I keep imagining a happier time
with lavender fields and rain-filled air,
when every dandelion was a wish and a promise.
Your eyes were green, dense as the forests
we ran through as I chased after you,
and grabbed at the white ribbon on your dress.
I couldn't catch you, then,
as you laughed delightedly, disappearing
into the crimson blossom sun.
Your eyes were still filled with mischief
as I continued to chase you
past scarecrows and other warning signs.
I still couldn't catch you,
as you skipped innocently, disappearing
into the darkness of the eclipse.
The white satin ribbon on your dress
gleamed in the last sliver of moonli
We were buttered toast,
warm, always together, soft, sweet.
Always together.
Now I am dry.
Loveless, without zest, cold.
Because now your tongue prefers exotic
lobster, and bread is just too simple
for your exquisite taste.
I find myself
Alone,
except for the orange juice
sitting placidly beside the plate.
He sees me,
but will never ask for my name.
He will never give me flavor,
and I will crumble,
drowning in this insipid solitude.
Mi vida es siempre llena
(de la lluvia y el agua del verano,
y tierras de algodón puntado con
flores de Japón y la soledad de tristeza).
Hay caras sonriendo simplemente porque
tienen emociónes grandes y hermosos, y mi corazón
está cantando en español, porque hay
un gran amor por toda la vida del mundo.
Los ojos verdes reflejan el cielo lejano,
el mismo que ve toda la gente
y puedo imaginar que cada estrellita
tiene su propio sentimiento sobre el universo
(como yo).
Escribo cada verso lleno de luces y promesas,
y de piedras debajo de los pies, y de
mundos distantes que un día quiero ver.
S
There are those days during which I just have to write something
or my tender soul will fall right off my thick bones
that never break under pressure, like my all together too fragile heart.
Every day is a headache, but is filled with so much beauty,
the tiny collection of gray cells is overflowing with memories
and one more day like this might just kill me.
I'd like to say I'm happy, even though my heart is being ripped out
while the foul birds have abandoned their liver-feast and want a taste of me,
and the lines are too long as they splatter across the page, and
there's that constant reminder of how simple everything used to be.
Scattered Mementos Locked Away by KRaven42, literature
Literature
Scattered Mementos Locked Away
f i v e -- sprinting alongside her best friend,
her head is a rat's nest of hair and blades of grass.
She climbs the dogwood; her mischievous green eyes match
the grass under her tiny bare feet,
and there's dirt on her face, her elbows, her knees...
Her companion cannot climb, so she just sits
at the base of the tree, and laughs heartily as she
watches her friend tangle her limbs around the thin branches.
Their world consists of a slide, swing,
and little dogwood trees.
t e n -- the child can run faster now, and
sometimes - nearly - outruns her best friend (but that race
is impossible to win, for now).
New friends join in the gam
A small something for you, before we
grow too old for optimism and levity
and can no longer appreciate it:
I want to admit to you that I
love you, like I love autumn leaves
crunching under my feet, or the
melancholy chords that resonate
in minor keys that know how
to unlock the parts of me
I always hid from the light.
Do not misunderstand;
I do not mean to say I'm in love
with you, or...anyone. But the fact
is that you have still earned
a pedestal in my weary heart.
I love how you make me smile,
and how sometimes I can
make your lips curl with joy, too,
just to see that sparkle in your eyes.
And above all else, I love
tha
Stiletto knives coated in jealousy
Are sharper than my forked tongue;
I am ready for you, this time,
And the next steps you dance
Will be in secret, with Hades' wife.
We'll start off slowly, one step at a time.
I'll smile, and whisper my lies. I'll draw you close to me,
And hold you one last time. You do not smell the scent of
Pure envy, for the scent of her perfume is much stronger.
I'll take a step toward you
And whisper my venom into your ears.
You'll hunger for more, until I end it
Abruptly, with a sudden step backward,
And a deceitful and depraved smile.
You'll miss me. The taste of me on your lips,
My smell, the way I fee
I keep imagining a happier time
with lavender fields and rain-filled air,
when every dandelion was a wish and a promise.
