|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
Homosexuality BitesThey found me slumped over in the school showers
With a towel loosely wrapped around my waist
Scalding hot water was blistering my skin
As I bled from an unspeakable place
A hard-handed teacher dragged me to my feet
With little or no sign of sympathy
For the bruising to my feeble framed ribcage
And the fractures to my identity
I think they all thought that I had it coming
As no one was willing to testify
That the sodomy inflicted upon me
Was something to which I hadn’t complied
Boisterous boys laughing in the corridors
As I shamefully limped throughout the day
Not a thought for the pain that was inflicted
Just worried for what my pa
I Am a WriterI am a writer.
Yes, it’s easy for me to fall into a dream.
But there is nothing wrong with being tighter
With a story’s theme.
I am a writer.
That is all I will ever want to be
In the end, my story will be lighter,
And my characters will finally be free.
I am a writer.
There is nothing easier to say than that.
I will never let a story wither
Nor let a story fall flat
I am a soon to be author.
With several books ready to be read,
I want them to have great honor
And wish there will be tears shed.
Pieces of chessKings and pawns are all the same
All but pieces in a game
A stroke of luck
A touch of ill fate
Decides in the end who will be
*Mask*Tonight hearts will beat
Identities are concealed
When we masquerade.
Behind flamboyant disguise
Recognize those eyes.
Twinkle StarTwinkle twinkle little star
Noone cares just who you are
When you fall the fall is far
Twinkle twinkle superstar.
Take Death's HandI do not fear Death.
My life has been long enough.
It's time I take my last breath.
I shall not rebuff.
Death stands by my side,
his hand extended for me to take.
His face is veiled like that of a bride.
This life I now forsake
as Death takes me away.
I do not regret
for I am free of the fray.
Please do not fret
for I am okay.
They're evil creatures in the night
Lurking in the shadows but still seeing there sight
From they're pale skin and glowing eyes
Out there graves they will rise
Moaning and groaning is what you hear
Your body will soon fill with fear
They walk or run in a fast pace
Here they come for the chase
Get ready for the fear
Coming through the door they are here
Board up the windows to keep them away
This is the place you don't want to stay
It's too late now they're breaking in
It's a fight you may not win
Grab you shotgun prepare for the fight
This battle may last all night
Pain and blood come from your arm
A bite from these creatures can cause muc
AveryHis veins are filled with music and with stars.
His thoughts are filled with emptiness and flow.
His voice is made of dusty old guitars.
His mind’s a rusty cog that clanks below.
And these affects and gifts with which he’s blessed –
Or cursed, as alternately it may be –
Are some well-known and some yet unaddressed,
And they determine all that he must see.
But when his veins must open up and burst
And when his thoughts in dark directions fly,
When all his voice can do is preach the worst,
When all his mind can think to do is die –
It gives him pause to check himself and breathe.
May he stay in this world and never
All AloneI'm sitting in my four walled room
Their closing in, like an ancient tomb
I feel like I'm wasting time for two
When all I want is me and you
Who Was HeHe stood at the average height for men.
His built was quite average.
His eyes were that of cyan.
Nonetheless, he was average.
His hair was that of blonde,
His walk and personality had a great bond.
He was a confident sight.
His skin was a delicate peach.
His muscles were quite firm.
So irresistible, a teasing reach.
His appearance had its own term.
One that the dictionary cannot confirm.
Who was he?
That man with his own sea?
He was one without a name.
His appearance was a taunting game.
He was one without a number for an age.
Forget it, he’s fake on this page.
SuicideThere's no blood on her hands
Bullet holes in the door
Nothing but colored pills
And her lying on the floor
You look at her face
There's despair in her eyes
And you wonder what she thought
As she fell and died
And maybe you're begging her to come back
And maybe you're asking why she let go
The hurt in your chest feels like a heart attack
And now you finally know
Maybe you could've helped her
If you'd looked past your own nose
Maybe she'd be alive now
You had a chance, this is what you chose
Now maybe you'll learn from things
That you didn't see
Maybe you'll open your eyes
And rescue him, or her, or me
Maybe she cried a prayer
For the oth
You never chose the middle pathYou never chose the middle path, the place
of careful, safe and unremarkable,
the sky at 10 am, the camp at base,
the decaf paper cup unbreakable.
