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i hope you remember to bring the flowers.the stars whispered late
as we lay beneath their
"what if i die today?" you asked.
and i told you in that case,
i'd see you by tomorrow.
this can't be pain, it hurts too much.i always fall addicted
to dangerous things,
but at least cigarettes
warn me on the label.
your smile read only innocence,
but i guess that's my fault
december.and when they take me
to the morgue,
will you see the difference
between my skin and the sheet?
and when they close my eyes
please be standing over me,
so that your face
will be the last thing they see.
and when those tears fall
down from your face
pour them on my lips,
so i can take you with me.
and when they look away
caress my bloodless face,
give me one last gush of
and when they bring the casket
gently tuck me away to sleep,
read me one last story
from that book atop the shelf.
and when they place me in the ground,
beneath six feet of dirt,
leave your footprints in the snow
and please don't let them melt.
and when I fall to hell
i'll be waiting at the gates,
but darling please take your time
there is no need to rush.
Empty Pages.You are the perfect story,
A plot unfurling from your touch,
And poetry in your eyes.
You speak with golden glory,
Into sentences of hate,
And promises of lies.
You are the book
I never had the words to write.
rain.i still have buckets in my room
from when you poured your heart out.
plastic pails full of pain and love
and lust and tears and names and smiles.
i don't know why i keep them...
maybe i hope one day you'll come back
to claim them.
or when i'm being really dumb
i let myself hope that you'll come back anyway
friday night.on our first
you took me to a cemetery
just outside of town.
i guess you wanted to
what you would do to me.
Art Hurts.I fell in love
with a painter
who loved his art
more than anything
A painter fell in love
with a poet
but I focused on my art
more than anything
We never had time
to love each other
because canvas and parchment
lured us away.
We only met
when I would sit for a portrait,
or he would pose for a poem.
Love is such a pretty
but the pain,
of which we had an abundance,
forged art so profound
that it's a wonder
we're both still
you don't need stars with city lights.i love the city,
because you introduced us.
your apartment was on wycliffe avenue,
a rectangular gray-brick building
that was our make-shift castle.
i could stay up all night
sitting on the fire-escape
and watch waves thrash within the harbor.
long after midnight fled
and we were still curled up
on your couch
my parents would call to ask me where i was,
even though they already knew.
late night sirens
and insomniac car horns,
mixed with your measured breathing
became a lullaby
that lured me to sleep
admists the ivory sheets.
i would always wake
just before dawn
and wait for the sun to rise
so together we could watch you awaken.
and even as i said goodbye
i was leaving my jacket
hanging on the kitchen chair
just to have another excuse
to come back.
NothingI heard someone sarcastically sputter,
"You are what you eat."
But hearing that sole sentence
allowed me to finally understand
why I am
what I am:
What I Gave YouI gave you my time
And you wasted it
I gave you my love
And you ignored it
I gave you my heart
And you broke it
I gave you my soul
And you lost it
I gave you my life
And you sent me to Hell
TonightBring me to life
With your touch.
Love me now,
Forget me later.
Set me on fire
With your lips,
Into my soul.
At least for tonight,
Let me feel again.
ReliefHis lips never tasted as sweet
as they did when gleaming with
those three words,
made everything feel
so much better
Wake Up And Smell The Coffin(It's no wonder you're so blue,
Holding your breath for four years.
You can't be serious.)
Maybe it was all just a bad dream.
If it doesn't hurt when you open your eyes, then it wasn't real.
And if it does, then I can't say I know exactly how you feel.
What happens in Vegas might stay in your veins
But you can hide it with your teeth if you need to.
You know as well as I do.
It's not my fault your world forgot how to spin.
You know as well as I do
You don't know me as well as you try to.
You don't know me at all.
And I don't remember what happened in Vegas.
I don't have the time, I never did, I never will.
And I wish you could play more than one bloody song
On that tiny violin.
4/10i have a habit
of falling in love
and in those
in betweens, i learn
to love the galaxy and
hell all at
once- it's such
a big love, something so
profound that there
are simply no
words to describe it.
then all at once
empty. it's the kind
of loneliness that feels
youthful, and it's
painful. it burns.
the worst part
is i know what
hold, and i
walk into it every single
I Loved A GirlI loved a girl – she smelled like August melancholy,
she carried the scent of festival emotions,
tempered by the midnight flames
and fireflies' glow.
I loved a girl – her hair, the gentle hue of embers,
reflected dancing candlelight,
while in her eyes, as brown as mahogany,
I discovered tiny galaxies,
but most importantly – I saw my smile.
I loved a girl – I sensed her heartbeat,
playing to the rhythm of my breath.
Her every word,
imprinted tender cherry blossoms,
onto my soul.
I loved a girl – her lips tasted like morning air
cool against my heavy forehead,
her skin, softer than satin threads,
played games with the waning moonbeams -
its gravity, I could not resist, like the Sun,
cannot escape the zenith, on Summer solstice.
I loved a girl – she made me happy,
and sadly - I love her still.
Blood BrothersBrookie always holds my hand when we cross the street. She's never given a reason for it, she just does it. It's become this unspoken rule with us that whenever we cross the street together, she slips her hand in mine and I lace my fingers through hers and we walk hand-in-hand until we reach the other side and she drops her hand and we both wipe our palms on our jeans. Brookie's a little scared of crossing the street. Her poppa died in a car crash when we were six. He was a pedestrian. She's never gotten over it.
Brookie is my best friend going on sixteen years now, which is pretty impressive considering we're both sixteen. We don't have some cute little story about how we were born in the same hospital on the same day or about how our mothers were best friends long before they were pregnant with us and somehow passed on that bond while we were still in utero. No, Brookie and I met the same way ever
Life is but a DreamWe are just unnourished frail bodies,
overfed with white lies and short-lived-euphorias.
Books filled with black letters,
etching lurid images into our utmost dreams.
Veering us from the big picture...
the one we fail to paint ourselves.
Our fists much too busy with fights,
that we are bound to lose.
Too occupied in line waiting,
for creativity to be let loose like a stray dog.
As if we will find home in this pursuit of happiness...
but we only enclose each other in small rooms
with nothing but old laptops.
How many times I've guessed which letter could it be...
Which letter could it be?
To free us from havoc-stricken-thoughts?
They come and go, unending like 24 hour subway stations.
There's no break for this lonely man,
heaving every breathe of stale air
into my overused lungs...
Living in confined walls of flesh
held up with brittle paper-mache bones.
Which day is it that I will burst out from this cage of a life?
And hover with the Gods found in carefully binded bo
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A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More