Your eyes were green, dense as the forests
we ran through as I chased after you,
and grabbed at the white ribbon on your dress.
I couldn't catch you, then,
as you laughed delightedly, disappearing
into the crimson blossom sun.
Your eyes were still filled with mischief
as I continued to chase you
past scarecrows and other warning signs.
I still couldn't catch you,
as you skipped innocently, disappearing
into the darkness of the eclipse.
The white satin ribbon on your dress
gleamed in the last sliver of moonli
We were buttered toast,
warm, always together, soft, sweet.
Always together.
Now I am dry.
Loveless, without zest, cold.
Because now your tongue prefers exotic
lobster, and bread is just too simple
for your exquisite taste.
I find myself
Alone,
except for the orange juice
sitting placidly beside the plate.
He sees me,
but will never ask for my name.
He will never give me flavor,
and I will crumble,
drowning in this insipid solitude.
Mi vida es siempre llena
(de la lluvia y el agua del verano,
y tierras de algodón puntado con
flores de Japón y la soledad de tristeza).
Hay caras sonriendo simplemente porque
tienen emociónes grandes y hermosos, y mi corazón
está cantando en español, porque hay
un gran amor por toda la vida del mundo.
Los ojos verdes reflejan el cielo lejano,
el mismo que ve toda la gente
y puedo imaginar que cada estrellita
tiene su propio sentimiento sobre el universo
(como yo).
Escribo cada verso lleno de luces y promesas,
y de piedras debajo de los pies, y de
mundos distantes que un día quiero ver.
S
There are those days during which I just have to write something
or my tender soul will fall right off my thick bones
that never break under pressure, like my all together too fragile heart.
Every day is a headache, but is filled with so much beauty,
the tiny collection of gray cells is overflowing with memories
and one more day like this might just kill me.
I'd like to say I'm happy, even though my heart is being ripped out
while the foul birds have abandoned their liver-feast and want a taste of me,
and the lines are too long as they splatter across the page, and
there's that constant reminder of how simple everything used to be.
Scattered Mementos Locked Away by KRaven42, literature
Literature
Scattered Mementos Locked Away
f i v e -- sprinting alongside her best friend,
her head is a rat's nest of hair and blades of grass.
She climbs the dogwood; her mischievous green eyes match
the grass under her tiny bare feet,
and there's dirt on her face, her elbows, her knees...
Her companion cannot climb, so she just sits
at the base of the tree, and laughs heartily as she
watches her friend tangle her limbs around the thin branches.
Their world consists of a slide, swing,
and little dogwood trees.
t e n -- the child can run faster now, and
sometimes - nearly - outruns her best friend (but that race
is impossible to win, for now).
New friends join in the gam
A small something for you, before we
grow too old for optimism and levity
and can no longer appreciate it:
I want to admit to you that I
love you, like I love autumn leaves
crunching under my feet, or the
melancholy chords that resonate
in minor keys that know how
to unlock the parts of me
I always hid from the light.
Do not misunderstand;
I do not mean to say I'm in love
with you, or...anyone. But the fact
is that you have still earned
a pedestal in my weary heart.
I love how you make me smile,
and how sometimes I can
make your lips curl with joy, too,
just to see that sparkle in your eyes.
And above all else, I love
tha
Stiletto knives coated in jealousy
Are sharper than my forked tongue;
I am ready for you, this time,
And the next steps you dance
Will be in secret, with Hades' wife.
We'll start off slowly, one step at a time.
I'll smile, and whisper my lies. I'll draw you close to me,
And hold you one last time. You do not smell the scent of
Pure envy, for the scent of her perfume is much stronger.
I'll take a step toward you
And whisper my venom into your ears.
You'll hunger for more, until I end it
Abruptly, with a sudden step backward,
And a deceitful and depraved smile.
You'll miss me. The taste of me on your lips,
My smell, the way I fee
I remember lying in my hospital bed at the physical rehabilitation facility, far too many years ago, staring at a picture of a little girl. Someone had brought it in for me, though I didn't remember who or why. In the picture she was wearing shorts, and leaning to feed bread to the ducks gathered around her. I stared at the little girl's legs and cried. She was beautiful.
