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I do not understandI do not understand.
When we were young and fill of trust, we thought every promise must be kept. Neglecting of course, the simple ones, like promises to buy sweets or promises to marry when we were running through playgrounds laughing. They were just forgotten about- Not in a bad way, but merely drifted off through the passage of time, an elderly couple living their end days.
We remember them not as broken nor forgotten, not with hurt feelings but with wistful smiles, or chuckles at how childish we were.
They did not harm when they passed the due dates and flittered by- No more then a sting of sorrow or a pang of regret for the friends who primary school friends who drifted away, never to be heard of again except from your friend's friend who knows them on Facebook, so many years later. They are sweet losses, broken promises which you are at peace at, because when you were young the term 'broken' did not how it's emotional connotations, in such negative ways, that it does when you
BridgeThe sky was grey. It clung to the atmosphere above her head, a curled and twisted moss that only the paid or the fanatical would clean. The wind was little better, silently screeching as it buffed against her black jacketed back, gripping and dragging her brown hair outwards to frame a paled face. She cared for neither, distant ice eyes staring at the landscape in front of her, the chopping waves of the sea hiding a peaceful gut. She is the same but upside down, the only sign of the malicious storm the white knuckles that grip her journal to her heart. They both have been violated, her organ and book, to the point where she trusts neither and either. They are just pawns in the games she plays with her and herself.
Her balance is perfect, her ballerina feet keeping her rooted to the railing. Still the girl wears the white dress beneath the black jacket, the beauty tainted only by the wearer herself- For she wore her heart on her sleeves, and now that they have burst the draping arms are
Leto's Inversedclosed eyes but broken hearted
mine, a thousands tons of lead
a fabricated illness was their dismissal
but she was the only one dismissed
their hate and pity pounds upon me.
as broad as it is long
but their minds are just too human
that of marble hearted women
and those of pig headed men.
jealously like a Barbary pigeon
for that i am kept at bay
peeking through aloof white fences
my fingers taint them grey.
my presense poisons their rose-smattered views
but not of their wrath i am made afraid.
i am god's unwanted
but this isn't my valedictory speech.
for me the church bells didn't play
for her god's ethereal home she will stay.
this was her love-fueled reaction
to my actions that only gossipmongers would say.
i am Leto's inversed, a once brightened image to fade
closed eyes but broken hearted
mine, a thousands tons of lead
suicide was my dismissal
but she was not to be dismissed.
SheShe makes Raro drinks in her mouth with me.
It was my idea really, though truth be told I did not expect her to trust me. We probably should have stopped after inhaling those tiny white specks of Raro crystals by accident and began to cough. But we did not, and adding water we sloshed the combination in our mouths and swallowed.
The result was less than satisfactory, but she laughed for so long that I'm glad I told her about it. I can not help but be thankful that she is used to my oddness.
She comes to me to get her away.
Into my dingy car we clamber, and on my restricted license I drive us away from the horrid music and chaos that is our highschool prom. I take her to my thinking place, and for the next few hours we lay in the dewed grass and stare at the stars, the water seeping into our beautiful dresses like nebulas beneath us. The acolyte I am holds the truth, which whispered to the sky sound sweeter than kept in my head, and as she leans against my echoed form I know she is list
I will tell and have toldI have told myself I am not callous
[for I am not callous]
And I have told myself I am not selfish
[for I am not selfish]
But in a creeping, sobbing, incoherent moment
[I am not callous]
I, for once, thought on my own
[I am not selfish]
And cut you down to shape
[I am human, and above I am all.]
Taste of Freedom - Chpt. 11Title: Taste of Freedom (Chpt. 11)
Game: Dragon Age 2
Author: Blissy-Kills, aka Sessils
Characters/pairing: Anders, Varric, Leandra, Fenris, Orana, Bodhan, Sandal and Cinnamon Hawke
Author's note: All characters belong to Bioware, except Cinnamon Hawke. Yeah, I'm not going to apologise for this wait this time, because it's become clich'e. All I will say is: Wow. I am sorry Cinnamon- It'll get worse before it gets better.
