|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
GhostwriterI adore the war in your words,
I seek the alliteration,
Clusters of spectacles,
While you sit there wasting.
An image painted with a translucent touch,
Movement in a dimension I can never muck,
Yet the mosaic of your life comes only in black and white,
A hint of grey-scale, then out goes the lantern light.
You are poor in physical dimension,
But rich in mental dilation,
As you carry this burden you are offered no solace,
A troubled writer just finding his place,
I am just assembling the facts but there is no case,
This unseen talent will be a statue,
A martyr of matterMy mind,
A quench for thought crafts a dryness that dissolves over a day,
The demand hides in plain sight,
But I still try to keep it at a bay,
The curse of free will obtrudes my belongings,
Feeling mugged with everything at my side,
What will I gain from it?
A puzzle without a tactic,
I feel Confusion in Confucius,
Faith becoming religulous,
Age coming from protracted abortion,
Destruction carrying pressurised suction,
It's a matter of mind,
We all have a play.
Kanye's Mind.. .I aint no scientist
So Im not gonna stretch this
With any emphasis
But what is mycosis?
It sounds so ferocious
Like I better be cautious
But the feeling too nauseous
Trapped in a metamorphosis
They call me Dr. Atrocious!
Man, they all loafers
I'm such a boaster
Acting all Hollywood posters
I'm all about..
Blowing out bombs
While you nuns gettin number ones
Man whats wrong?
Dude this look like a song?
I aint got a story to tell
Just a tale from hell
Cos that's where Im at
That's how I rap
They devil's on my earlobe whispering
Nah I aint a rat
I'm just an English prat
In need of cataract
Living on crack
Begging for a new contract
Representing the single sickle cell syllable
Hearing kids singing
Why ye' chat so gay?
Im now in a land
In need of hearty nourishment
Biscuits are a punishment
I not got a front
Was dyslexic from the start
Now masking the irrelevant
My mind's so full of fun
BenignityLet's escape this inception,
Find our own direction,
It's interference versus natural selection,
With the arrangement resembling an infection,
Some may hide through deflection,
Some stand for election,
All are run by atoned affection.
We are encapsulated by this correction,
Covertly fighting for detection,
Bridging traction through linear-interpolation,
Hoping to create crashing waves of adoration,
Gasping for the correct equation,
Rarely finding the elation,
Instead we travel a malignant path to unify ourselves in a foreign nation.
A name like so many,
But one of a kind,
A kindred spirit,
Yet a converging message they find.
An abundant loss for many,
Scarce gain to a few,
The power remains on the passenger side,
Everything else is subdue,
Twas purely a curtain call,
Shouting for you.
There is no encore,
Just a disappearing act,
They remain mystified,
Scrambling over fact over fact.
This still seems so fictitious,
Like a terrified knight's tale,
Now five years to the day,
Never will they be short of a cry.
Be kind Vinder.
Let the wicked weather be swept aside,
They still have countless days,
Albeit with a dented pride.
Dark ProphetI feel the need for complexity,
Simplicity is encircled in weakness to me,
I will write this damning self-prophesising anthology,
Without being tamed by the terrified id in me,
You have lost all life now let the super reside,
For it is he who is in power,
That has the right to devour,
I am God,
I am the saviour, the malevolent, and the sinner,
Witness my behaviour as I cry tears of a victor,
My light is so indistinct that it eludes most senses,
The darkness will prelude all human defences,
I feel nothing but despise,
Find the truth in my eyes,
I am a prophet,
Make of it as you want.
Non ameAll I ever want is to break free,
I have a life waiting out there for me,
My disillusion is mere devolution,
It's my time to shine,
For I have little time to claim what is mine,
My selfish tracks will support many acts,
But with the circus you'll all fade,
Go home and leave this renegade.
My eye is always on the prize,
You'll be mine,
I have seen many times that same sign,
A compass with no arrow,
A traitor with no allegiance,
A stopwatch without the stop,
I cannot believe this,
It is ticking,
I am brittle now,
I am thinking,
Is it all over now?
ChristianHis death came in 96'.
He was a rolling stone crack baker,
His life repeatedly raped as the sentences passed by,
Lifting child hood memories that could make the Brooklyn streets seem shy,
The Friday beatings were to perfect an inmate's Sunday golf drive,
His colour often changed,
He stood at neither side of the racial divide,
A loner in all his years,
He learns he was mistaken,
But stays away of being eternally forsaken,
Cometh last September breeze he could finally awaken,
Open his eyes,
He has now no disguise,
Not anymore a cocky Caucasian,
It's poetic irony he carries the name of the son,
Tested and crucified,
He often laughs before he cries,
One more day is bliss,
He can now make it what he wants of this.
End.His eyes are round and swollen,
Has been many a year that the fire has all but faded,
Emotion is strife but only for him to see,
A life just living to end at a plea,
A bargain that cannot be reckoned,
For he has not the strength to succumb,
A hope in a wish,
That is all that he can fare.
Once she came by his side in prayer,
For just the heat made it all clear,
A resounding clause to his expired contract,
A recurring ring rising to a rhetoric question,
An euphoria which made it again all well,
Enlightened by the glistening sprinkles of sparkling spell.
