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In the QuietWhat am I to do
when every day is Sunday morning?
My eyelids droop into a slumber
I once knew all too well
and the sun outside screams cold and pain.
Where am I to go from here?
When I was a child,
the cold was a symbol of the things
I could never quite hold on to.
The snow always came too early.
I would catch it as it left through the back
door, creeping slowly as through hiding
from the sun, bitter in its nighttime failings.
I stood tall in my winter clothes,
begging for that blanket white and soft
and biting but in a way that makes you feel
Mouth shut tight, eyes bright and
burning with hope
that tomorrow would bring something
I forgot. It happened slowly, first with
to awaken to the light reflecting
bright and proud off the frozen ground,
then with apathy for the school delays
(it was always hard to find
and then finally with the understanding
that nothing could last forever,
not even the silent pl
Who WasIn early summer days Katherine would walk along the pier,
gazing down at dainty feet burnt black and tar.
No light to it.
Fishermen would watch her swaying in the seabreeze like tattered silk
flimsy on the gale,
whistling in tones low and reverent those tunes of yesterday
they knew she once loved.
They had hoped to be graced once more with that smile so radiant
and shining like a star-system born of her own
lips, blazing beacon-like.
Fishermen remember what no other men do: the softness
and beauty of girls grown old before their time,
the fragile recklessness grown gray and foolish and false.
Katherine, fifteen years in the making. She claimed to remember
her infant years, her mother would muse
over coffee, Kahlua-infused,
to a room as empty as her daughter’s own self.
Stupid girl, dangerous and beautiful
beyond measure. Devil child, sent to rid the verdant earth
of all that makes it.
Suitors came and went in lines of fire:
Adam, Jacob, Edward, John… all as uninspired
... and Other FolliesThere will be time in the morning for regret.
“We have entered the age of recklessness
if only for tonight.
Feel my bones as they move against yours.
Clattering under the weight of the bulwark
suspended above our heads,
and the ancient whine of steel
on glass, and the glaring truth reflected from within
of a million foiled mirrors. Feel me as I move
inside you, filling in the lonely spaces.
And all the words you know as
meaningless, and the subtle way I brush the hair
from your face, tendrils of light and silk and soft.
The unexpected tenderness of my hands,
rough like frayed rope and brittle brown.
The insatiable bitterness of my tongue
as it glides along yours.
Taste of this forbidden fruit and you will know
the value of waiting,
of keeping. Anticipate my every touch.
There will be time in the morning for disgust.
Follow yourself back in time
as the dead earth revives itself,
hacking and coughing through dusty morning
AnalyticsThere are parts of me that do believe
Your knuckles swollen and cracked
and gnarled like ancient roots,
calloused and rough
and ever growing.
Accumulating Life like arcade tokens,
building up to disappointment.
And the way you swagger in becoming
twice your age,
and the haunted-ness of your eyes
blue and gray and clouded.
The arch of your spine like a ladder to Dali’s Heaven.
Twisted, impossible angles.
Artist’s angles, sharp and reverent like
new age symphonies.
There are parts of me that do believe
shedding the bounded chains of solitude.
Parts that believe in you,
the easy laughter and aching truth in the way
you say my name,
bare-boned and unadorned.
The way you look at me with eyes like
illuminating every reflection, every
The simple truth is that I have loved you
in a thousand
different ways before breakfast,
and will love you in a thousand more.
Let me count them,
each by each.
Who Is and Always WasJacob thinks there is a certain romance to
silver-smooth like satin on his skin.
Velvet-touch animal furs like old Hollywood glamour
as he remembers it,
draped about feminine shoulders
perfect and white as new milk.
He inhales and chemical smoke fills his lungs,
thick and yielding like liquid metal.
It yields to him, slender fingers leaving
patterns on his skin: feather-light,
Jacob spends his nights in dive bars
and dingy coffee houses, the walls yellowing and thick
He orders grand parades of bitter drinks,
IPAs and Columbian brews
kept coming until dawn breaks, the sun peeking out
from behind the clouds blown black,
He stares at crinkled notebook pages,
pen poised awkwardly in bony fingers like daggers
in a dead man’s spine.
His nails are bitten to the quick, leaving little
to the imagination.