"I broke you," I whispered to her. "I'm so sorry I broke you. I never meant to. Please, forgive me." And she did, of course. But I'm not sure if that made it better or worse.
There was a poet staying in the room next to me. He was a brain trauma patient, unlike me. For so
I am no supermodel
No glass of perfection
I am only me
And that is enough
I don't want to be perfect
I just want to be me
I don't what to be a clone of society
I just want to be free
I am beautiful
In a way of immortality
Where my soul is my grace
And I am no longer an impostor
I don't want to be insecure
To have a price to pay for beauty
Always doubting
My beauty
To have every opportunity
To be me
To be alive
No longer diminishing
As all my potential dies away
As my yearning for a lost cause
Overtakes my reasoning
I am just me
Beautiful old me
And I never want to change that
She stood amongst mockers, their words coming like fire, searing her security walls and breaking through to her core as they hit her. She couldn't take it. As tears descended she tried to resist the urge to lash out, be mean and cruel just like they were being. To make them cry for mercy.
No.
She would never want to put anyone in her position, were she'd rather suffer physical pain than deal with so much mockery.
Demented Loser...
Freak..
No one will ever like you...
She couldn't take anymore of this ridicule. If she stayed here any longer she would shatter.
Fugly!
Even your dad couldn't stand you!
That one hit home, she'd never been
I can walk into the room;
And you always notice and stop talking to look at me.
Sidestepping the others you come over,
Take me into your arms and speak through your eyes.
Where I can see how beautiful you think I am.
Late into the night as you gently rock me,
You continually whisper in my hair.
Of each small and otherwise pointless ways,
That make you love me, that make me beautiful.
'Not only on the outside my dear girl,
You are far more beautiful in the inside.'
Then you rattle off as you kiss me.
No one speaks the way you speak,
No one seemed to look at me in these ways.
But you always made me believe it was true,
Your eye
Brown eyes, pink lips, black hair,
I am unusual, indifferent.
Straight white bones with red painted interiors support me
Blue thread like pipes, intertwined like vines,
feed me and keep me connected.
I am one and the same
I breathe and consume elements of this earth.
I can work, play, laugh, think, solve and dream.
We are built like machines
running on crimson red liquid with the ability to
hold vital nutriments that are trivial to our survival.
I feel pain, I feel love,
I feel happiness, sadness, anger and hatred,
like no other creature outside my species
that roams this vast earth.
I possess the ability to see colours,
tremble at the thought
that beauty is limited
bound, shackled, unfree
relentlessly seek
that which is not understood
the folly of man
most know of false truths
conclusions from fallacies
failure aplenty
youth exemplifies
that which most believe to be
the peak of beauty
the strength of the years
slowly erode the visage
of significance
not too often seen
unheard of in most circles
whispered in silence
true beauty's ageless
neither bound, shackled, unfree
immortal, it is
As I did every day since, I look at my arms. The scars can be hidden from the eye but never from the touch. I must wear long sleeves even in the hottest day of the summer. I remember all my old blouses that are now hidden in the attic by my family in order not to be reminded of that day. My fingers were not spared either. The place where once the wedding ring shined is now empty.
I look at my legs and at the crutch laying beside me. I have always taken walking for granted. Jogging was something I did only pushed from behind, now this is something I do only in my dreams. The distances that usually took me 2 minutes, now takes 10 minutes.
I am beautiful
Beyond all compare.
Not unlike the wind,
Blowing through your hair.
My beauty lies in my freedom,
My words, my muse.
Like a switch, I can turn on emotion,
I can let it ebb and flow,
Prepare to be amazed.
Music is my heartbeat,
Poetry my soul.
Never will I ever compare to others,
For no other can compare to me.
I am beautiful on the inside,
Even if people detest my out-ward appearance.
I never expect a chance from anyone,
It is almost never necessary.
I love helping people,
I have a servant's heart.
My heart bleeds for others,
Filling me with such feelings that could sink unsinkable ships,
Smash unbreakable
He loved the music
violence makes -
the terrible crushing song
of birds
dropping from the sky
or children's feet
mutely shuffling a lullaby
against cellar walls,
the noise of small animals
pleading against
cold metal wire
and innocence losing hope
to rough hands
lurching from the dark.
