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Just the TruthYou found me a stranger,
A man no more familiar to you,
Than you to him.
Time eroded boundaries,
Pushing you closer,
Creating bonds everlasting.
Feelings grew from the start,
Uncertainty warping logic,
Allowing Fear to conquer.
With loneliness sprouted dedication,
A fire burning within,
Conquering foolish doubts.
New meetings presented opportunity,
The truth delivering itself immaculately,
Reaping the reward of your love.
Through the burdens of the past,
Through the uncertainties of the future,
I just need you to stay.
Never Letting GoHe was always alone.
Always putting on a pained smile,
Always twiddling his thumbs,
Always straying from the group.
He barely spoke,
He barely laughed,
Until she came along.
With her, he smiled,
She barely spoke,
She barely laughed,
She barely lived.
Without her, he smiled,
Without her, he began anew,
With her, he was happy,
SmileSmile and forget your worries
Smile; let them see you're happy
Smile and hide behind this mask
Smile; submit to the façade
Smile and think that you're happy
Smile; think that you're safe
Smile and start dying inside
Smile; become emotionless
Smile and become nothing
UnlikelyBroken in spirit, broken in heart,
This shell of a man wanders alone.
Forgotten since birth,
Washed away in a modern waterfall.
Chasing an object of affection from the shadows,
Terrified of events unforeseen.
A mere pleb advancing on a heartbreaker,
Courters imagining his rejection.
Presenting love not with flashy gifts,
But with illustrious words from within.
Mended in spirit, mended in heart,
This man strides with purpose.
Noticed since he walked out his door,
Pulled up by the one 'out of his league.'
Chased by the object of his affections,
Thrilled by events past.
A worthy man approaching his affection,
Courters soured by their rejection.
Love presenting itself not with words,
But with a simple touch of the lips.
These are just words,
From the depths of a mind
Twisted to sanity
Writing what it sees.
So the question is,
What do these words,
These eclectic words,
Mean to you?
Self ImageYour greed compels you,
Your greed controls you.
Seeking more while giving less,
Smoke dripping from your veins
Poisoning the ground on which you walk.
Warping your twisted mind,
Destroying your crooked morals,
Breaking your corrupted spirit.
Your greed compels you,
Your greed owns you.
Tearing away layers of flesh,
Revealing a creature
Made of money
PUPPETMy life is not my own
My life is one to give
My ears were stitched shut at birth
My tongue cut out at war
My hands and feet controlled by strings
Hung high in rafters above
A puppeteer willing me to sin
Willing me to kill
My life is not my own
My life is one controlled
My life cannot continue
My death is my only choice
Just a ManLet me tell you a story of a man,
Not propelled to fame,
Nor driven to mediocrity.
This is the story of a man
Born at the feet of others,
Forgotten in society.
His childhood lived out in the gutter,
His education in survival.
A diet of second-hand morsels,
Given up by the bowels of a gleaming city.
Money a foreign concept to him;
His only possessions the clothes on his back.
His filth a blanket, shielding him from false beauty.
Men and women scoff as they pass,
Calling him names too obscene to utter.
But despite the hate,
Despite the hunger, he stays "happy."
He stays happy in face,
A permanent smile
Stretched across his lips;
A desecrated mind,
hidden behind blind eyes.
Just a DreamRemember the last time,
You thought you were falling?
A dream was all it was,
But it felt as real as a slap to the face.
The wind distorting your cheeks,
Deadened arms turned to a bloody sponge.
Tiny dots becoming giant mountains,
A rounded Earth pushed flat.
Tears stripped away from your face,
Replaced by streams of water in a cloud.
Your body reaching out to the widening Earth,
Urged on by the one thing you could never control.
Soundless screams being shoved down your throat,
Hands gripping out for any sort of savior.
Your hands reach out one last time,
A much smaller pair reaching back in anticipation.
Joy is the new expression you wear,
As you plummet down towards this child.
But as hands touch and eyes meet,
You never stop falling.
Right through the child and earth,
Through everything that crosses your path.
A fall that never ends,
Dreamt by a woman who never awoke.
Free WillFree Will.
Is free will a devout gift or a curse?
Was it free will that granted a desperate man to steal an old lady's purse?
Was it free will that resulted in multiple bodies carried in a hearse?
Was it free will that justified a police officer to shoot the accused first?
Was it free will that allowed a family man's mentality to be so perverse?
Could this world of ours get any worse?
Free will gives us the chance for all of us to be distinctive.
But as a consequence people can act corruptive and vindictive.
But without this choice, our lives would be constrained and restrictive.
Undoubtedly these two differing perspectives are contrasting and conflictive.
Without free will our actions and thoughts would be controlled and predictive.
But with this gift our proceedings maybe considered as harmful and afflictive.
Of course free will does has have it's varied betterments.
This advantage allows us to direct and assert our developing intelligence.
Despite using this intelligence for morally
CreationIn the beginning, God fell in love.
The universe was very young when He laid His eyes on the planet. The planet, unlike any other He had seen, held lapping blue shores close to her chest.
He wreathed her in color, filling the dirt with flowers. Under His attention, the planet felt Beautiful. This thingthis Lifethat He had created for her brought her a shy delight. She found it as wonderful and mysterious as He found her.