His skin like opals shining through clouded windows
thick with shame,
stale sweat reeking.
Jacob once loved a girl who was the World,
The HuntedIt is a place of mystery, of men
who reek of destruction and earth and
broiling sweat. Dark-eyed and leather-skinned,
crouching in the trees like cat-beasts,
coiled up in serpentine patterns.
Danger weighs heavy in the air, growing
with each silent breath.
In the distance, the open sea calls them
to freedom, crashing on the jagged shore littered
with shards of glassy rock, glittering like gemstones.
It is a song they know by heart.
Voices drowned and gargled, icy fingers
They remain among the leaf-stuff, the living moss
that takes them, one by one. Meaningless words
etched into their minds, insidious lies.
They remain crouched and coiled as the green
spreading spores into their crevices.
Far off, the ocean beats pitifully on the trapdoor
of the gods, begging for these souls
to be spared.
Its cries grow fainter as the men become harder,
statues of plant-life dreams.
Covered head to toe in grisly roots,
black and charred like death. Pride still burns
in their co
I Remember Your Breath on the Wedding Day MirrorD,
My earliest memories are of you. Organza and taffeta, snow-white Sunday shoes. The word they use is “family” but I am too young and too confused to understand. Thrown into a world you weren’t ready to belong in. I remember. They think I’ve forgotten, but I remember. I remember the vows, echoing. Empty. Colorless. I am the only one who seems to notice.
The menorah, glowing red-gold. The greatest warmth I’ve ever felt. Small hands rip apart newspaper-wrapping, exposing the treasure inside. I hold it up. A toddler’s book, carboard-bound pages. I frown, unsurprised. Mumble a thank you and chalk it up to another day of disappointment, hidden behind pretty, petty words. Promises echoing through an empty room.
He is gone much of the time, off to fantasy worlds of sand and sun. I am doing the best I can, you say and no one questions it. The screaming starts and I learn quickly to keep tears quiet, do my best to soak up the pools of Spaghetti-o sick seepin
Hum(an)Shut it out. Danger breeds outside
the box, pressed up against blackboard
chalk lines. Palms out, legs spread.
Anatomical, building block logic. Approach emotion
like you would science, draw up graphs,
color them in blue-gray ribbon.
Observe how the great lovers always die young
from the passion, the vodka and Powder that burns
their throats, burns their blood.
Fucked-up, coked-up sex, sweat like velvet
droplets beading on the skin.
Sex like that is never loving, never gentle
or kind. If you wanted to be fucked like
the animal you are,
should have stayed when you had the chance.
To be human is to be
safe, in bed by twelve,
debating threadcount and planning,
The slut in you will always seek
simple chaos, nothing more. Mouth to mouth,
skin to skin, bone
to shattered, bloodied bone. Teeth filed down to rip
and tear, consumption to satisfaction.
All speech is superfluous, replaced by
feeling: blood pounding gritty in the ears,
sparks spitting needle-fire in the abdom
Song of the Sea-GodsAbove all else, I remember the singing.
Cruel, pretty sounds
deflected off tongues, flecks of spittle decorating
the air in rainbow hues: bruised-ego blue,
They painted you life-like, filled in your
with collagen paint, acrylic humanity.
I never understood the appeal of being
empty, in some way incomplete.
You said nothing when the singers came
to make you whole,
remained silent as they fixed your blown-glass eyes
and airbrushed over the cracks
in your skin. I thought, if only we could all be
so lucky, so blessed
as to have an artist’s interest taken in us,
every last one.
I thought, I would cry tears of flawless joy if I could be made
so beautiful, so painterly-perfect.
But you looked on, and looked on some more
standing stone-strong as the song touched your lips.
The music of mermen, terrible and great.
I thought that I should speak to you.
I thought that I should know your mind, this one
so mighty as to face the sea
Nightly DemonsWhen I was little,
I used to run up the stairs,
To evade the demons that lurked in the darkness.
Afraid that they’d devour my limbs,
But they’ve since migrated into my head,
Some nights, I still lay in bed fearing for my life.
I see myself smirking in the mirror,
Holding a knife to my throat.
Others times, I’ve been thrown into holes
By Shadowy figures
Only to find
That I’ve been digging my own grave.
