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I've Got A Story To TellFriction, it's my most sincerest depiction,
of the obstacles draining my conviction. There's
just something in the way, even though it
was never supposed to be this way. Every ounce
of me has something to say, yet my desire goes astray,
and tends to stray away from the point or the meaning
in what it is I'm trying to say, like all of the seams
binding it together are beginning to fray. And it seems
as if these dreams are no longer attainable, like my
nightmares are starting to work in teams, the smallest
layers of darkness are enveloping the largest of beams.
But if there's one thing I know, it's that I've still got
a story to tell. But a writer without inspiration is like
a salesmen with no product to sell, in the way that every
demon in my life was once an angel who fell, like when the
worst of sinners can account for the bad and avoid hell,
I hope that despite my trials I can figure out another way
to accomplish something in the realm of a fairy tale.
My whole being is consumed by t
It's All but LostI've been contemplating for some time now
the idea of leaving it all behind,
from the bursting cannon fire in the
pit of my stomach, to the aching of my spine,
with feelings of yellow fear and green envy
consuming my ability to rationalize an end-
I'll hang onto sobriety as a last attempt,
but creativity has long escaped me.
I dared to try, dared to dream, and now
I can't even muster up the courage to piece
anything together, words and phrases, prose
and poetry, it all is lost on me now- once
coming so easily, so naturally, so rhythmically,
I've orchestrated my end so masterfully. I peaked
long ago, and I feel now that I'm facing an
uphill battle, trying to reach such incredible
heights as I once could compose with ease.
Clearly, it's self imposed, and maybe
my means have not suffered, but my confidence instead,
but either way it's got to stop -
All of these doubts and insecurities,
I'll line them up one by one and
take them in my sights, in hopes of
never missing again.
Give Me An AnswerOh, that stream of conscious. How I've yearned to return
to a time where inspiration poured out of me, and there
weren't enough outlets in this vast world to fill all of the
things I had to say. That need, ardent and voracious all at
the same time, no longer surfaces. Buried deep beneath a
shell of a sleep deprived anxious hull. I ache for the
ability I once had - the ability to just create. To
put words together, to string along the melodies of
my heart and soul, into poetic and prose fashion. To
just empty all of the pint up emotions, or put together
completely new ones. That ability to be the voice of others,
to put into words what they would never be able to,
having never even experienced their trials on my own.
Where has my inspiration gone? Where do I begin to search?
I can only keep reaching and hope my grasp is near,
for I fear the end draws neigh and without a kick start
I'm headed for a collision.
Bohemian GardensDeep, deeper than any murky depths below storm battered surfaces, beyond cavernous openings to what one could confuse for the gates of the inferno itself, lies a compound. A collection of society’s outcasts, dregs and saints, recovering or sinking further into delusion, the hopeless and those still strong enough to hold onto grace. The whispering of wind, bellowing from tree trunks to tree tops, drifting across huts and tents, an orchestration of utter desperation, melodically playing the symphony of the end. The trumpets sound, almost to announce the ending of an era, that all expected to never arrive. To the outside looker, prying into the shanty, it appears as hell. For the inhabitants, this place is nothing short of paradise, the answer to their bohemian calling, a miraculous sprouting of freedom and acceptance. Regardless of the stage in their transformation, every individual in the populace calls this place home.
Rows of trees hug the humble abodes, wrapping limb and leaf a
Insomnia's CraveEvery last ounce of me wants me to stop. The beckoning
does not come unannounced, and even the Devil on my shoulder
tells me to turn back from this. Confronted by the monkey
on my back, even the Angel has a hard time seeing the light.
The temptation comes from every angle, the craving deep within,
I won't say this is an addiction, an extent to which a far cry
would be an understatement. This is a longing, a hunger ever
voracious - distracting and taunting, clawing and gnawing,
forcing it's way to the surface by any means necessary. I grasp
onto every second spent behind closed lids, longing for
those few moments of silence, a quiet enveloping my being,
something we all take so easily for granted- rest and relaxation,
no, beyond that. Sleep. Every white pestilent pill doesn't get
me higher, it doesn't fill cravings, my body still is weak.
