The things that you’re willing to do Like a great syrup in your soul’s attic You’re dreaming of tasting its sweetness But you’re afraid of doing it now Why so afraid you don’t know You don’t think about life while still living it You’re like a cliff in the strongest of winds Whatever you hate surviving through it Your duty is to give up on the things that you love And you want to please them For the little love they return But is it really enough for you? One day you start to guess the meaning of life It happens to those who have strayed from themselves So much time wasted on things that you hated Doing what’s right, not insane in their eyes But you need to go in that attic Once in your lifetime taste what it’s like And once you have tasted There’s no return back You’re sweet as these berries Sweeter than wine Your whole life uspide down Goodbye the old prisons, the walls that surround No regrets about yesterday, time’s still enough To taste the
I felt caressed by the hoarfrost, unconcerned for its personal cost. Totally enamored with the rime and the verglas made foggy over time. Prosody moves slowly toward song, cold-hearted stares chill, dancing along my spinal column, frozen in place. My shivering heart, slowing its pace... warns of the euphoria of sleep. Cryogenic reveries run deep.
I feel corroded
I feel manupulated
I feel enraged
I feel used
roses
red as the pounding heart
thorns
scaring flesh and skin
mist over the river
boats to the other side
Dirty streets, covered in sticky mud and clouded with car exhaust. Old buildings, bricks and shingles falling off all the time, looking like they're about to crumble to the ground and fade into the forgotten dust. People running past, not seeing, not caring, wrapped and consumed in their own lives and problems. Criminals in dark alleys, ready to dart out and snatch away the possessions of any vulnerable character passing by. Men lying in the gutters of the city, some dead or bleeding out, some too drunk to stand on their feet.
But down those streets, and past those buildings, and through those crowds of people, and ahead of those alleys, and
Deadly Inspiration by JeffreyRebowlski, literature
Literature
Deadly Inspiration
Everyone steals. Everyone cheats. Everyone kills. I mean everyone. The truth is the “bad guys’ win and the “good guys” lose. We cannot become powerful if we are afraid to do what we want. I have left people broken. I have ruined lives and I have shattered dreams. I do this for the noblest cause. To make the greatest artist who ever lived. I am what they call a Muse. I have the power to make people realize their full potential. At a price. But I am getting ahead of myself. Let’s start at the beginning. I grew up on the streets of the Haddock Place fish market (Oceanport). I remember walking with two people and being set down on a curb. I waited for them to come back but they never did. I was six years old. Alone and hungry with a toy xylophone and the clothes on my back. My first project; or rather my first victim, was a vagrant. He never moved from that spot and his eyes were glossed over, always looking up. It was clear to me that this man didn’t know what
Richard's POV.
The lights and fires were glaring all around, just like at any other concert, threatening to roast our asses if we accidentally failed in following all the rules and instructions our pyrotechnic team had given us. These safety measures were the only thing preventing me from rushing to Paul to the other end of the stage and playing the entire concert through by his side, watching him jump and fool around, feeling his presence near, having a chance to stretch my hand and touch the small man. But the reality was inexorable to our wishes, forcing us to remain at the farthest corners of the stage. What was more, there was Till stan
"Love in Rain
Serpentine feeding off lust
Wash away deceitful betrayal.
Blood off the tongue of the entity writhing its way in
Shut down in attempts to build up your walls
To rid yourself of his presence."
Those are the
only words
she could
possibly choke out.
For here still lies this empty page
No strokes of love nor scrawls of rage
Of yellowed white in candlelight
It speaks of naught but dust and age.
Fingerprints do smudge its face
Of tender touch when I would trace
Crisp cut edges long since frayed
While words of love within me stayed.
For now my eyes reflect its fate
Love bloomed within but spoke too late
And though frail fingers grip my quill
This ghostly page is empty still.
Whispered feelings lost to night
As phantom thoughts waltz out of sight
Failed; my heart in it's crimson cage
For here still lies this empty page...
The Bright Side of Dyslexia by BatmanWithBunnyEars, literature
Literature
The Bright Side of Dyslexia
I was born with auditory dyslexia.
I once heard of someone who wrote, directed, and coastguard in their own movie.
I knew what the right word was, but it still got me thinking:
About the invigorating music of waves crashing against my vessel,
The challenge of serving to the best of my skills,
The pride of keeping the shores of my homeland safe.
That was how I found my career,
And it's been just as rewarding as I had hoped.
An episode of CSI mentioned literature marks on the vic's neck,
Which inspired a fulfilling side project of poetry.
In a later CSI, taunts were exchanged:
"I'm the king of the jingle here!
King K7 flipped through a book and frowned. He'd been searching through the books in the library for hours but still could not find the ritual he was looking for. It really was not that important; more academic curiosity than anything. It was getting late, so he decided to abandon his search. He chuckled a bit.
"You'd think after all this time I would know where to search for something in my own library," K7 mused. "Right, Ursula?" He waited for a response from his bodyguard. No answer. "Ursula?"
The warforged king turned in his chair to face his bodyguard. Ursula sat at the table behind him with