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Bull in the China shopI don't know if finding someone
is an option for me.
Like the bull in a china shop
I was meant to be
with no one.
Because I break them,
others' beautiful core -
no more I want to see red:
color of blood and love.
Dishonest I amDishonesty has been, in words apt for it, described
as a fail of etiquettes, of ethics, of manners inscribed.
For to be honest, is to speak of the heart through one's own mind;
to untie the chains that so exaggeratingly bind.
But when I feel pain, or sorrow, or happiness, I set my quill down,
for me to compose an orchestra of truth, in which I myself drown.
However, so cursed is the quill, for it yields to my mind, not heart
what it wishes to produce, is not a recreation of emotions, but an art.
I have tried, again and yet again, to teach it what art is, to coax
yet listens not - stubborn quill, it believes my words are a hoax!
Thus all I create are analogies, replications of my mind
pieces, shards of a broken glass case in which I’m confined.
I envy those, whose quills listen to their heart’s sound plea
They are honest and free, a mere abstraction for me.
Thus forgive me those, who are people of trust and respect
for I am a man with the noose of dishonesty around my neck.
A diffcult rescue prequel 2地狱般的营救前传之伊莎贝拉篇——烈焰天使陨落
An Island... For The Lost
my ship crashed
on the 3rd island
from the sun. i'm
lost and with-out
a reason to live...
this is my calendar
i am writing my
1st journal entry:
My first day on
i'm already stressed
ill and discouraged!
with little water
to thirst for and
little food to eat.
i am afraid to think
what will happen
when i get hungry?
i don't even have
to sleep. when i get
sleepy i wont be
able to act normal,
instead of making
a bed i'll be crawling
up like some animal.
unless, of course,
someone sees my
flare. i am lost on
an island, is there
anyone out there?
am i the only one
here? i don't see it,
how can there be
a forest on this
island without any
body to take care
of it? i'm not alone
on this island.
*a tribe sings*
deep sounds of
has been picked
up by the winds
of the island,
with the sound of
and yodeling, it
was as if there
was a speaker
inside of the wind.
WelcomedHands as Ice, Heart as steel
Every night the same.
Bland as lies, Dart past "real"
I want to see a name.
Maybe now or maybe then
I'll wake up from this nightmare.
Save me how? Or lay me dead.
I'll take a better sight there.
Clocks, Ticking, Growing, Ageing.Clocks, time, sand.
When did I last hold
When did we last see
Ticking, noise, slow.
When did I last feel this
Or was I ever happy?
Did I always talk like
Or do I even have a
Growing, loving, racing.
Do we even know where
Is there a place outside
Or are we stuck in spaces?
Ageing, crawling, dying.
Is there a reason to my sighing?
Did I ever really suffer?
Or did I ever really love?
Did I ever hear death's calling?
Or was I ever born?
Tryin'My heart tries to beat
My lungs try to take in air
My hands try to hold on tight
My thoughts work tirelessly
My voice works to form words
My muscles work to exhaustion
My soul struggles to keep hope
My mind struggles to keep pace
My heart struggles to keep you close
I really am tryin'
A diffcult rescue prequel 7“怎么？不想把脚抽回去吗？那我不客气了。”苏娜按了一下靴子上一个开关，艾娃感觉右脚脚心一凉。“喂，你又对我做了什。啊！！”艾娃右脚涌泉穴附近突然像被手指挠了一下，不像是痒靴启动的感觉，因为触感十分明显。“难道。。。鞋底没有了？！可是脚趾。。。”艾娃因
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung words
Together on row upon row again
Of blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.
‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;
Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?
Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,
To point with honesty failed verse of thine.
No real poet discards upper case words;
Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.
You seek to free verse of those stern letters,
Sever away bleak capital fetters,
But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,
Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.
Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;
It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,
To make our dull words sound great all the time,
Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,
Heralding a poet’s summer prime.
Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;
Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,
The subject not gilded in raiment fine;
Your bold ink font, crystal waters divine
Tastes bitter to the ton
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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