You had to go with high and low and real,
with rich and fast and things more notable:
the sky at midnight, Himalayan-feel,
the oxygen and you, unstoppable.
But then your weight became too much for skies.
Your melamine became a china cup.
And those who cried moved on to lesser highs.
They look ahead, or down, but never up.
You never chose the middle path, you raced.
I’m looking up, and pray that speed is graced.
One WindowOne window is all I need
To see the world for what it truly is
With my mind a system of creed.
My talent can depict or dismiss
This world of goals, so hear my heed.
I sit down beside a journal,
My fingers clutching a pencil.
I will make my character’s life spiral
And send them off to a council
Where they must advance through the next trial.
One window is all I need
To watch them afar a long, hazy field,
Where I can study their speed
Of understanding when they will yield
Of life, itself, so they need to hear my heed.
My character’s goal,
As well as mine,
Is to be whole
And see how bright life can shine
Even through the darkness
Last RoadTwo people, both alike in personality,
Shared a home where the scene was played,
From shattered souls to new beginnings,
Where screams were heard on this doomsday.
From golden moons crisp as the sun,
A mother who has not yet won,
The illness will strive until the deed is done,
Even if the daughter has not begun.
The road that lies ahead,
Is now a mother who is dead,
With hugs and kisses that are gone,
The daughter who will beat them all;
Thy which your eyes and ears can pretend,
What here shall be a transformation undid.
The Soldier's Letter To HomeI write this from my death bed
My eyes fading in the light
Drowned in crimson red,
Drowned in shaking fright.
The enemy has won
The war now has ended
And though killed by my son
May his sins be ammended.
For this is Civil War
I cannot change the tide
So from you I implore
Do what is right.
Bury me somewhere nice
Near, and fair to look at
And forgive my son his sins;
For in war, no one wins.
Silence At The OperaWelcome to the end, my friend
Watch your step, or you may stumble
A quick fall and you may meet your end
Isn't it an experience oh-so humble?
You will never be free of falling down
The Ferryman will forever wait for you
Make one misstep and you may drown
Death is but a distance from the pew
Raise your hands and bless the day
Praise the time that brings you an end
Death arrives to show you the way
As he does, eventually, for all men
Life is a sunrise to which sets silence
The stage that of an opera's stage
Death comes not with fiery violence
The curtain falls on not Hell's rage
Acceptance I give to Death that I,
In my time-wri
Oh, Lie of MineDear, sweet Lie of mine
How in darkness you shine,
And oh, how you are perceived!
When you arrive, all are deceived.
Loving, pretty little Lie of mine
Why must you hide in places so fine?
Why not show your beauty to the world?
Why not let that shining darkness unfurl?
Oh how I love you, Lie of mine
Despite your walking that treacherous line
Just promise me, Lie, to never betray.
Oh little Lie of mine, show me the way!
Thoughts: A Close-UpThis world is dead. My head breaks to think what could possibly revive something so vast, to have fallen so far off the charts of holiness in the eyes of people who seen it once as simply the biggest and the best. How does one bring up what they alone cannot carry? They do not. For without the help of those who pretend to have worked their station, the genuine help of those who take credit for others, there is no revival. Though should you turn your heads to them in any fashion of malcontent, may that same head hang condemned. So is materialism.
In this world that lies dead, there remain few capable of clinging to life in the coldest conditi
Keep in Touch!
`anmari has been spreading her infectious positivity throughout our community for over 6 years. Throughout this time Ana has been at the core of all things devious, passionately developing an eclectic gallery, helping organise devmeets, participating in chat events and also recently completed dedicating her time as a Community Volunteer. We are absolutely delighted to bestow the Deviousness Award for May 2013 to `anmari, congratulations! Read More