Those sounds could break
a weaker man,
suck strength like blessings
from a stranger's heart;
but he could savor
its last coda -
the bludgeoning whispers
and souring cries
left muffled
between his ears
with a dying note.
I hate Haiku
Plaugh
Haiku is awful.
It scrambles up my brain waves.
My thoughts are oatmeal.
KRaven42
But I love Haiku;
it is challenging to write,
and full of wisdom.
Challenge marginal,
Wisdom purely optional,
Haiku's still no joy.
Joy will come and go,
and Wisdom is optional.
Haiku is an art.
Joy is illusion,
Wisdom is unreachable,
I rejoin: "Art! Schmart!"
The logical man,
laughs at Art. His soul is gone;
he'll never catch it.
Disdain, not laughter.
So much "Art" is pretentious,
self-indulgent, trash.
(Some) art, pretentious.
True art is something greater:
part of one's being.
To be is to Art?
"Art" relates to
Sometimes I imagine
That when Debussy penned this movement,
He hesitated with the title.
"Clair de Lune" moonlight.
Perhaps he didn't have the courage
To add an "E" to the end of her name,
Immortalizing her in music.
The gentle chords pouring
From his piano describing
The peace with which she slept.
"Claire of the Moon."
She was the embodiment of dreams.
Indeed, with her hair spread out
In messy ringlets across the pillow,
The pale, spring-time glow
Of the moon hanging heavy
In the April sky
Gently casting its cool light
Through the half-open window,
Onto her faintly blushing cheek.
She looked ethereal,
Like a
young yellow lines down this, her street
streaked. smudged, maybe.
split. splayed, yet
neon under quivering stars
no el
imination
[a journey, a war, a sickness
a pizza, a joke, a kiss]
hardly shelter
like wishing for longer sleeves
against the bite of the chill
of s p a c e
He loved the music
violence makes -
the terrible crushing song
of birds
dropping from the sky
or children's feet
mutely shuffling a lullaby
against cellar walls,
the noise of small animals
pleading against
cold metal wire
and innocence losing hope
to rough hands
lurching from the dark.
Those sounds could break
a weaker man,
suck strength like blessings
from a stranger's heart;
but he could savor
its last coda -
the bludgeoning whispers
and souring cries
left muffled
between his ears
with a dying note.
I hate Haiku
Plaugh
Haiku is awful.
It scrambles up my brain waves.
My thoughts are oatmeal.
KRaven42
But I love Haiku;
it is challenging to write,
and full of wisdom.
Challenge marginal,
Wisdom purely optional,
Haiku's still no joy.
Joy will come and go,
and Wisdom is optional.
Haiku is an art.
Joy is illusion,
Wisdom is unreachable,
I rejoin: "Art! Schmart!"
The logical man,
laughs at Art. His soul is gone;
he'll never catch it.
Disdain, not laughter.
So much "Art" is pretentious,
self-indulgent, trash.
(Some) art, pretentious.
True art is something greater:
part of one's being.
To be is to Art?
"Art" relates to
Hello, everyone! I know these results are extremely overdue, and I hope that you will all forgive me. I had a really rough semester, and my coursework simply had to come first. But, as promised, here are the contest results!
Before I post the results, I want to say that it's been great reading and rereading all these incredible entries. Each entry was beautiful in its own way, and I honestly saw something good in each one. The results were quite close!
Thank you again to the wonderful people who helped judge, spread the word, and donated prizes! This wouldn't have been possible without you! :heart:
Link to Original Contest: http://k
- Feel free to follow my crazy misadventures at my new account SurrealCachinnation (https://www.deviantart.com/surrealcachinnation) !
- Contest results will be posted by this account, this weekend, no matter what.
- Any other unfinished business will also be done using this account.
- It's about to be a new year, a new semester, and a whole new adventure for me... I wrote a whole sappy journal about it under my new name. :giggle:
I love you ALL. So dearly. :heart:
No worries--I'll never deactivate this account, even though I'm going to be using a new one. I just needed a fresh start and a new name. :)