He will die has died and in a single breath the nation has risen and fallen and died a thousand deaths with him for him but the idea I have planted will live on forever as it should and I have killed will kill this man who is like me who is me in every way that matters and who is not me in every way that counts this man who is a God to all of my poor struggling nation they don't see the truth that he's naught but a devil this man who I will kill have killed bang bang bang good clean shots that will hit him and no one else a target and a sacrifice and I'm giddy with anticipation come on just a little closer walk hand in hand with me to your De
precious nine of swords by chameleons-breath, literature
Literature
precious nine of swords
There is something wrong with you. This is something you know already, something that you have accepted, and if your voice trembles when you introduce yourself, "Hello, my name is Jessica Two Jessica," who's going to notice? If you flinch and tense at every betraying she and her, well, nobody has noticed quite yet.
Your body moves one-quarter turn at a radius of 85 centimeters with your head tilted at 23.4 degrees and your arm outstretched to reach for something you had long since lost. Your heart ticks away mechanically, your gears winding beneath your cool silicone chest plate. You can feel every
"Don't you think you're projecting?"
I think, I think, I think. Trapped inside my own skull (my own treacherous body) there is nothing left to do but think. I can't do anything but. Stupid, Crazy Jessica.
Stupid Crazy Jessica with her psychiatrist and her six different suicide attempts. With her anxiety and her Multiple Personality Disorder.
(that's not quite right, is it? multiple, yes. personality? wrong. you're all people. there is no disorder)
Crazy Jessica who is also John. John, who cooks like a pro and has a sweet tooth to rival any princess. John, who binds down his breasts and stuffs his boxers and pushes pushes pushes
.
I'm writing the poem that will
change the world, and insomniac
angels claw hungry at the edges
of my consciousness, a testament
to the power of my confessionals,
.
tapping mournful against the side
of the smoky, badly lit booth.
Distorted transmissions rocket in over
old transistor
.
radios. It's all slurred nonsense
anyhow, no use reading too much into
the way the signal seems to
-
destroy everything it touches, distorting
thoughts with only the barest flicker against
an unaware mind, preoccupied with
-
thoughts of long-abandoned
safety measures, of lying down and
incinerating away your
i. it will never be easy, two careful smiling
sociopaths, locked in careful constant
movement, dancing around the issue of
'iloveyousomuchpleaselovemeback'
we'll work around it
II. I confess that, for a moment,
my ticking clockwork heart
stopped, grinding to a halt with
a terrible mechanical sound, as though
you had stolen a gear from it.
iii. it's not exactly a feeling
we know very well, too used to
stupid people with stupid
problems, loving and laughing and
hurting, and we thought we were
so much better than them
IV. My heart may be mechanical,
but yours I know was tossed aside
carelessly, long ago. It's almost
funny, how
You write because what else can you do? Mathematics has finally failed you: there is no formula to describe the bell curve of your frustration, no transformation to free you from your own suffocating body.
Your write because all you had was numbers, and when did that stop being good enough? The encryption of your words drives them all away, 'till there is no one left to decode your double meanings.
You write because words lie in a way that numbers never could, because your intentions can hide differently, plain for all to see, if they know how to look. Your treacherous body betrays your emotions, your heart speeding up to surpass your re
thirty letters - day four by chameleons-breath, literature
Literature
thirty letters - day four
day four - your sibling
carmen
there are times i feel that you should have been the first-born. you are perfect, after all, a miracle of genetics, thin, lovely, exceedingly intelligent, with the most charisma i've ever seen. you were worthy of the throne of favorite.
He will die has died and in a single breath the nation has risen and fallen and died a thousand deaths with him for him but the idea I have planted will live on forever as it should and I have killed will kill this man who is like me who is me in every way that matters and who is not me in every way that counts this man who is a God to all of my poor struggling nation they don't see the truth that he's naught but a devil this man who I will kill have killed bang bang bang good clean shots that will hit him and no one else a target and a sacrifice and I'm giddy with anticipation come on just a little closer walk hand in hand with me to your De
precious nine of swords by chameleons-breath, literature
Literature
precious nine of swords
There is something wrong with you. This is something you know already, something that you have accepted, and if your voice trembles when you introduce yourself, "Hello, my name is Jessica Two Jessica," who's going to notice? If you flinch and tense at every betraying she and her, well, nobody has noticed quite yet.
Your body moves one-quarter turn at a radius of 85 centimeters with your head tilted at 23.4 degrees and your arm outstretched to reach for something you had long since lost. Your heart ticks away mechanically, your gears winding beneath your cool silicone chest plate. You can feel every
"Don't you think you're projecting?"
I think, I think, I think. Trapped inside my own skull (my own treacherous body) there is nothing left to do but think. I can't do anything but. Stupid, Crazy Jessica.
Stupid Crazy Jessica with her psychiatrist and her six different suicide attempts. With her anxiety and her Multiple Personality Disorder.
(that's not quite right, is it? multiple, yes. personality? wrong. you're all people. there is no disorder)
Crazy Jessica who is also John. John, who cooks like a pro and has a sweet tooth to rival any princess. John, who binds down his breasts and stuffs his boxers and pushes pushes pushes
.
I'm writing the poem that will
change the world, and insomniac
angels claw hungry at the edges
of my consciousness, a testament
to the power of my confessionals,
.
tapping mournful against the side
of the smoky, badly lit booth.