It was her little secret, the mirror. Not its existance, but her reluctance to stare into it. The inability to face herself. The scars that stained her features brought back memories, painful ones, and the tired smiling eyes seemed to better haunt than heal. And all the while, the absent colours would run though her mind, a desperate attempt to keep them alive. The red of her family's crest, the blue of her mother's eyes. Cinnamon could see the shades, the transition from one hue to another lighter or darker one
Taste of freedom - Chpt. 10.5Title: Taste of Freedom (Chpt. 10.5)
Game: Dragon Age 2
Author: Blissy-Kills, aka Sessils
Characters/pairing: Anders, Varric, Fenris, the three wise spirits (together again) and Cinnamon Hawke
Author's note: All characters belong to Bioware, except Cinnamon Hawke and my adaptations of the spirits. And once again Freddick, the unsuspecting cheesewheel. He is always watching. Enjoy, and sorry for the wait. Again. Again. Again. c:
The absence of air tickling her skin was worse than its presence, and the feeling pushed Cinnamon into awareness. Instantly she wished she was back in her dreams, where it was blue sky of Kirkwall, not the emotionless and empty expanse of the Fade, that greeted her eyes. Because the sight of reality proved to the mage that she was wrong.
The sight shifted as Cinnamon sat up, blue eyes sweeping to prove she was back at the starti
The Thief 'Judge your success by what you had to give up in order to get it.'
~ Dalai Lama
There was a door.
It was a very nice door. Someone, God knows who, had taken their sweet, precious time to carve out intricate designs of gears, swirls and abstract lines before defining said indents with gold paint. The wood itself was so old, so cherished and polished that the rich mahogany colour stood out like a painting. It was so beautiful one could have licked it and tasted the heritage, though door licking was not encouraged in modern day society. Of course it was not the front door- such a door did not desire to be locked up like a nun's innocence just so the esteemed bank that lay behind its gateway was protected. No, it was more or less the second door, as the first door was a metal, lockable excuse for an entrance and about as attractive as a moldy, slimy slab of granite. In a dress.
Still, it was a bloody impressive second door.
And it may well have continu
Preview - Work in progress, name needed' It's me against myself this time
Me against the world I hide
Can I overcome and find a way
To be alive.'
There was a door.
It was a very nice door. Someone, God knows whom, had taken their sweet, precious time to carve out intricate designs of gears, swirls and abstract lines before defining said indents with gold paint. The wood itself was so old, so cherished and polished that the rich mahogany colour stood out like a painting. It was so beautiful one could have licked it and tasted the heritage, though door licking was not encouraged in modern day society. Of course it was not the front door, as such a door did not desire to be locked up like a nun's innocence just so that the esteemed bank that lay behind its gateway was protected. No, it was more or less the second door, as the first door was a metal, lockable excuse for an entrance and the first-and-a-half door was a sophisticated metal detector operated by one of the many service androids.
Still, it was a blo
She's a WriterShe sits at her desk
Her headphones in,
The world shut out.
She bleeds for others
As words fly from
Her mind to her fingertips.
She stares at the screen,
At every little comment,
The good and the painful.
She forms her emotions
Into books and poems
To throw away the hurt.
She's a writer,
And her best weapons
Are her mind and her pen.
Do you know what it feels like...To be lonely?
To be bullied?
To be called ugly?
To be unattractive?
To be compared to other women?
To be considered unnormal?
To be unloved even though you give love to others?
To face issues that you don't in reality know how to fix?
To think that your goal you're reaching for, is unattainable?
To feel like the cause of many people's problems?
To be held up on a high pedistal that you can't get down off of?
To realize that people don't like you based on your personailty?
To at no avail, keep up your happy and upbeatness for others?
To look at happy couples and wish that you had someone to be happy with?
To stop fighting for anything anymore?
death of a sweet sixteeni found my house on
the market the
other day -
- it was 2011 again,
but the sun had set
on my nights of terror
nose to the barstool and
two black eyes, a dish
towel caught in my throat.
i keep trying to find
pieces of myself that
no longer exist - a dead dog,
baby blue walls, whispered
it sold for six figures,
and i can only wish
that i could sell my pain
for that much, but no
one would be willing to buy
it, as i am it's sole host,
the only one who
one of these days i will
drive by that sad eyed
grey house before we are
gone for good, and i will set
up with my camera, snapping
photos of my whitewashed hurt.
and if i linger too long,
so be it, as i've spent so
many nights ruined,
scraped away like the stars
once stuck on my
the bank may own my house,
but it will never own my heart.
You AgainOh, it's you again. I must admit,
The crooning has
The lies have been
And mine are like swords
It's just you and me
In this sick game
I can tell
You're pulling me in,
And I don't have
To pull you down
Sometimes, I've had
And all I see is
Then it became
I don't know
How to escape
Dark to see.
