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What Is ThisI don't understand this feeling.
My hands are shaking.
My mind is whirling.
My heart... racing?
No, that's a lie.
She asked me if I was crying.
I was not.
It's not one of those feelings
She can inspire so well
with her delicate words,
never on purpose.
Maybe I really am just
I sit here.
In the confines of
A dark, lonely room,
Light of an unfeeling machine,
Striking my face.
And at the same time,
while I sit here,
and my hands shake,
splashing soda on my face,
my mind whirling,
I feel calm.
The BakerI think they killed a baker for his bread today.
I can't remember a time of happiness in Paris. The wind carries the quotes of philosophers who tell of freedom. It carries the tales of rebellious wishes and I feel them. Oh, I feel them too.
My baby sister is starving. My mother is starving. My father is starving. I am starving. I am watching all I care for waste away. My stomach is gnawing on itself, growling and snarling like some insatiable beast. My head is floating in the clouds.
I gave my food to mother today. I gave the bread my father fought for in the mob after the murder of the baker to my mother for my sister. My meal was dirty Paris air instead. Was it worth it? Was it worth being selfless and kind, was it worth the extra step closer to starvation?
I'm afraid to die. I have barely lived, only fifteen years. I am but skin and bones. It feels like my skin is stretching over my bones! My dresses hang limply off my body. All of us in Paris look like this. We are walking skeleton
She's a WriterShe sits at her desk
Her headphones in,
The world shut out.
She bleeds for others
As words fly from
Her mind to her fingertips.
She stares at the screen,
At every little comment,
The good and the painful.
She forms her emotions
Into books and poems
To throw away the hurt.
She's a writer,
And her best weapons
Are her mind and her pen.
BetrayedI won't swallow your lies anymore
I can't stand your presence
You used to be my friend
But you're nothing to me now
And soon you'll be
Another bad memory
I won't be able to forget
Do you know what it feels like...To be lonely?
To be bullied?
To be called ugly?
To be unattractive?
To be compared to other women?
To be considered unnormal?
To be unloved even though you give love to others?
To face issues that you don't in reality know how to fix?
To think that your goal you're reaching for, is unattainable?
To feel like the cause of many people's problems?
To be held up on a high pedistal that you can't get down off of?
To realize that people don't like you based on your personailty?
To at no avail, keep up your happy and upbeatness for others?
To look at happy couples and wish that you had someone to be happy with?
To stop fighting for anything anymore?
You AgainOh, it's you again. I must admit,
The crooning has
The lies have been
And mine are like swords
It's just you and me
In this sick game
I can tell
You're pulling me in,
And I don't have
To pull you down
Sometimes, I've had
And all I see is
Then it became
I don't know
How to escape
Dark to see.
And all I can
Wonder at every
Turn I make
When can it be
flower petalsi know that when we touch
that my energy is yours
that we are like flowers
because at our roots
we need water and love,
we reach tall as we can
to get to the sun
and stretch our leaves
to welcome it all;
and when we touch
i know that our skin isn’t skin
too soft for this world
when it grows rough with gravel
so i invite you back to our bed,
soft with the earth
where we can lie gently
and sleep until it is time
By the LakeSat beneath a Christmas tree in late-March.
The ground is damp but pliant, it pretends to accept me
and then sneaks its cold fingers through my clothes
to dampen my spirits further with its chilly undertones.
I stare at the river, plump with soon-to-be April showers.
It does roly-polys over the smallest of obstacles and goes on.
It reminds me of what I should be able to do.
It runs as I grind to a full stop, and consider my life sentence.
The sky is blue; not like me, but bright and crisped;
Its been blurred by an amateur around the edges with cloud
But they don’t threaten me with rain just yet so, for now, we are friends.
The sun is missing. No one knows where she is.
She could be dead, by now. At the bottom of the lake.
Could have slunk there in a midday sunset.
She could of drowned her sorrows in the ricocheting tides
of a man made dam and its loosened throat. She could be.
She is not, she is hiding.
The sun hides from the world but leaves a blue sheen behind
to let everyone k
Reasons We Love Homestuck“Reasons we love H O M E S T U C K.”
Why do this love this web comic, you ask?
Maybe it’s just the way the fandom rolls,
or how mean Andrew Hussie trolls.
It could possibly be Eridan’s accent (WWyeh?)
or even Feferi’s keyboard trident. (---E)
Some people say it’s Equius’ broken bows and arrows, ( D →)
but what about Nepeta’s meows and roleplays? (:33 <)
We really do love Sollux’s lisp,
and also when Karkat’s pissed. (FUCKASS!)
Including Kanaya's fabulous lipstick,
it's also Rose's amazing magic.
How about when Dave starts rapping
and Jade Harley begins napping?
We love Vriska’s eight-pupiled eye,
and how John is such an adorable guy.
Or maybe it’s with all the sprites
or how prospit glows bright.
Can’t forget about Derse’s darkness
or Gamzee and all his soberness. (WHOOPS.)
There’s also this thing with Tav and stairs
which he t
An artist (revised)
Staring blankly at a white sheet of paper
Can truly be an artist’s worst nightmare
An artist’s duty as its shaper
Their thoughts up in the clouds somewhere
Looking for bits of inspiration
Their eyes searching the skies
Nothing can break their concentration
Nothing can blow out the passion in their eyes
Being an artist does not always mean you are skilled
You do not need to be Picasso or Bach
It means you want to see your dream fulfilled
And that you will never give in to an art block
I Miss...I miss the old days.
The days where I could think straight.
The days where I looked forward to the day
With a smile on my face
And I knew it would turn out alright,
Not with worry eating me out
About what would happen.
(Who's going to be hurt today?)
I miss the old days.
The days where my friends weren't hurting,
And neither was I.
The days where we all laughed together,
About nothing and everything.
(When do I get to laugh again?)
I miss the old days.
The days where we didn't cry.
The days jealousy was out of our reach.
The days where you smiled,
Where I smiled,
Where we all smiled.
(I miss you guys, I miss your smiles, I miss your laughter, I miss...)
I miss the old days.
Where have those days gone?
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