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Burning Bridges.Pulsing rhythms
and somehow I'm closer then I remember
and farther then I'm okay with
the chasm has shrunk to a canyon
and the bridge is burning
so don't mind me
there's some way out
there's usually a way out but
the sunlight burns my tongue
after all this time in the silence.
and you will say it isn't enough
I am not hurt enough
to have earned your protection.
Awanderin'Once a girl went writing
and lost her soul to a muse
who promised, with words tinted chocolate and sunshine and death,
to keep it safe.
Strange word. Stranger concept.
What is forever,
but a promise of well intending
If this ramble has a point, I swear I ain't telling.
No, best figure it out
between the sheets
of some well worn story somewhere
some well worn lie of
Crimson honeycomb, huh?
What do they say they know?
they know of dances and chances and midday trysts.
Sounds pretty good, somedays.
Other days I am black. I growl. I howl at every passing cloud. Today though, I am
not. Don't ask me how I feel, I feel like
pithy one-worders and too much fable stroking my drunken imagination.
(I wanted to say gin, but well, can't write that which I wouldn't know.) I feel like
putting words on the page for the hell of it, structure and format and
logic denied entry to
this exclusive club. I feel like
bad story-blues and too much metap
Disintegrate. A Game of Lost Causes.Welcome. An Introduction.
This game is called How Deeply Can She Dig
The Verbal Knife into Her Mental Scars.
The rules are as follows.
Keep your hands, ears, and hearts on display,
Don’t step out of the circle.
Don’t think before typing.
As much pain as much hurt as many lies as many broken masks burned
Before the song ends.
Then we start again.
We start again.
We start again.
We start, again.
And if the lettercraft vomit spills across website whispers and copywrite violations, well, let the accuser play a round.
Sympathy's better than having to tell you the truth. That you are the Patron Saint of Lost Causes.
Burning a hole in my soul,
Like the liquor rotting my gut
The words ring true, god far too true.
I’d show you the trembling.
Oh trust me, I’m so scared.
And I am always lost,
I miss you.
I miss me.
"It's so beautiful here," she says, "This moment now and this moment, now." And I never thou
The Margin of ErrorListen to the echo.
The breath the thought the life.
The living breathing lie.
Being an artist means lying. Constantly.
everyone, anyone. Yourself.
Perhaps most of all.
You lie, don’t you?
You lie each time you say,
‘I’ve got is, I’ve understood, I’ve”
captured the breath the thought the life
of the living breathing truth.
You lie to yourself most of all
because the words run dry long before
the tears do, the breaths do, the blood does.
Crimson lies drip, soft on virgin snow, on virgin
You taint the breath the thought the life
with your lying living words.
So maybe, shut up.
So maybe, sit down.
So maybe, look.
Think less in words.
Think not on words at all.
Listen to the echo.
You condemn yourself with every
breath thought life.
Every cycle round the sphere.
Every go around of this
confusing confused soul.
Listen to the echo.
I cannot say it clearer, clearly at all,
For this tongue is only flesh.
This pencil only gra
A Quicksilver Name.PT I. 2010.
Lost, uncertain, confused.
Do you know what it feels like,
what it FEELS like,
to be still, in a box?
A mental box.
A gilded cage.
No room for words, no room for anything but
The most primal urge.
The basest need.
Wanting, NEEDING just to get out.
To breathe again.
To feel again.
To live again.
I hear your words, spoken to me.
Nay, at me.
Do you hear me respond?
I hold the phone away from my ear, rest it on my knee,
and you just keep. . . talking
I could walk out.
Just walk out, out of the room, out of your life
Out of this moving train, off this doomsday plane,
leaving your voice here,
and you would not even notice,
until I failed to respond where response was needed.
in my box.
Light and calm and quiet shut out.
Me shut in.
I sit within my mind, receding from you and your
WE - YOU - I [tw: implied self harm]My side of the story?
WE sit in silence
head against your shoulder, your head against mine
(you're tall like that)
WE sit in a hush of
I won't ask, you won't tell, and we get on just fine in this
gray of unspoken whispers.
WE sit in still silence.
YOU sit in a cloud
a gray I-can't-hold-out-much-longer cloud of
doubts and fears and ghosts and expectations. A cloud of
burden, a weight too heavy for something not even made of
air. But hey.
I get it.
I had my turn under a cloud.
(It was a different one, because it was mine. Because I am mine. My burdens are mine.)
I had my turn, payed my dues.
My debt payed.
Yours still collecting interest.
YOU sit in a cloud, shutting everything
out, but slowly. But softly.
The fog envelops, and no one sees it rise.
If the fog turns to ash
blocking out the sun, well, hey
I get it.
And maybe you count on me getting it.
Maybe you count on me to be there, to lean on, to not ask because
I won't ask and y
Only for ourselves.It’s called Wanderlust.
It’s called, needing to run,
Needing to move, needing
To leave as soon as something looks like home because
Home is the open road and the shrieking wind and
I can’t just slow down.
It’s called being lost in my own head and needing out
It’s called nothing more complicated
Then loving motion.
And so we run.
We need to run.
We’ll run, leaving places we know and people we
And we’ll call,
Because we do not hate you, not at all!
It wasn’t leaving you.
It was about being somewhere… other.
You know if you are one of us.
You will know because, because,
because you feel a thousand walls pushing against you,
and you feel happy but
then the feeling happy is too close,
pinning you down.
And you run not driven by unhappiness but by the
of staying still.
The burdens of
And you run,
to keep yourself separate and apart
to keep yourself whol
Clot.she clicks the pen cap into place
with a solemn glance and a
half a world
a solider clicks the ammo cartridge into place
and dreads dawn
she dreads dusk
for all the wrong reasons
and the words have clotted
a buildup of musesong and
my blood is running dry
drying in a red-brown stain
the colour is wrong
the sky is blue so
it's all to be expected
I am the patron saint
of lost causes
our cause is most lost
and some days
I just wish I'd
Burn This Broken Heart Down.Oh, a flurry of dancing flames.
inked in pain and flame and sunshine.
Sing murderous temptation,
charm the volatile sea.
Blue, oh so blue, accented with
gray like summer thunder;
gold like summer lightning.
And the fire laughs,
burning with growth, with green, with unshed tears.
The traitor sways, dips, swerves.
Flames dancing with thunder,
leaf singing with sea.
"Hey. Watch THIS."
A manic grin
as manic eyes
meet manic eyes.
A stray spark sets
the world ablaze.
Keep in Touch!
^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