It allows me access, entry into the dreamworld, if only for a second.
No line or bump, or injection or hit, could ever amount to this -
my escape is n
The Wolf WithinIt lives deep within. A churning, winding,
voracious hunger, fluttering and beating against the
cage inside, foaming at the mouth, awaiting the surface. I'll cry wolf,
if only to silence the howls.
It's fangs hide beneath my smile,
it's piercing yellow optics behind my charm,
and it mocks every move you make.
Will you panic when it's claws grip your arm,
when you see the affection has lost it's touch,
when the wolf reveals itself,
below the moon, the rays only strengthening it,
was I a monster all along, or slowly becoming it?
Hell Over High WaterYou sharpened every edge of the sword, wielding double entendre as if it were a skill you perfected from the start. If the start is where we must begin, then forgive my each and every sin, for de facto verbiage has long torn me apart; while you sharpen your weapon, I contradict my feelings in my inability to be blunt without a well manicured blade. I fail to entice, with all of my might, between men and mice, I prayed for every crumb I got. I was never fortunate enough to be taught the ways of the world outside of the war zone, a battlefield where the front line is home, where the most strength comes from being alone. If I fail to impress, believe me you aren't the first to believe. I've poured all of my strength in my ability to conceive, with a sudden inability for conception, no sense of artistic merit nor creation, words are all I have and compared to the rest I can barely muster halve-- half, on the wealthy behalf, we'll toast to my shortcomings-- despite how unbecoming, I'll neve
Wolves At The Gate: SamplerChapter 1: The First Kill
The gritty feeling of flesh between the fangs always managed to settle the stomach. I'd grind my canines together, tearing away at every sinew and tendon, ripping muscle from the bone. The crunch of a breaking bone between those serrated teeth, somehow would shake you to the core. It is at this point we separate the sheep from the wolf. As I stood up, licking my lips along my long snout, I mopped up any droplets left from the torrent of blood my face was just buried in. I could taste that familiar sting of iron as it settled in my mouth, dripping down my throat.
I felt powerful. I felt alive. It was a rush higher than any drug could give you. No porcelain lined amphetamine on a glass table, or coca derivative neatly bumped, could give you a better kick than this. The feeling of your first kill is very akin to the feeling of your first bump, your first line, your first hit. It is the best it'll ever be, and we spend eternity chasing that same feeling.
Monumental MomentEvery fleeting thought I had, so cerebral and colossal, the way we pick and choose to receive the news, whether good or bad.
Mending fences along the way,
building walls in their place,
I had something left to say,
each and every time I saved face.
I'm just waiting for my lungs to slowly burst,
Each and every time, if only my pride could be spared,
you should just take it from me, truth is far better than being dared,
and I believe every warning spoken sagaciously, every judgment cast down from above,
if I could turn back the dial on the clock or even travel a few steps just to stay away from love,
it didn't matter how many people told me to steer clear, they all knew I was going into this head first.
You're the reason my gallantry has prevailed -
the cautionary side of every romantic tale,
where the Hero rides a white steed but has misfortune and bad intentions imprinted behind every good deed,
Tell me again my princess, was I really so noble in your pursuit?
I'm a poet without poetry
You call meYou call me a freak
I say I'm unique
You call me crazy
I say sanity is overrated
You call me a sissy
I say I'm sensitive
And proud of it
You call me depressed
I say it's true
But I'm not ashamed of it
Five AMPre-dawn darkness again, seething, quiet
A monster hugging the city
How heavy, how suffocating it is
The clock has run down on time for dreaming
A void between night and morning
Ready to swallow everything up
A time for old men's reflections
On love, and loss, and sorrow
Oppressive black sky, you eat everything
But the all-night diner
Where lonely old men sit
Drinking coffee at five AM
QuicksandYou trapped me
Dragged me below the surface
And held me there
You chained me
Put brass around my ankles
And left me struggling
You broke me
Beat me with whips made of hate
And hurt me more
You changed me
Made me who you wanted
And killed me inside
You hid me
Stole me away from the light
And made me blind
You crushed me
Blew my dust in the wind
And danced on my grave
surrounding my body
And now I'm twenty feet under
With no chance of being saved
Guide MeThe shadows of my past, like trembling fingers, strum the song of warfare with my heartstrings and piano-key-ribs.