A soft surge in his eyes,
Before his almighty blows out the night sky,
Are they together all fair and well?
The mystery of passing is but an end of misery for him as far as we may foretell.
Liquor is one way out an'death's the other The art of growing up,
is to pour shots of whiskey
into your coffee in the morning
to make it through
when all you want to do
is lie in bed
but there’s nothing
The tragedy of the mook and how it died one dayThe fickle sky presses
Against the glass of the windows
And the dry strung up heat of the winter sun
Spilled over the anemic asphalt
Our shadows seared into the bottom of our sneakers
Moving with a sort of blithe nonchalance
Searching for the speckled grey of a familiar horizon
The apathetic footsteps and my clenched hands
Quiver beneath the setting sun’s bloody smear
Across the over populated sky
That was no longer clear
Rather it was the looking glass phenomena
Spread eagled across my retinas
And during those grief stricken days spent
Hanging off your rooftops and skylines
I've contemplated replacing
my heart with another
Liver so I can
Drink more and care less
And I can vow that sleeping is only
For the dead or at least
The heavily medicated and sadly
I can no longer tell the difference between
spun out so far, i can't be true to you.he's still the way i watch the stars
and how i run like no one's watching
he's what i dream of when i'm awake
but maybe i'm done waiting
maybe it's you
maybe it's me this time
and maybe that's enough
he still races through my veins
and no, my heart is not steady when i see him
but i was never one for patience
a year is too long to hold on
and he is conservative
and button downs
he is beautiful
but i am wild
i am dirty feet
and summer evenings
i am mud-caked nails
and cider throats
i am sun soaked
laced with drunken poetry
i am watercolour
he is oil based
he is canvas in london galleries
i am doodles on napkins in mediterranean restuarants
you are cheekbones and dark eyes
coffee stained fingers
smirks and accidental brushes
i don't intend to know anything more
he is confidence
i am uncertainty
i live in the wind and the forests
we both spend too much time in front of mirrors
but whilst he kisses them
i crack them
and all the while he is leather
the King and his moon.i.
this is an ode
to the King. We
watched him blow
away like an ocean
of black feathers,
and our Father muttered
that he was
forgiven, always, truly
forgiven. But we
all know that
nothing gold can
stay-- he had to
go. It was written.
that was when the
Queen cut her hair. Again,
we watched it fall to
her chamber floor
in heaps of strung
gold. But we already
knew that it would have
to go. We already
knew that she
would go, for it
was written, and it
was already forgiven.
the Prince grew up
with the memory of
black shoes and hair
littering the halls of
an empty palace. The
Queen was busy, always
busy, and then she was sick--
and then the Prince put on
his black robes for her, even
though he always remembered
her in shades of red.
on his father's throne,
the boy-king realized that
this was the place
that swallowed up his love,
and it gave way to war.
You know what they
say-- "A heartbrok
i.by the grace of an orphan wintering,
i have known you
babel, babylon: eyes raptured rare and hands
to strange knowing and throat bruising
pale against the kiss that blooms
. ...such sudden gods. such taken
you stumble where night slurs
too far to the left; my wild garden
old dusks, blue
reality vs. pretendi.
a wooden sword
and an eye-patch
i was a girl who
knew deep inside
had developed feelings
and they were all
selfishly for me.
you tricked me,
you kidnapped me,
all to tell you stories
in which good triumphs
over evil, not really;
was to walk the plank
as you planned to kill
him and feed him to
the ticking crocodile.
happy thoughts and
faerie dust would
allow me to fly,
but i only had the
first and i was doomed;
your wooden sword poked
my back, waiting for me
to take the leap
down (the stairs),
hearing the ticking
(of the oven)
go off - just in time.
surly, mother called us
down for dinner
and at the end of the night,
it was all truly
bedtime stories will
serve as my peter pan,
as my escape from reality.
ScreamSo I'll stand and yell it to the ceiling
to celebrate the fact that i'm alive and breathing.
I'll take your hand to try and share this feeling.
The only thing I can do is stand and scream.
"I still fucking love you."
And hope it starts the healing.
PossibilitesWhen I was 5
I wanted to be
anything to be
When I was 12
I wanted to be
to learn how
the Earth works
and what makes
stones so beautiful
When I was 16
I wasn't sure what
I wanted to be
The future was uncertain
So was I at this point of time
But then again
So were other kids
Now I'm 20
I want to be a writer
My mind's eye seeing
people and places
like a photo album
words stringing together
to create something beautiful
Untitled...The world is made of a couple of hopeless poets.
Dreamers cutting their wrists,
Rivers are the color of their dull, dusty blood.
The metallic taste of their sorrows on my tongue.
Bullets entering skulls that when burst open, shimmer with brilliance.
A gentle touch.
Oh, what a pity.
For all geniuses to be forever lonely.
And all poets, dead.
The SnowballThe snowball gathers its flakes one by one,
Allegiant forces can be harder undone,
A mesh of sleet is all that shall become.
Parting gravity is our utmost fight,
One which provokes an enduring delight,
A shimmering sparkle against the arctic air,
Can a snowflake ever guest appear?
Dissect its ends with a Spartans spear?
Or does it become the one that tried,
Crucified and simply tossed aside.
I can see the future now,
Snowball I have made my decision you cow.
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