And all I can
Wonder at every
Turn I make
When can it be
By the LakeSat beneath a Christmas tree in late-March.
The ground is damp but pliant, it pretends to accept me
and then sneaks its cold fingers through my clothes
to dampen my spirits further with its chilly undertones.
I stare at the river, plump with soon-to-be April showers.
It does roly-polys over the smallest of obstacles and goes on.
It reminds me of what I should be able to do.
It runs as I grind to a full stop, and consider my life sentence.
The sky is blue; not like me, but bright and crisped;
Its been blurred by an amateur around the edges with cloud
But they don’t threaten me with rain just yet so, for now, we are friends.
The sun is missing. No one knows where she is.
She could be dead, by now. At the bottom of the lake.
Could have slunk there in a midday sunset.
She could of drowned her sorrows in the ricocheting tides
of a man made dam and its loosened throat. She could be.
She is not, she is hiding.
The sun hides from the world but leaves a blue sheen behind
to let everyone k
BetrayedI won't swallow your lies anymore
I can't stand your presence
You used to be my friend
But you're nothing to me now
And soon you'll be
Another bad memory
I won't be able to forget
ConfrontationI shed a tear
The damage will be severe
Run away in fear?
I'll fight until the coast is clear!
Reasons We Love Homestuck“Reasons we love H O M E S T U C K.”
Why do this love this web comic, you ask?
Maybe it’s just the way the fandom rolls,
or how mean Andrew Hussie trolls.
It could possibly be Eridan’s accent (WWyeh?)
or even Feferi’s keyboard trident. (---E)
Some people say it’s Equius’ broken bows and arrows, ( D →)
but what about Nepeta’s meows and roleplays? (:33 <)
We really do love Sollux’s lisp,
and also when Karkat’s pissed. (FUCKASS!)
Including Kanaya's fabulous lipstick,
it's also Rose's amazing magic.
How about when Dave starts rapping
and Jade Harley begins napping?
We love Vriska’s eight-pupiled eye,
and how John is such an adorable guy.
Or maybe it’s with all the sprites
or how prospit glows bright.
Can’t forget about Derse’s darkness
or Gamzee and all his soberness. (WHOOPS.)
There’s also this thing with Tav and stairs
which he t
How To Not Break Your HeartHow to
not break your heart
Make sure to quickly
let go of hands
that refuse to hold you
and pretend it was
just a simple accident
(And, oh god, please,
please don't open
Admit that things
can't be perfect
when you can't convince
yourself to believe
that it was worth
the days you stayed
up until 5 AM
play your cards right and
don't love anything with a pulse-
They'll make you crumble
like a house of cards
Fall for the ones who fell
like shooting stars and
left imprints in the concrete
when their times were up
Fall for the ones you
can never touch whether
they are black-and-white,
colored, or just in another
Sculpt them to suit your needs
Fall for figments of your imagination, too
because they'll move their pieces
according to you and only you
and always you
always make sure to
love things that aren't alive
They'll never betray you
AverilRain drips slowly down the side of her face;
Her eyes don't see no clouds today.
Soft feet whisper on supposed green;
It's the mind, swirling in its sleep,
And softly, gently forgetting.
She has walked this path before,
but now, in dreams it is alive.
Afraid the love has been squandered
In the pursuit of her long years
Now she sits, alone, breathless and cold.
Who wants to live forever?
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
Un roti de Cupidon"Patron.. je suis pas sûr que ça soit une si bonne idée..."
Un bruissement d'ailes presque froufroutant sur sa gauche le fit se retourner d'un bond, mais il ne put percevoir qu'un bref mouvement du coin de l'oeil. Ils étaient rapides, bien trop rapides. Jamais le vieux ne réussirait. De nouveau ce bruit soyeux, semblable à des ailes de tourterelles, mais bien plus proche. Dans son esprit il pouvait les voir, tournant au dessus de sa tête comme autant de vautours prêts à la curée.
Le bruit assourdi des détonations résonna et tout autour d'Emmanuel une pluie de plumes commença à virevolter tandis que cinq bruits sourds accompagnaient la chute d'autant de corps autour de lui.
"Ramasse les, petit. On a encore du boulot."
Avec une grimace mi admirative, mi dégoûtée, le jeune homme se mit au travail, enfilant des lourds gants de cuir pour se protéger. Son sup
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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