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40 when I am loved40 when I\'m loved. ____________________________________________40 when I am loved
Still barked trees Surround a hut, she calls home
A pretty little place Blessed in a valley of yellow smiles
Blanketed, our heroine sleeps on an old granite block Formed in the days of monster and magma red
She sits unconsciously in a lesser place Dreaming of the perfect pain free day
This is the truth of her life so ill, which pungently pushes her mothers good will
Fatigue runs down her back, with a sweet little rattle
by ~peenutygoodness
LaurenLaurenLauren
During some moldy year in my childhood,
I recall a prohibition towards my friend’s use (With their Greasy black hair and freckles)
Of the first-player controller. Maybe because I hated freckled tater-tot-fingers touching My gift from the heavens (16 bit),
Or maybe because on the later controller,
The Buttons always stuck and your character would do a Spasm of sorts (maybe some Pixilated leg flail or whatnot) created by a second- hand neurotic submission into What was the “Game” (underage binary mistress) and messages
Got through twis
by ~blackhalo
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by ~danstijl12
the moveable noise shrineI. Dublinthe moveable noise shrine
Soprano
is for the cold; white and snowy in the quiet with the smell of wet straw
drying your nostrils.
Sforzando
is for the troubled; bad memories of relationships, wars; but it doesn't pay the rent, does it?
II. Worms
Alto
is for the soft; indescribable like the smell of your grandmother's home but with track lighting.
Pianissimo is for the weak; trees overcome by fungus or hewn, too quickly, before its goodbyes.
III. Paris
Tenor
by !gustoboy
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--
When you keep getting pelted with shitballs, you gotta get youself a shit-bat.
--
JHD aka LEQUICK
--
my enemy said to me, "love your enemy."
and i obeyed him and loved myself. gibran
What you know you can't explain, but you feel it. You've felt it your entire deviant life, that there's something wrong with the story. You don't know what it is, but it's there, like a splinter in your mind, driving you mad.
You take the blue pill, the story ends. Your browser closes and you believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill, you stay in wonderland. And, I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes.
I offer only the truth, nothing more.
Take: The Red Pill
Take: The Blue Pill
--
The Angry Deviant
Random Deviant
Yes, well, I havn't written a poem since forever. Not anything I like, anyway. Uni is a terrible place, it drains your brains and makes you try too hard. It's embarrassing. (convienient how I have things to blame for my stagnant self)
I think I'm also over DA. It's too big and I have no time to play in its many corners. Yet I still log on to see if anyone cares about me enough to leave me a note or something. I am a person of no life. (ahh, low self esteem to start the new year) (no no, I actually think I'm quite brilliant)
I'll continue to come on every once and a while to read some fun poetry from you and your type. I keep meaning to get to your prose, because apparently, it's better than your poetry...but it's so much longer, and brain consuming. Perhaps, some day...
--
I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life. Henry David Thoreau
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