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Mr ScratchyRainbow hues brushed aside
Dark thoughts furtively enticing
Exalt;'Enbrace me!'Damp sheets
Veil conscious thought,dappled vigin light
Recessed shadows running tandem
Contradict the here and now.
Waking dreams leach my will
Dumped almost lifeless on the floor,pillows
Struggling weakly to my knees
Tender,gravel peppered palms
Enrage.Anger swells my tongue as
Carrion creatures jostle
Screech and peck in mounting
Frenzy.Bruised and bloodied
Accepting of my fate
Dull ringing echoes,skull
Bludgeoned from inside:
Intensly bright,white paper
Blankly i paint myself a
Mask and call him
Mr. Scratchy.His long arms
Flailing awkwardly,knots in string
Propel the ungainly-
Unbalanced as i am by you,
Buried somewhere inside me
Toying with my metal plated heart,i
Struggle,shove you hard
'Back in your box!'
Naughty Twinkle Toes.
Valiantly,down the years
Attrition was your sword,random
Victories grudgingly acknowleged
diaryi thinned recall,
strangled memory until she screamed black
or blue, strung her source of voice along
the willowed incline of vein to wrist and down
let the curl thirstily imply
just how cut it is to pain in numbers:
one scar for extravagant wine dates, three
for the number of times we fucked crying,
eight for forgotten promises of ever after
i heard a sordid song in your tallied matchstick
bones, victorian in beauty & proper repression
of the bloody details like a bruise we push beneath
our hollow skin with dirty fingernails
see, the past is not a headless infant with knives for
playful fingers, though it is not to say
that cribs or birdcages hold anything more than
what we leave them to engulf
i swallowed you whole, ocean— basked by the enchantments
of soft-spoken life, bathed by neurotic erosion.
they taught me that the cleansing of your body now
fades the transient you of yesteryear, speak in familiar tongue:
bathroom stall mirages of rounds, clocks, convey
Song of First SnowfallI fell in love
with the boy at the bus stop this morning
who dropped his gloves
on the sidewalk
to freeze his fists into side-of-the-road snow
and throw snowballs into the wind
just to watch them float away
as if he wants to contribute to the storm.
To be a part of it all.
I fell in love with him,
and I don’t know why.
All I know
is that the air is filled with music
and that this boy is the bassline.
And then he’s saying hello.
I think it must be to me;
no one else is around
but for the street and the snow and the sky.
But he’s yelling at the top of his lungs,
at the street the snow the sky
and I know that to him,
I’m not even there.
It’s to be a part of it all:
the whispering of wind,
the crunching of footsteps
and grumbling of cars.
It’s to be standing in the eye of the storm
to be clinging to its teeth and to say,
I am here.
He looks at me,
and this time I know it’s to me that he says,
ExpirationWith you I always feel like I’m
to break in the wrong size of shoes.
Sometimes I sit and stew
over how you’re seventeen and
you think I’m a princess
the trapped-in-a-tower kind
and how you wear suits and talk about politics
and think you know the world.
My throat interrupts with an affronted gurgling sound
sometimes when I think about you,
you deal out advice where it just isn’t called for
you quote science-fiction to justify war
and you’re seventeen years old and you think I’m a princess
and you just have no blooming idea.
Darling, one of these days I will tell you my mind
But until then we’ll never fit
I’m afraid –
that even after that day
you’ll still be trimmed hedges and
Whenever I hurt myselfI have a feeling
Someone is watching
So I look around
But there's no one to be found
Makers Of The Cage. Holders Of The Key.Our eyes are the closest thing we have to freedom.
We see endless blue sky, and the stars beyond.
We see the beauty of the world.
We see our reflection in the mirror;
the reality, and the fantasy.
Our eyes see far and great.
But the rest of us cannot follow.
Our hands probe the steel bars around us.
Fumbling in the dark.
Cut by the sharp edges.
The bleeding never stops.
Our feet shuffle around.
Trying to go places.
But we walk in circles.
Our emotions go from red to blue;
orange to green;
yellow to purple,
mixing in a haze.
Our mind goes to dark places,
and only wanders deeper.
Oblivious to the place right next door.
It knows the freedom,
it knows the pit.
There are endless paths to take.
There's a cage we need to break.
There is a key ourselves create.
In our hands, it's never too late.
a cherry pit dog heart.she holds a cherry pit dog heart in her hand, arrhythmic
beats like children playing pots and pans in kitchens
mother builds from scratch, black bean soup prepared
for dinner by a creased artist; wisps of white
upon a grandfather's head remind his daughter's child
of winter as he talks of horses in cuba who scratch
their backs on wooden posts; the first time she eats
ox tail is at an uncle's funeral, sitting in the basement,
surrounded by her surname, wondering why everyone
seems so happy; her grandmother keeps having
that dream where she's cooking and pours hot oil
on the animal in the kitchen, singeing his skin—
she cries out at midnight, sobbing for her daughter;
black eyes watch as her child keeps growing,
inspecting her process for future improvements,
while she takes pride in getting her sleeve caught
on twigs as she runs through the forest; motherhood
enters her every so often, at times uninvited, but
never for her prince in white, the bundle curled up
on her bed, floating
on goodnessbe good.
be an angel.
be better than that, even.
be a demon.
do what you want, when
you want, how you want
to do it. because no one
can tell you what is good.
the same ones
telling you what is good
are the same ones
who left their
children crying in gutters
the same ones
who said that the war
the same ones
who said that
you don't deserve rights
if you don't use them the same
way that they do-
the same ones that, given
the opportunity, would hang you
up by the skin on your shoulders
in a museum to point at and say,
'see, children, this is
what happens when you aren't good.'
eight ways you've made me small1. I wish
this was for you.
2. my journal pages - the
brown one with all our monologues -
were jarred with hollow vows of
last poems of
letting you slip into a coma
of bad memories, watching you
fall to your death off
a cascading cliff of disease
and dis ease.
it was never
easy for me
3. there's a reason I ask
whether you're grey
(dark white, elusively black, in between)
or blue (behind the clouds, under wave-foam,
whateverthefuck runs through the back of my
palms); I'd rather have
than the arms
that once held you half-
heartedly. you had always been
my harmony and I
would have killed
to have been yours.
4. it could never have been just me, the way
it could never have been just
5. disasters are not beautiful,
but how is it that you
managed to make my inner linings
converge into bows
and explode into wings the very
night you decided to rebuild your walls
to a lower height?
6. I wish
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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