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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.
cosmic lattesmall town diner jukebox
casts 90's pop songs on a loop
across creaking hardwood
and paisley-print cushions;
there's a mustard stain
on the waitress's checkerboard apron,
a run in her hose
and fingernail polish flaking like dandruff
into the burly corner booth truck driver's
scrambled egg whites and hash, hold the salt.
if this were wednesday, the perky brunette
would be disheveled, sobbing
into her on-again off-again's embroidered handkerchief
while your food waits, forgotten, in the window...
but it's thursday and they've made up
and his breath is only slightly tainted by his addictions.
instead, she flits a smirk at you
over the pages of the novel
you hope you're hiding well behind
and fills your cup to sloshing
free of charge.
when you add creamer,
it looks like the universe
opening to you.
The DoubterThe Doubter
One Day Someone Will Come To Doubt You.
He Will Insist!
You Gonna Hate Him For This,
If You Don't Love Him.
He Already Loves You,
He Just Doesn't Know It Yet.
He Will Know, When He Meets You.
For You I Don't Know More,
You Gonna Hate Him,
If You Don't Love Him.
lone wolf is wholesome
as his body is pressed,
pierced, and perforated.
rib cage curls like fingers
as crimson nail polish
paint the tips.
nailed to the wall like game,
sanguine saliva drips
from its snarling lips.
eyes shut tight
as its frame is contorted
like abstract art,
pen his heart in ink
or permanent marker.
knees skinned like a child
his body idle as the soul vibrates
while his inners regurgitate,
morbidity slivers down his legs
white fur stains read by death
as it plays necromancer.
the pack may not walk with you
but the moon hums with the owl orchestra.
your grey specks toying with ivory fur
kissed by red cartilage edges.
fade away as your puzzle
finally becomes wholesome
you feed raw meat to lions,
i feed raw me to liars-
the crowds line-in like
they’re ready to witness
me eat crow feet like i’m lyin’,
but these eyes are tired
of watching the vultures
masquerade as innocent crows
when the flock is called a murder.
and these crimes are unaccounted for
because we don’t realize what they’re killing
are the lion-hearted and eating the carcass,
leaving souls to float in the desert
while frames play bowls to a heartless dessert.
deserted bones tumbling like weeds
in the dead glass,
and lightning doesn’t strike
in the same place twice,
so don’t expect quartz here.
the law of living has no courts here
and karma is no judge
because there are no sentences
being placed on the objects
that subject you to the adjective of their
their words unnecessary,
excessive when the circle has begun.
wing disks spinning, dizzying,
dazzling, dying down
through dirt tolls
because we all have to pay
Writer's AuraWhat would you say if I told you that paper had an aura?
The interesting thing about it is that I’m telling half the truth.
Paper can only have an aura when it’s in someone’s hands
And being recited by the very person that wrote it.
The aura of the paper comes from the person, strengthening the sheet’s purpose.
Strengthening the person.
But how, you might ask?
How can a person give a flimsy object like paper an aura?
I have done so several times, so I shall tell you.
The people-those like me-that can do this are called Writers.
Every word-every letter-from a Writer’s hand that falls onto the paper…
It has its own life.
Losing one letter can make an entire story unravel.
Make a poem’s meaning drop.
Make a sheet of paper…meaningless.
And by extension, for that moment, the Writer’s life means nothing.
A small mistake, however, isn’t as large a mockery to us as a blank, white sheet of paper.
Both it and the Writer cry out, begging
A StoryLovely features rest
In a crystalized tomb
Adorned in roaming ivy
Locked in silver moonlight
Approaches handsome figure
With weary leather boots
Having rode his way there
Searching for treasures to loot
Coming to the crossroads
The two strangers meet
One forever locked in
Curse's dreamless sleep
Figure draws near
Pearlescent glass gleams
Stretching out his hand
He sees the beauty skin-deep
Instead of acting as a story
A fairytale kept in time
The figure walks away
Deciding corpses should be kept
Out of the sunlight
+my mother always told me
to make good choices
and although she tried to teach me
i never learned the difference
between good choices and easy ones
and i think that’s why i’m still here,
because most days it’s harder to think about
what my mother would say at my funeral
than it is to keep breathing
AnswersI know I am the one that is trying to find answers to all these questions But I am scared
I do not know what the answer is going to be
Am I going to be sad, hurt, pissed, scared
I do not know
At this moment I just know that I am tired of wondering and want answers to my life
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.
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A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More