Distorted transmissions rocket in over
old transistor
.
radios. It's all slurred nonsense
anyhow, no use reading too much into
the way the signal seems to
-
destroy everything it touches, distorting
thoughts with only the barest flicker against
an unaware mind, preoccupied with
-
thoughts of long-abandoned
safety measures, of lying down and
incinerating away your
i. it will never be easy, two careful smiling
sociopaths, locked in careful constant
movement, dancing around the issue of
'iloveyousomuchpleaselovemeback'
we'll work around it
II. I confess that, for a moment,
my ticking clockwork heart
stopped, grinding to a halt with
a terrible mechanical sound, as though
you had stolen a gear from it.
iii. it's not exactly a feeling
we know very well, too used to
stupid people with stupid
problems, loving and laughing and
hurting, and we thought we were
so much better than them
IV. My heart may be mechanical,
but yours I know was tossed aside
carelessly, long ago. It's almost
funny, how
You write because what else can you do? Mathematics has finally failed you: there is no formula to describe the bell curve of your frustration, no transformation to free you from your own suffocating body.
Your write because all you had was numbers, and when did that stop being good enough? The encryption of your words drives them all away, 'till there is no one left to decode your double meanings.
You write because words lie in a way that numbers never could, because your intentions can hide differently, plain for all to see, if they know how to look. Your treacherous body betrays your emotions, your heart speeding up to surpass your re
We sat on sheltered swing sets. We sat under bridges by railroad tracks. We sat in the bell tower of the church. We produced memories, some too fragile and tender to share. Sometimes I'm afraid that if I think about them too much, they'll crumble and the dust of every afternoon and weekend from the past year of my life will pour out of my eyes and ears and mouth and create little piles of the person I don't know I am.
Sometimes I'm not sure if I want to remember.
Sometimes I'm not sure if my memories want me, either. They feel out of place, like they belong in a different brain. A brain with less wires wrapped around its stem and more mot
A sweet wind played with her auburn hair as she released a sigh beneath her captive audience of stars. Here, across her moon lit stage of gleaming grass she could dance.
She took the smallest of steps; the gritty touch of the cool ground brought her feet delight as she hesitated for a moment. Enticed to the whims of an unforgotten song, every gliding step fading the world to a metronome's tock. Beneath her slowly moving audience she took sweeping spin after tight twirl to unheard crescendos and minuets. Until their pin prick lights departed beneath the sky scraper horizon.
She faltered as the red rising sun drew close her blue curtain, her
holding my hands over the kettle
the skin on my fingertips peels back,
like dated wallpaper,
like flowers blooming.
they're burning from the inside out,
nails turning to varnish, turning to steam,
bones click-clacking their way out;
spreading like wildfire.
the whistling stops, and
blink
and my fingers are just fingers,
ink stained, bitten nails.
sunlight streams across the kitchen,
my fingers warm and
slightly damp, i trace patterns on
steamed-up windows.
Around four and a half billion years ago,
Hydrogen wanted to have a party, but
Instead of inviting friends, it fused and
Split into helium. The party was
Too much fun for hydrogen and helium, so they,
Oddly enough, collapsed into themselves.
Right around the corner, about 790,000
Years ago, depending on your encyclopedia,
Oxygen was doing drugs and engaging in wild chemical reactions, so
Fire started getting noticed in the Lower Paleolithic or Early
Stone Age, when some arsonists left charred clues at Gesher Benot Ya'aqov.
Then 72,000 years ago, the first lamp was invented.
Under and over, mostly thanks to mass-media and social
God Hates That Burgundy Coat by margeinabag, literature
Literature
God Hates That Burgundy Coat
It was a Sunday, wasn't it? I know because it was a terrible day. They're always heavily raining church bell spring days. It's a day when you see everything through foggy and splattered windows, even when you're in the heart of the storm. I've never had a good Sunday.
Or maybe I only ever notice the bad ones.
Maybe you were always busy on Sundays.
If it had been a beautiful day, like it mockingly was the day before and the day after, I would describe the way the grass was that perfect vibrant green that you never see anywhere else. Everywhere would smell crisp and close, something like oranges or lemons, and leave us craving them all day.
You say you won't write for me,
tracing the cool fingers of "one day" across my ears.
In my mind, you sound like gravel roads,
and motorbikes tipped over in the sand. You taste
like leather and white wine.
I hate white wine, but on you, I think I could
learn to swallow the bitterness,
and perhaps find it's my favourite after all.
I can already imagine your face
if I ever dared say to you that I would want
to learn how to swallow you.
I can almost hear the smile in your words,
as you'd ask if I would enjoy it;
the same way I hear pens scratching when you pause to think,
I cannot ever imagine you without words in your mouth.
To
well... surprise! i've got a new group that i just joined and i like it enough to pimp it out to everyone who watches me all two of you
here it is: ~QuietlyBrilliant (https://www.deviantart.com/quietlybrilliant)
that's actually all i have, so... expect another update in three or four months~
so basically this is it edited since we can't draw:
1. First 10 people to comment will get a Free Poem.
2.BUT (because there's always a but) I won't start writing until you offer 10 free sketches/poems in your own journal. If you've already done this just show me some proof.
1. FREE
2. FREE
3. FREE
4. FREE
5. FREE
6. FREE
7. FREE
8. FREE
9. FREE
10. FREE