During this time, days and years were not kept track of. Time was acknowledged only in passing.
As it passed, God appreciated the planet more and more. Her shy manner continued to captivate Him, her fondness of Him fed His desire for her. He continued to search for new ways to earn her love.
Sometimes they would just sit together and He would hold her. She would tell Him all her secret wishes and hopes, and He, in turn, would tell her stories that awed her. Other times they would sit in silence, enjoying each other.
You don't have to earn my love. She told
Today I DiedToday I died and I never got to tell my parents how much I love them, how glad I am that I was theirs.
Today I died and I never got to tell my best friend I am sorry for everything I've put him through.
Today I died and I never got to tell my boyfriend that I want us to be the cute old couple walking down the street holding hands.
Today I died and I never got to tell my future children how much I love them.
Today I died and I never got to say goodbye.
If I had survived for ten minutes longer it may have been the most painful ten minutes of my life, but I beg to have them. The pain is nothing in comparison to the agony of not saying everything I should've said.
Mom, I love going to bingo with you during the week. You have the biggest heart, a generous soul, and a loving nature. Life hasn't been easy for you, and I know I sometimes I ignore that. I'm so sorry Mom. You've given me such a warm and caring upbringing that it's hard for me to remember that you had to do without when you were
when a muse stands silentdo you know what a feather is?
a whimsical quill,
drooped at the top
like a willow tree's branches
hang their heads.
the ink at the tip,
a tear on the corner of an eye
smudging a porcelain face,
a writer wiping it away with his thumb,
the rest of his fingers
cupping a chin,
and he chokes out whispers that embrace
his broken muse.
Do you see the little boy staring out the window of the house across the street? That's Billy. Billy is seven years old. He is also a pyromaniac. That's why his face is burned, you see. That's why his face is hardly a face at all, but a charred caricature of its former self. He set his own house on ablaze, ending the lives of his parents and his infant sister. The family that has adopted him is unaware of this fact.
It's for the best that they don't know. Poor Billy would be placed into an orphanage forever if they were to be made aware...
On top of that, he's likely the type to incinerate the orphanage, laughing hysterically the entire time.
The guilt of knowing that placing the disturbed little boy would kill a group of his fellow children may be enough to convince the family, to keep him, however, should they ever find out and try to give him up.
Of course, the only reason Billy burns is because he himself was burned. He just wants a friend. A friend with grues
ThinkHe stared forward, elbows propped up on the table, hands folded in front of his face with his lips pressed against the backs of his knuckles. Staring at nothing. This wasn't the first time he had sat alone in this empty room, and it certainly won't be the last. But he wasn't a prisoner to this solitude. No, it was a choice.
The room was his own design.
The chair. The table. The walls. The door. The entire room was meticulously designed and constructed to perfection. It was the perfect chamber, built to perform one task and one task alone. It was his thinking room.
He wouldn't always come here if he needed to think. Not every thought was important enough to use the room, and the more time he spent inside, the more addictive the room became. He feared that if he spent too much time within the empty chamber, he would never be able to leave. Each thought he dwelled on inside the room led to another.
Asperger'slike my own universe
jokes only I understand
handwriting that's illegible
to everyone but me
I want to approach you
but I can't figure out
I'm also as mature
as the rest of you
I just don't want
to be alone
you all think I'm stupid
but I'm a genius
I just can't prove it
Escape Hell Dialogue"What are your plans for today?"
"Shower. Then escape hell."
"Why are you showering in hell?"
"Hot water. And Satan isn't there yet."
"Is it really gonna be that bad?"
"It's gonna be worse. I just can't handle it right now."
"Do you want me to come rescue you? I can confront them for you."
"Rescuing me would be greatly appreciated. But if you could meet me around the corner from my house that would be better."
"Are you embarrassed of me or something?"
"What? No! You're my angel and I love you more than I can say. But one of their favorite things to attack is why I'm not going out with a guy yet."
"Wouldn't telling them that you have no interest in dicks put a stop to that?"
"It might. But it might also offend them enough to attack me directly. We talked about this; I'm not comfortable with myself to come out yet. That's why I love being with you away from people. I can be myself and it doesn't matter."
"What if you just introduce me as your friend? I can keep my hands off you long enou
Learn About MeI am the man who they call Kiker
A man awash in accomplishments; unbreakable in mind and in spirit
Handling deadly hands with care. Fighting daggers of deceit with words of truth
Revealing Riddlers for who they are. Stealing the spotlight from the undeserving
Ending erroneous reigns fueled by childish fear; paint-slingers shot like it is an art
Painting pastel pictures splattered yet organized. Living skin as a canvas red with defeat
Soaring towards the sky the world is my plaything. A modern-day earth-scraper flowing like a ghost
I come to you a humble man ready to defeat what challenges you most. I intend to cripple the disease that has plagued you for so long
To terminate the blemish on your pride; rectify rectifications made false by time
I shall not be broken in mind or in spirit. While wiping clean other's reputations
Or ordaining a fear of responsibility in the selfish; watching weary men stumble into their "headstones"
We wish to assist whether you want or not; our intervention
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
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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