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a monster's romanticsI got a nervous habit and I drink too much.
Can you tell I haven’t slept very well since the last time
that we spoke? “We’re killing time just a little bit faster.”
The words come with a new kind of sadness.
If it looks like Armageddon’s coming down today,
please don’t tell me that I’m dreaming; I can’t tell
if he’s real or a made-up version of her again. And
the hardest part of living is just taking breaths to stay.
Heat AdvisoryWe are an air-mass thunderstorm at the height
of an Indian summer -- a cloudburst colliding
into a cyclone, raising the temperature of any
who wander through our sweaty inversion.
I soar above the earth buoyed on your thermals,
straight into a clap of thunder conceived by
lightning fever. A roiling heatwave travels
across our connection, evaporating the atmosphere
surrounding the eye of our storm. Your humid
breath wisps over the thermodynamics of my skin,
pushing cumulonimbus up the drought in my spine.
Muggy kisses trail down my body like volcanic ash,
a haze blurring the lines between our hurricanes.
And as the barometer spikes, my heartbeat quickens;
I am sucked into the vortex of your tropical storm.
breakingtime ticks on and you change
to survive, but survival of the fittest
always seemed a bit skewed
in the history books
of whoever won this war.
you're a chance to show them
they were wrong;
pull the trigger one last time
and let them know
who you're going to be.
if they smother you, shine
brighter than the fragments
they're made of -- don't
let them make you a ghost
in the machine that spins away
in forgotten dimensions
until it rusts. the craters of the moon
will always call for you,
changing the tides endlessly
until your voice crackles through
the radio and shouts back,
"no one can break me!"
untitledThat guy thinks he's heartless;
I watch him as he buys coffee
and gives it to everybody he passes
on the street who looks sad, and
his lips curl into a smile because
he made a joke that gave someone a laugh.
He holds his mother's hand on top
of hospital sheets, pressing the button
to pump morphine into her system
before he signals a nurse. Tears cascade
down his face when he watches
his mother take her last breath.
And his lips curl into a sneer as he walks
past a cloud of lung choking smoke,
thinking of the fume filled air
his mother suffocated herself in.
He thinks he's heartless, but
his heart is bigger than anyone's.
InfatuatedI am infatuated with a boy
because his smile is too big for his face
and it feels like the only thing that’s real,
because his eye color is cerulean
and that’s been my favorite crayon
ever since my grandmother
bought me that set of sixty four,
because he’s so damn beautiful
even though boys aren’t meant to be,
because his hands are big enough
to hold the whole world
and he doesn’t even know
what he wants in them yet.
I wish I could find the courage to crack
my rib cage open for him
and point out all of the ways
that he managed to sneak into my heart
so nothing is misunderstood
or misinterpreted anymore,
but I can’t even speak to him
because my tongue ties itself
into pretty ribbon bows
because he is a gorgeous jigsaw
and I don’t understand him at all,
even after a million glances.
So I’m dissecting every word he says,
every glance in my direction,
and every casual brush of skin
to try and find subliminal messages
even if there aren’
god never meant for us to be anything1. patrick
i expected wonders
from a boy with a tongue
like a viper and a small,
spare room in a strange house.
i did not get them.
i tasted my first cigarette
on your lips.
and couldn't wash the taste
out for weeks.
i never smoked again.
we were a divine mistake,
right down to the way
your hands skittered
over my flesh like deer.
read the fury on my face
as i left.
a dark room
and misplaced pillows
caught my disinterest
and muffled it
while you pulled off your shirt.
it never went as far as you had hoped.
you taught me
satin sheets hold.
i taught you
how to feel falsely oppressed.
you taught me how to appreciate
the shape of kind hands
and quiet lips
in a rowdy school yard.
i forgot your name
within a year
and recall it with doubt.
my hips had not
swollen to accommodate a fetus.
your interest lay with
To the boy who broke my heartWe only communicate by letters,
stamps stuck down with kisses,
delivered by cupid (or by royal mail)
I have fallen in love with the curves of
your name, stroking your white paper skin
scrawling love notes in the folds of your
collarbone, the folds of the envelope,
pressing my hands into your back
with every word spilling
from my mouth to your eyes;
in the silence we say so much,
separated at opposite ends of the sky
we entangle our hands, braid our fingers like plaits
And your scribbles sigh from my pinboard
and my cursive whispers from your desk
reading between the lines, I can hear our heartbeats
echo, our steps falling in sync
I love it when you wear those red blue and white stripes,
when the airmail stamps are not smudged,
when the queen smiles at me
as if she knows what you’ve written, as if she is our matchmaker
and you sign off with an x and I give you three in reply -
Maybe I gave too much,
packed my future in tissue paper and a parcel,
packed my life into two beaten suit
three ways to fall aparti.
we were seventeen
when you promised me that
this tiny dustbowl of
a southern town was not going to be
everything my life was made of.
it wasn't hard to believe
because the maps you'd spread across
your ceiling never lied (since you claimed
it was easier to dream when they
were stuck above you
in the night).
i remember the lines you'd drawn
in a felt pen, red because it seemed important,
seemed louder than the rest, and
i remember how you
would trace the roads with your eyes until you
fell asleep. you had a knack for
memorizing every escape route, and when i asked why
you answered that it was because one day you
would have to run.
when i asked if i could fly away with you
you said yes, and that night i dreamt
of runaways and falling stars. i never was sure
if they were supposed to mean something bigger than us.
sometimes when i lie awake at night
i wonder now how far we might
have gotten if we ever left, if we had jumped into
your old impala and left the road behind us -
Parentheses(I wonder if parentheses
ever see all the letters
caught in between them
and feel that distance
as though it is tangible;
if they ever crave
to be close enough together
so they could intertwine
until their inkscratches
collide to incoherence;
if you’ve ever noticed
how your right hand ellipses
and curves just like a parenthesis,
and how my left hand is its opposite.)
You Will Meet Me In The DarkSometimes there is a shift in a person
Someone who was once afraid of shadows
Now suddenly takes comfort in them
A person that feared the creepings of the dark
And the monsters that which lay there
Now takes pride in creeping right alongside them
He that used to shiver and shake at that cold feeling
Now turns to face the terror there
Grinning back with blood stained teeth
There are things that change a person
From sweet and naive and clueless
To hard, uncaring, and unafraid
Those that once walked with softness and smiles
Now striding with certainty and roughness
A person stripped raw of innocence
Many such a person exist in this world
If you care enough to look for them
These are the ones that survive
For they know the horrors of this system
And they have seen the bloodthirsty monsters
They are not the ones residing in the darkness
No the real monsters
The ones you should fear and cower from
Are the ones that shroud themselves in light
The ones with white wings and compassion as their
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
MercyOh sweet God how the grassland
ignites in moonlight tonight
I must thank you for creating
her tangled fingers' slow pace
through the handsome rain Her
trochaic kinesthesia to rhythms
in Stravinsky's The Rite of
Spring Is this how you meant
for us to love you Yahweh
Tumbling clumsily down hills
of sheets into perpetually
immutable silence I could love
you like that I think I've been
practicing on this Savanna
for days and months Lost in
her crystal canvas Rolling crests
and troughs And when she touches
me Oh fair Lord I'm dragged into
your city past Gethsemane's
pulsing green and gold
Please hold us together
under this luminous stretch
Oh Father We are live
unclothed Our reflections awash
with the skin of your sun
Keep in Touch!
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