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a warmer climatei tried to write to you today
on the back of vocabulary lists of a language i will never learn
held against the sunlight,
'i miss all i used to know' was penned next to bahin (sister)
but the words flowed all the same
alien words stole from my thoughts when i wouldn't say
'on saturday i walked twelve kilometres along the shoreline akela' (alone)
it spared my ink but caught my liar's tongue redhanded
tanned skin makes scars glow brighter and i am conscious of my mistakes
i am who mothers point after and tell their children 'she is the girl
who leaves silver sequins in her wake'
'one day i added namkeen (salty) water to the ocean but i couldn't find it back
even when taking gulps to regrasp
that bit of myself'
the air here is stifling, bahin, sister,
but in the evenings
it cools down
WingsA quiet whirring
A little stirring
The printer, a plan
A roaring engine
The saving grace on paper
Your soft cheek against the cool glass
The drape of a well-considered fold, pushed in and zipped up
Far underneath, the rumbling earth
The sea as black as the sky
Nothing left to reflect in your ocean eyes
Nothing but the click of a dying heater
Soft wheels rolling, rolling,
"Cabin crew, the doors may be opened."
I'd call it home
But I'm not sure on which airport I'd have to arrive for that
The Birth of WaterThe clouds swelled and strolled across the sky like great grey whales making an annual trek across a placid black ocean. Wind, the force that was herding the clouds along, was also nipping and pinching frigidly at the bare skin of my back. The skies blinked once--twice in a row, a three second show of purple light. My head tilted back, my eyebrows lifted like kites on my face. I watched the sky with eager longing. Another flash of purple lightning. Mother Nature was teasing me. The clouds were pregnant with the ocean's child, and I was humbly waiting, shirtless in the parking lot, for them to give birth to the desert rain.
Stolen KissI wish I was a poem. I wish I could be summed in three stanzas and bring shimmering relief to literature students on dreary Monday mornings. I wish to be the sugar they sprinkle into tea they drink from carnival glass to make them relax. If only they could read and have me brush along their jawlines, tingle in their fingertips like the lit fuse on a firecracker. If they read me aloud I would taste of pureed flowers, frost thin and light with marigold their every spoken word.
(College tastes like burnt bagels and monsters. It’s wanting to run forever, but being unable to move. The lines are too long. Too slow. Sleep sticks like peanut butter to everyone’s brains and lashes. They’re zombies because they know the end is near, shuddering in panic from winter chills and confusion, so desperate for some meaning.)
I asked one of these people, a tattooed girl, if I could taste her breath. “Sorry, I’ve just run out,” she said, hot steam from her sweat misting
Right NowI remember how it all started
It was a quiet December day like today
That turn into something that I never would expected
But it feels bittersweet knowing it's gone
Or feels like how a child is lost in the big world out there
Just an empty feeling
People say love is a drug
From the start to finish
A high that everything is perfect or nothing can go wrong
But when it is gone, you feel the withdraw symptoms that won't go away
But no I'm just taking it in
Out the window of my apartment bedroom again
Tomorrow I'll be gone I don't know when I'll be back
But in this world everything can change just like that
Caught up in everyday life
Doesn't seem like nobody cares
Walking out seems like the only option
No one will miss me right?
Find myself somewhere else because home ain't what it used to be
Mom and Dad were fighting about everything
From dishes to who is looking after the child I had
I didn't know what to do
But no I'm taking it in
Out the window of my apartment bedroom again
The T.V is o
learning to hear the unspokeni hear your pencil
drag atop the paper
and subtle breaths drawn.
i wonder, as i
let my mind wander
down winding paths
and through lonely fields.
trees are barren.
the frost nips at your heels
when you walk too slow.
every release from my
looks like smoke.
i hesitate to speak,
afraid the words will waft away
never reaching the crook of your neck
where i want them to nest.
"i love you," is all i can muster -
never feeling it weighs enough.
i imagine a tongue
i pretend that my heart
is full of profound
unheard by angel,
my head is wrapped
in thick fog;
though, i fancy it with feathers
through a bright, moonlit summer's eve.
it's clear amongst cloudless skies.
here we travel freely, unafraid,
our souls speak.
no words will ever be enough.
The Melody of a Love SongThe way you move me,
Like the melody of a love song,
Stuck on replay.
“Fly away with me”,
Said the lyrics.
As you warm my hand with yours.
As your voice draws to a whisper,
The sweet beat slows.
Chills and goosebumps overflow my body.
And when we kiss,
The melody silences.
But only for a moment.
Now I can hear your heart pound,
Raging to it’s own beat.
Your own love song.
MyselfThe jar of tears has fallen to pieces, lost are the memories from within the creases.
They've all abandoned me, my silent friends, our bonds have withered beyond their ends.
So predictable this scene truly was, the girl who fell from not a single cause.
Twas my own fault, for I banished all help, rotted to pieces within myself.
Though alas a mark has been etched within stones, "My soul lives forever without my bones."
The Dream GuardianA beauty- in her own world
Roaming… a blue jay between two skies
Freedom carved in the feathers of her wings
Her name was sung and played on strings
Country folks knit stories about her
The savior of dreamers upon clouds
Rainbow paths to get them laughing
Paints and brushes in her hands
Wonder is what her colors do
Creates new music in the air
Paints the sky a brilliant blue
Daisies seem a fresher white
Weaving dreams in brighter hues
Gaze around your vivid nights
Whispering her precious myths
Incandescent, intensely bright
One violet star –the nomad, through
Bedroom HymnsHer heart pounds as he takes her,
And his back arches as she takes control.
It’s a deadly spiral,
One that will lead to angry words and violent hands.
For now though they’re an endless tangle of limbs and emotions.
They say love is the cruelest poison,
And others whisper it’s the kindest venom.
He knows it is slowly killing him,
And she has already accepted the misery.
So she rakes her nails down his back,
And he leaves ink like bruises upon her hips.
Her hair tangles in his crushing grip,
And she draws blood from his neck.
They move fast,
She seeks wicked retribution,
He inflicts angry words.
When they finish,
They fall silent.
Breath is stolen,
Hearts are pounding.
She leaves first,
Just like the rest will.
And he never looks back,
Severed SkinGentle red
With the clotting
For the great risk.
On the deck,
In solemn prayer,
Hoping the next call brings
I try to stop
The rapid rotation.
I never knew a stranger
As I know you.
My words touch
The cold tones
Through the unanswered phone.
Breaking to clutch,
Your camaraderie slipping
But don't cut loose
Music is throughSoft keys give way to your feather light fingers
Paper-thin cuts rock and ivory like half-molten butter
(you and the barely-there tap of your nails, the eerie clicks that do not echo but nonetheless linger)
convince it to sound like
a voluntary death, a willing surrender,
instead of mere sweet murder
Perhaps you have put this same spell over me
You’d play; I’d listen,
Sitting enchanted and near enough to see how the light breaks on your hair the same way your fingers build and break,
Create and abandon
Cherish and spurn like overstrained lovers
Your favourite was the fresh twitter of staccato notes
Mine, the release of the pedal, the steady thump of a beating heart
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