|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
too fucking beautifulnote: this is backwards, and for a reason.
I didnt bury her; I couldnt.
She was too beautiful; just too fucking beautiful.
Even when she lay there with her flesh in puzzles and the skin on her face rotting to expose her cheekbones and the empty spaces underneath them, she was like a doll; a beautiful, disgusting doll. I still call her love, but she doesnt answer.
She screams, and I run the silver blade over her stomach again. I dont press hard enough to cut, but I press hard enough to make her silent. I turn back to her feet, and push the end of the knife under another nail. Its gorgeous; the way the blood trickles when I slowly push the knife in, and the pours when I take it out; it reminds me of rivers and of the tears that trickle down her face.
She closes her eyes, when I tell her Ill kill her. I think maybe shes imagining that shes picking white roses from her garden again. The way she je
mornings on suburban trainsdearest, you have thunder in your eyes
and lacing your fingertips
the mornings that you sit across from me on suburban trains; they are the brightest mornings of all. i could spend the whole trip admiring each curl in your hair and the shape of each fingernail if only i had the time. sometimes our legs brush when we sit across from each other, and my heart skips, but i don't think you even notice. your gaze lingers on the scenery outside the window; as if you wished you were outside too. as if the train was a cage.
if only you would let me, i could brighten your mornings too.
the afternoons that we exit the train at the same stop, they are the warmest afternoons of all. we split ways at the end of the station; i go left and you go right, but listening to your heels tap against the concrete even for thirty seconds makes me want to hold you in my arms and never, ever let you go.
the morning you smiled at me, i think my heart stopped momentarily. you had off-white teeth and dimples
i will be a birdit is the day before christmas and she's waking up her car. the windows are frosted over and the car seat is freezing beneath her. she sits up and opens the door. outside it is windy and she feels goodebumps run up her spine. her fingernails are digging into the cold skin on her bare legs and she's on the verge of tears. she doesn't cry though. she never, ever cries.
it is three days after chrismas and she's laying in her back yard on patches of dead grass, shaking. she's shrouded in coats and blankets but its raining and once the water seeps through the cotton it clings to her skin. she's drinking champage mixed with rain water from a paper cup and she's imagining that this is how she'd like to die. cold and lonely, waiting for the morning sun.
its the last night before the new year and she's not watching television. she's sitting in front of it though, and letting the noise wash over her. it's almost like white noise. she's somewhere else though, she's imagining that her family a
his caged birds don't singit was like when we were five
and unable to drown the fish
in your mothers aquarium.
we later realized that we could drown them.
we could do so by taking them out of water
and we did.
it was like when we were ten
and i would find you in the backyard
of your moss-covered house,
sitting on a lawn chair with bare feet
and rolled up jeans.
you would sit there all day,
filling plain paper with pictures and words
that no one would ever understand.
it was like when we were fifteen
and you would spend your time standing
as close to the cliff as you could without falling
but i think you were secretly hoping
that someday youd slip.
it was like today
when you were finally the first to look away.
what do you want most? you once asked.
back then i wanted a lot of things.
i wanted to believe that sex was only science,
like you did.
i wanted to live in a world where nameless,
faceless people could pretend
they were something more than no
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
Keep in Touch!
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