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Bone child,this December's winter
has your ribs cocooned with
mine. & this wander(lust) heart
will sustain warmth for the both of us.
NaPoWriMo: Day 7Watch out.
She’s a devil,
Glad for her spine,
& her teeth,
even God hands fear her.
For she has arched her back
for a flower-woman
with sin dripping
from her fingers
-who taught her
how to laugh
like the stars.
I BelieveIt's December 21st, 2012 in Montreal.
First thing in the morning,
I look outside my bedroom window and it's snowing.
WAIT – NO!
It's raining again.
It's kind of like this city's friend died,
And it can't decide if it should give the cold shoulder
Or if it should cry.
Walking down the street today is like walking across a beach during summer vacation.
Except the water is sub zero,
And every now and again you'll have white petals knocking on your head,
As if it wants to tell you something.
Our cities are changing.
Not just my home town of Montreal.
A Hurricane reached New York only 2 months ago.
A feat undefeated.
Our cities are heating. Screw whoever says global warming is a myth.
I don't need money hungry politicians telling me what to believe
So that they can continue to throw trash into the ocean
Chills Skeleton fingers
ScarsSlender are the scars that bind,
That haunt my body and fragile mind.
They keep me here in this odd place,
And remind me that I fell from grace.
No matter who I choose to be,
They will always be a part of me.
I would be quite lost.
I need them,
Never mind the cost.
If only I knew what they were for,
And didn't endlessly thirst for more.
Scars so slender,
And so pale,
Raised on skin,
You never fail
To excite my darker dreams.
All I need is found within,
And placed upon unoffending skin.
A part of me they shall always stay,
Until my flesh has gone away.
Scars so pretty,
Let me see
Who I was and shall be.
Vie NoirYou were the promise of regret,
destiny wrapped in an egg shell,
something that temperance would not allow.
And you looked at me with cloudy eyes,
sipping your excuses while choking on tomorrow.
(We were the privileged few that God chose to endure the hopeless)
And you cursed my name while confessing every lie.
My borders grew as you clawed for the limits of absolution.
(We were the privileged few whose skin was hard to pierce)
And you loaded that gun with false bravado and ill intent.
The world was watching as you aimed it at the future.
(We were the privileged few who never forget to empty the chamber)
And you stared into the nothing, hoping to find me there
My Greatest PassionMany people think that writing is as simple as putting words on paper or on a screen. They think, "all I have to do is think of some words, and write them down." But to a true writer, to a true author, it's so much more than that.
Even here on dA, many people seem to pass by literature deviations as if they're not worth the time. They don't feel like taking a few minutes to read the stories, poems, and fan-fictions, for some reason. Do they not think it's really art? Do they think that written works shouldn't be on an art site, and therefore they needn't waste their time on them? Or is it just laziness? Possibly, all of the above. Or none.
But regardless of what anyone else thinks, I know how I feel, and surely, how many other true writers feel. The things we write and post here, or anywhere, really, are like our children. They mean everything to us, because we created them with love and devotion, and tried our best to make them the best they can be. All we want is for them to be recog
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