able to do this is by acting like your characters are real. I am not talking about OC's or role playing characters, I am talking about your characters from your short stories or chapters Take your characters to the movies, the grocery store, the amusement park or your best friends house. I want you to imagine what they would say or how they would behave.
You don't have to talk out loud to your characters, but talk with them in your mind. Have conversations with them. React to their behaviors and things they say
I dislike asking what a character is like and having someone reply with generic character descriptions and personalities.
If I say, "Can you please describe your character to me?" I better not get, "She has blue eyes, blond
Faminei told him
i wanted to spend
paying my dues
to the circumference
of my spine, to the size
of my stomach,
that was not in it.
of my constant need,
in a voice like cold coffee.
the way you are."
i don't care
i care about hunger.
loneliness & starving
sisters. and i want to know
if the hunger that turns you
is anything like
A Tragedy.We hear tales of love unconditional
And their messages I do scorn
For many tell of love unrequited,
The victims live forlorn
Their love unending
Yet they only wish for more
For the other to reciprocate
For the bond to grow more
But the bond is worth nothing to me
It'll only bring me pain
The bond of love
Until there's nothing left to gain
28 June 2012
5:55 PM (17:55)
Quoting ShakespeareThe fault, dear Brutus,
is not in our stars,
but in ourselves
Everyone does it,
you know they do.
They sound clever,
but not to you.
are less than
Give me a book,
battered and beaten
and marked to the brim.
All the world's a stage,
and all the men and women
Check the lines
and word counts.
As he was valiant, I honor him.
But as he was ambitious, I slew him.
Play the part,
But even if they don't,
you're not quoting Shakespeare.
You're letting him live again.
catch me if you cani'd like to smear ashes
over bloody heathen lips
and twist burnt corsages
around the maypole.
this rotten witch's heart
would love to curse you all.
disease has never looked so
lovely, i do declare, crawling
up your blistering limbs.
in case you are not aware—
love kills slowly, but revenge tastes so sweet,
so i'll just tip-toe off of this cliff
and embrace the beast awaiting for me below.
I am a Poeti am a poet
i can not speak
(not with my mouth)
the ink on that page:
shouts the passion of my soul &
cries with vengeance
i am a poet
strings together my thoughts,
and knits a golden fleece
to revive my tired bones
i am a poet
the world is not a happy place
my writing unveils that,
strips it bare
and leaves it hanging
off of four lined stanzas
I am a poet
and I will be heard
AlcoholicA dead man's how he spent his days
Afloat with money. Drowned in haze.
A drop for every crushing wave
should send him back to sleep.
He flits from one drop to the next
Unsatisfied with who he met
From high to low and foot to head
His mind long gone in fleets.
The bottle is the only voice
Which listens to his every choice
It comforts him above the noise
And so his tears do dry.
This isn't him. He's come undone.
A fly beneath the captor's thumb.
The man is weak. The mind is numb.
So here the dead man lies.
But there's no need to worry.
"He can quit at any time."
Beneath The Ice SheetIt was a lonely cold winter's day
Not cold enough to freeze the leaves
But cold enough that as I exhale
It made visible this air that I breathe
The frozen grass around the pond
Creaks under my lead weight feet
Only fog alone will now obscure
What lies beneath the ice sheet
Are mine the only eyes to see her
Why is she still in her night clothes
Will she not be cold alone down there
Perhaps she has long since froze
And if so how does she talk to me
Knowing exactly how I think
Staring so long into her face
One day I'm sure I saw her blink
It was a lonely cold winter's day
I'd been here many times before
My parents told me to stay away
But my dreams told me to ignore
School became a preoccupation
As did food and a good nights sleep
I'd close my eyes and I'd see the girl
Not only blinking but she'd weep
Maybe I found her for a reason
While passers by came and went
And as the end of winter approached
I asked what would become of my friend
Would she rise to the surface for me
Or sink solemnly
Revolutionary SurvivalI don't think I have ever been
More wrong in all my life.
Your absence was the only way
To open up my eyes,
But missing you like this, I want
To never leave your arms-
The only strong enough to shield me
From internal harms.
I know now I could not survive
With anybody new.
The world does not revolve around
Me. No, it circles you.
a methodthe scientific community finds issue with the fact that
i use my abstract algebra grimace
to solve poetry.
so when i defected
i curled like frontlawn oasis grass after the sprinklers
offer themselves up, burn out, and die.
recovered from kenning dreams,
i shelved all melting soft color pictures
in favor of tracing paper and facts.
hissing a prayer on a massive nerveshot exhale,
'take me from the verses, just take me home'
i puffed out the candle that illuminated
the blue lines and elementary silverwire spirals.
reformed, sunless with my paper tablet rendered
useless as Moses' shattered first commandment in the
gleaming face of Baal,
i was shadowless, restructured, transformed.
blind under the fever
of a still world and a centerless gravity,
i drovedrovedrove inside
to take a sample of my center
and found it seething
unsettled, with half-formed images
and sunset lines, aborted fetuses
screaming for a chance at cotton candy verbs
and a peace that rises in the east come morning.
To DeathWith the withering storm,
the tulips grew
-long and beautiful were the stems and petals.
Their mouths hungry,
like a bird in morning dew.
Red, yellow, orange and pink,
present the thinker with endless thought,
-To leave a tulip
is to love a friend,
To pick a tulip,
is to welcome death.
To the mountains the storm shall go,
and shall its gleaming eyes be spared.
Inspector Wolf The old lady was dead. I could smell it before I even got into the house. The whole place reeked of adrenaline, sweat, fear, copper and steel. He’d dropped her right in her living room. Chopped and chopped until she stopped moving. But I could tell I was getting close. This had been done in a hurry, and the killer didn’t have the time to clean up after himself like he usually did.
Across the room, the phone rang. The shrill sound set my teeth to grinding, but I ignored it. Instead I followed the killer’s bloody footprints into the back bedroom. He’d climbed out the window. If I hurried, I could catch up to him and end this disgusting spree he was on.
Then the answering machine kicked in. “Hi, Gramma! It’s Red. Sorry I’m running late. I kind of lost track of time. But don’t worry. I packed the picnic and I’m heading out the door right now. Love you.”
She’d been expec
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More