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RealityWhen my world
turns into ashes,
you are the one
to dust off the chaos
and pull me back to reality.
SafetyThe best part of my day
is falling into bed
knowing that I have you,
knowing that if I have to crash,
I can crash into your shores.
The PillowThere's something eerie about walking up to the front door of your childhood home and seeing the imprint left where your dog used to lie.
Her cream and green striped pillow still blocks the side door. There's a dark purple stain on the corner jutted up against a wall of potted flowers, and the colors are faded from years of sitting in a dog kennel, the grass having long been trodden down by a hyper pup.
There it was. In the middle of the pillow was the reminder that she was once there, the reminder that she spent several years curled up on that pillow, and the reminder that life can change in an instant.
Saying GoodbyeIt's weird not seeing her
sleeping away, pawing at
her enemies in her sleep.
I still look over my shoulder,
half expecting to see
her white, ragged form
heaving beside the couch,
her head turning
her tail slapping the carpet
when she hears her name.
I keep waiting for her
to pick herself up
when we'd go to the kitchen,
when she thought we were
pulling out a bone for her
to passionately chew on, when
she thought we
were saying her name.
Her kennel still stands,
her food and water dishes
still stand. A pool of water,
leftover, still stands in her bowl.
WindLittle rocks smash our windshield.
Plucked from their homes,
they seek vengeance with everything
except what took them.
Un roti de Cupidon"Patron.. je suis pas sûr que ça soit une si bonne idée..."
Un bruissement d'ailes presque froufroutant sur sa gauche le fit se retourner d'un bond, mais il ne put percevoir qu'un bref mouvement du coin de l'oeil. Ils étaient rapides, bien trop rapides. Jamais le vieux ne réussirait. De nouveau ce bruit soyeux, semblable à des ailes de tourterelles, mais bien plus proche. Dans son esprit il pouvait les voir, tournant au dessus de sa tête comme autant de vautours prêts à la curée.
Le bruit assourdi des détonations résonna et tout autour d'Emmanuel une pluie de plumes commença à virevolter tandis que cinq bruits sourds accompagnaient la chute d'autant de corps autour de lui.
"Ramasse les, petit. On a encore du boulot."
Avec une grimace mi admirative, mi dégoûtée, le jeune homme se mit au travail, enfilant des lourds gants de cuir pour se protéger. Son sup
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