The end (acrostic)Through this life we suffer
Heading towards the void
Enduring pain along the way
Ending life early is no solution but
Nothng can prevent death
Dealing with it is all we can do
Poor Wooden Puppymy poor wooden puppy
has a leash
nailed into his throat
has no say
in what the other end
gets wrapped around
or tied to
and when we
walk and run
we roll, tangled
both as likely
to go backward
the where and when
bumps of where
we've already been
(or have we?)
his wooden nose
truth is, puppy
this world really is
its motors and belts
within everyday life
bodies and buildings
behind us, because
only what we want
and no one truly
Useless effortI try to change the world
But I can't even change
My own life
And so I'm sentenced
(Un)RestrainedYou weep like a bird caught in a cage
but your wings are not bound
and no bars corral you, it is time
you leapt free-- grasp to life
like a starving creature clutches
the first buds of springtime.
The world is all a-blossom;
it is calling out for you to fly
and you must, you must unfold
in a burst of glorious plumage
there are no more moments left
for wreathing yourself in loneliness,
like dawn mist envelops and smothers
the early stillness of morning.
Your chrysalis is complete,
peacock child, and your heart
beats with the wind. Listen,
listen: spread wide your arms
and embrace the cosmos inside you;
you were never a lonesome eagle,
but a phoenix awaiting
huntthe rats are fat enough
to die happy
and this is where
I should be:
a dirty screen and light.
the weak, thin music
you hear in waiting rooms,
in bed, face up,
alone enough to find lust
this morning I bought
a loaf of bread-
and reflections of the lights
limped across the plastic.
I left, went home.
found twin peaks on tv
and watched strange people have
after an hour or so I
turned off the tv,
turned on the light
went upstairs, without
the sun was down
under a blanket
and I am the sun.
I lay face up
and plan out ways
to slay the night.
To a Curbside Womanstretching her legs over
the sidewalk beneath the
overpass, ankles crossed
feet wearing dirt like socks
but her dress feels like silk
and her hands hold each
other like puzzle pieces
This is enough for her
This is enough
for her. This is
enough for her
Shatter ChildrenBipolar turns you into a maelstrom. It brings you to your knees and makes you ache. You are naked and raw, your skin a patchwork of fused nerve-endings touched again and again; hot flames and burnt knives licking and lacerating your soul. It smashes you against oystered rock; mad ocean waves in a dead sea. You are no longer in chaos. You are chaos. You become the fuel to set yourself on fire and you can’t stop burning. You can’t put yourself out. You have to burn the flesh and wick and wax until there’s nothing left but fumes and the fire burns out to ash and cinder and black coal, and a toxic wasteland where smoke fills your lungs in soft grey and deadly plumes becomes your body’s home. And then, you re-light. You, your chemistry, a mysterious god, or the world strikes a match.
Schizophrenia makes you shatterglass. You splinter into shards which split and fracture and melt through your hands to vanish into ether. You are thin air treading the spaces between dim
OriginsFrom salt and sweat we are born,
edges crumbling, tumbling into the sea.
From the day we come, we leave through tubes,
bit by bit
the desert forms from flakes
of sandstone skin.
We are the dunes, velvet grains sifting,
shifting. We are the air,
deathly dry, dying. Parts of us are washed away.
We ebb and flow. The sand is our ocean;
it covers our tears.
what love is not.it was a s l o p p y first kiss where
my drunk lips fumbled against yours.
the dull thwack of my heart,
locked behind curved ribs
cleared my groggy brain,
clouded with lustful premonitions.
it was an e l e c t r i f y i n g first kiss where
you entwined your hands in my hair.
your mouth encompassed mine and
my breath became lost in the steady
of your chest.
it was a s h y first kiss where
i pulled away before you could explore.
your tongue grazed my teeth,
searching for a way past the ivory gates.
i dug my finger into the stubble along your jaw,
my nail lulling your carnal desires.
it was my first kiss with you.
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Endorell-Taelos is very well known within the community for her selfless giving and gracious community spirit. Since joining DeviantART over seven years ago, Alicia has continued to make a positive impact on many deviants. Her helpful and thoughtful approach was one of her finest attributes when serving as a Community Volunteer, and this has continued throughout the many contests which Alicia provides on a regular basis. As we approach our Birthday celebrations, we can't... Read More