The ghosts of empty faces, empty shells, waltz to the tune of my miseries.
The war raging inside my head, like the waves of an ocean crashing against the sides of skull, cause me to drown in insecurities so deep within my tired vessel.
I am tired of this warfare.
I am tired of playing the role of some valiant soldier.
I am dimming under the power of the shadows, of the ghosts, of the war inside me –
And my only beacon is you, dear mother.
When the fire rages on, and the music is gone, I will always look to you for guidance – and you will guide me to safety, always ending the war within me.
From Your 'Secret' AdmirerHeaven,
this is not a love letter
I will swear to God,
with a halo on my head
and a hole in my heart.
But the fact is I revere you
more than I have any right to.
After all, we are nothing except
who have awkward conversations.
So why is it that every time the line
falls silent I panic, worrying that your shadow
will make my efforts nothing but a distant memory,
when every word you speak strongly marks my mind?
Simple: I fear having something to lose
and losing the nothing I have. You are a
treasure to me, and this note becomes my confession.
Sincerely- I typed this, but I'm sure you'll recognize the handwriting.
give me a challenge, give me you.i have grown
the blood in my veins
have become more
than plasma, and i
am now trapped
within my own hollowed-out
this haze of
has to be transitory--
i can't let it be anything
Death, Judgment, RebirthLast Time in the ICU
Shadow rats, beady red eyes focused hungrily
Stay still too long and they’ll swarm
Sharp little teeth rending flesh
They know the sick and weak
They can wait
Tenth floor ICU, down with the disease again
He’s resting quietly, the nurse says
She looks like a huge black rat
Does she know what’s happening?
Closing the door
She walks away
Sweet childhood dreams are interrupted
Rats gnawing away at the edges
Toothy little kisses all over
Cleaning, cleansing scurry
Down to the bone
Sentenced to Live
Firelight, poker-faced patchwork man reading aloud
An old but vaguely familiar tome, his tone is somber
Was I one of the wicked? Weren’t we all?
Who can say that they were good?
Sentenced to live yet another life
I cry; I’ve had enough living
I want to sleep forever, leave my shell behind
To crumble to dust, useless, I won’t need it
Every door opens to the same world
Is this hell, then? The onl
are winter fire
that warms my body,
that stokes my heart.
is velvet gloss
through my hair,
under my shirt.
is silk screen
beneath my fingertips,
between my lips.
moves like ocean water,
washes over me,
floods every inch of me.
clinging to your cheeks,
puddling the pillow,
caught inside my kiss.
palm to palm with mine,
soft and breathy in my ear,
loud and gasping
against my mouth.
pressing against mine,
rising to meet me,
applauding in rhythm.
grasping at my shoulders,
sliding down my chest,
clinging to my skin.
squeezing me tightly.
arching up to me,
tilting back your chin,
pressing us so close.
undulating in excitement,
trembling in joy,
shivering with delight.
echoing inside my head,
calling out to the universe,
telling me everything.
tender and delicate,
a hospital bird with soot in her lungsshe slept through a car crash
that almost killed her,
through whitewhite walls
where her lover dies
nobody thought she'd make it
but she woke up a few months later
with flowers in her hair
and ash in her airway
trying to remember how to start all over
but forgetting to remember how to live.
fall slipped from her open eyes
and winter crawled in for a long hibernation
to her the clouds looked sick
and pale like they might
let everything inside them out,
but she opened up wide instead,
spilling blood where there was none to be spilled.
her heart slipped down the street
and with unsteady hands
she stitched in a bird and cut off its wings.
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More