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Waiting for a coach
that never came,
a ball gown
out of sackloth;
are not dependable
are best left
to their own devices.
Midnight was never a friend,
and under that suit
he is the same as any other
the whispering stars
& feathered clouds dance
for you tonight.
Do not let anyone
clip your wings;
you were made for the skies.
Definition of a Writerwrit•er
A writer is a person
Who sees the world differently
From a high perspective of understanding
To an easily balanced imagery
They stand at the edge of the cliff
And run that extra mile
To gain what a normal person cannot see
And to obtain the hope that they wish to cherish
A writer is a person
Who buries their ego and places boulders upon it
They learn the rules, follow the rules, and will break the rules
And make writing their own
They lay upon the dusty old ground of a graveyard
And do an annual ritual to free the inspiration that has been pinned down
They want to show their abnormality to everyone
Red DressDon’t put on your red dress
for he doesn’t know the meaning
he doesn’t want the commitment
he doesn’t care for the color.
The red dress you love to wear
that’s stained from wine and beer
but still carries so much meaning
for who could find a second red dress
Don’t go out on your red dress
for the man who wants nothing more
to screw around and doesn’t understand
the meaning behind a simple red dress.
A red dress for when you dance.
A red dress for when you cry.
A red dress for when you need it.
A red dress for when you care too much.
Don’t put on your red dress for him darling
i got flowers oncei am lonely.
i received flowers once
and i placed them
in a vase til
the petals all browned
and turned to dust
on the glass of my bureau.
i have never gotten flowers since.
i spend my days
with a boy
whom i love far beyond reason
and he holds me in his arms
and holds me together.
i bite my nails
and pull my hair
over the moment when he
feels the disenchantment
fall over his body,
all clean lines
and smooth shapes,
and realises that leaving
the worst thing
the best thing.
i am lonely
and even with a hand to hold,
and even with a cloak of security
bunching around my shoulders
and hiding my thighs,
moonshines in georgiaman on the moon:
giddy with lumps of north georgia seas
greased on the crease of my lips
gravity drips from couch-cavities
when tides belch from below --
burst on the water's edge,
earth's bourbon sailors retch in moonshined ripples
trickled blue murder on their crinkled crimes;
raking water wrinkles like a wayward drunk
stuck on sunken bootleggin' dreams.
it's been a long, long time
since I've drowned your hemisphere
for fishing like a moonraker,
swishing my bait-lines like tobacco's
squished in your shallow gums
before you dare to down my air
breathing in this sincere georgia night.
L.E.S.B.I.A.N.Living on the
Edge of life
I truly am
As it is all i can be
Never forget that
Blame The ParentsI won't be able to keep a relationship in the future because I'm scared
I'm scared it'll turn out like theirs
I'm a pacifist because I hate watching it
I hate watching them fight
I have PTSD because of their fights
Their fights almost broke up this family
I self harm because they are pushing me over the edge
I was already close to jumping, but they gave me an extra push
I'm always in my room because that's how I run away
I guess that's called "Like father, like daughter"
I only eat one meal a day because he constantly puts me down
Even though he's joking, I can tell he means every bit of what he says
I can't trust anyone because they do
Missing piecesMissing pieces
There are wounds
that never heal; silences
so loud they thunder - I stopped
breathing years ago, that night
the ice took my chest. Since then
I walk in pieces, howling
around my heart.
-SophieCT, 2012, 2013
field notesi read some poetry
just for the sound--for the words lilting up and down
and the thick, honeysepia
polaroids unmisting in my head.
those are the poems i never understand
and the only conclusion i can draw is:
there is apparently
some supernova poetic awakening that comes
with the loss of virginity
and basically i need to get laid.
MorningA black cat sleeps in a ray of sun
My coffee is lousy
Another cardboard morning
The day isn't a blank canvas
Waiting to be painted
Its already scrawled with
Yesterday's mad crayon drawings
Smoke drifts up and out of the window
I drink the coffee
van houten must be godi. you know how in embroidered cloth,
from the bottom under the design,
all you see are knots? her honey-like,
voice lulls me to sleep,
that's what we see of God's plan.
just the knots. when in reality,
it's the design on top;
beautiful and flawless that He
has in store for us.
i learnt that word
when i was three
but every time i said it,
my face hurt and mom's hand fell.
God will put you
do you want that?
i knew better than to say it again.
ii. you're an estimated
fallacy, the perfect
you don't need to exist
for people to believe.
they make you real with
dancing tongues behind
of murmuring lips of
iii. of the rain,
i sang songs, whispering
prayers only you
if you truly are
what they say for you to be,
then there are no secrets
between you and me.
mother still sings
the same songs
in the rain, hoping
you'll hear her the way
i thought you would.
but she doesn't know you died long ago
blood-red wine and skeleton jazz i.
the day you left,
your cobweb dress clung to you in ways
that i would dream about for years,
in hot, fevered nights
when the moon thought it might burst
in the sky,
and even the wind wailed your name.
i remember how you called make-up war paint,
and you drew it across your face like a message
i could never decipher;
i remember how i got goosebumps when i heard
your heels clicking across the floor at 3am
when you finally got home and slipped into bed;
i remember longing for you with every fiber of my being,
feeling separate from you even when our clothes lay on the floor
and your fingernails dug into my shoulders
and your toes curled
thieves of nocturne skiesPaper lanterns are midnight requiems
That tell me to look beyond the
light and have &
The PoetFor the work of a Poet to be truly appreciated
he must write it with his own blood and tears for ink
his soul the sharpened quill to nail the words
like so many specimen of unwilling insects upon the paper.
And once he has bled out
becoming the cause of his own demise
the reader is left behind to digest his soul
so plainly trapped within a cage of words
his requiem written as a love song to his Muse.
Goodnight Enigmatic SongShe was the song you hear and, at first blush, don't like.
Well, you don't know how you feel about it so you keep listening in an attempt to discover how exactly you feel and then you reach the end of the song and you realize, you don't like it; you love it.
That was Grace.
She was my coworker and she was my friend.
We carpooled together, I drove and she slept most of the way.
"Don't get much sleep at night, do you?" I asked her, catching those drooping lids mid-descent.
She looked out the window streaked with rain; it spoke in percussive touches filling the car with quiet overcast conversation.
I felt the warmth of her smile in the corner of my eye. The blur of her hand reached at the window to feel the cold of the droplets.
"When I was a girl, I used to race these. I thought it was funny the fat ones always won," she giggled and I imagined her as a little girl in the passenger seat then, legs too short to reach so kicking, and hair messed in the bac
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`ChewedKandi has certainly gone out of her way to keep the vector community on the right path. Always making sure that her talents are infinitely scalable, Sharon has put her bezier curves to excellent use, and firmly anchored herself as an inspirational leader. We're absolutely delighted to bestow the Deviousness Award for June 2013 to `ChewedKandi. Congratulations, Sharon! Read More