he wasn't a lost boy
he was simply lost
hands grappling with the darkness
as he searched for the star that would
take him to neverland
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wednesday's childit is the third of october
and i am building a castle for us
out of feathers, bird bones,
ocean waves and library book pages.
anything to keep our feet from
touching the ground.
you are sin, he whispers
and his fingers trail cold fire
down my side, scorching flesh
and freezing bone;
brittle pieces of me shatter
as they hit the stained linoleum floor.
don't wake me from this nightmare.
i whisper a nursery rhyme
as i walk down our
kamikaze leaves fall, trailing
fire as they throw themselves from
the branches, down, down,
to cold pavement below.
your words echo in my mind
a constant reminder
that i am sin
tigers and wind chimescoffee smells like coming home
but this time there is no home
only cheap, styrofoam cups
and a boy whose eyes do not
remind me of a supernova or
the tidal pull of the moon or
wind chimes in september.
They are not poetic;
they are tiger-sharp, jagged
razor wire promises inscribed on
a storm-cloud sky:
i will hurt you. i will destroy you.
and then i will leave you.
i tell him i am not afraid
and for the first time
i am not.
one and the samei have a monster inside my head
frozen, shaking fingers claw against colder skin,
seeking purchase, fingernails drawing blood.
get out get out get out
but my monster just laughs
imagined breath puffing against the back of my neck,
thick with the stench of death and madness.
it whispers in a black-velvet voice,
"we are one and the same, love.
you cannot escape what you already
as a flower of the fieldi learn his name after the funeral has passed, and the family retreats, packing their grief with them in paper wrapped boxes -- tucked away, but always within arms reach, all too easy to open again. i imagine they cried, and my mind refuses to stop picturing a coffin lowered into cold, december earth, covered with a blanket of snow and dirt and might-have-beens.
every time i close my eyes i picture him lying against icy pavement and sparkling glass and i wonder what it's like to die alone.
later, when all is over, i light a candle and watch as the orange glow curls itself in the hollows of my collarbones and try to compose words to turn tragedy into closure. i trace my fingertips over my wrists and choke on my own selfishness -- the words refuse to come.
i don't know those he loved or who will carry his memory -- if he was a sinner or a saint -- but i remember his smile and his laugh.
This Too Shall Passi.
so I whisper my confessions to the secret spaces between my rib bones
and fingers trace my wrists, feather-light, the rosary of scars
I offer prayers for each stark, white line but I know even that cannot take me to heaven
so I beg absolution and utter penitent sighs with unclean lips
no coal will ever touch
you hate in the name of love, wrapping your judgments with white ribbons
and pretend you carry salvation to the world on the back of black stained wings
and the blood of those who fell to the cause
all you leave are red footprints on history's pages and
echoes of the unquiet who refuse the silence of death
reaching, grasping, I pour myself out like water over stones
I cannot hold onto them and you and remain but my eyes refuse to accept the blindness
and I cherish the way the wind whispers the secrets of the world
too much to set fire to the fields
her blue eyes
only to see
how others are all free
she is trapped inside herself
tries, but unable to be freed
she is stuck, she cannot get away
instead she stays unwilling to escape
That I am not myself
I am the faceless waste of my influences
That I obey the media like a god
And society like a saint
That I am one of the crowd
I do what is expected
What is wanted and what is told
Even when I know it is wrong
That I cannot think
I am a walking machine
That has given up freedom and thought
For the sake of a simpler life
That I hate based on color
On sex and religion
Unless it is popular
To say I love instead
That I am a murderer
A thief and a scoundrel
I witnessed the greatest crimes of our time
And stood by in silent admiration
That I hated because they told me to
I killed because I wanted to
And lied because I could
But worse, I let others do the same
That I'd do anything they'd allow
And everything they'd want
That I prefer to hate myself
Then for them to hate me
All this I confess
on clarity, seeing yourself as you arewe're all hypocrites here.
and we're all artists.
we paint ourselves
onto someone else like
it isn't painful for them,
like it isn't killing them
in the process. we give them
ownership of our failures,
we lay our flaws under their
tongues so when they speak,
more often than not, we hear
some distorted version of
ourselves. we expect them
to love the way we love. we expect
them to fight the way we fight. but yeah, we're
all fucking artists, right?
and we're all individuals, of course.
we're all on our brave, one-man
trip to enlightenment,
we're proud of the way
our word has been shaved
down to feelings, and moments,
mood swings, and oxy
off the bathroom sink.
well i can't be the only fucking
one who's tired of being an artist.
i can't be the only one tired
of seeing my skin stretched out over
everyone i know. i am tired of watching
my reflection shimmer and fade in their
smiles, in their wrath. i am tired of becoming
silver in one moment only to tarnish in the
next. i am tired of asking
tocophobia.the world of pregnancy and childbirth
has been boiled down to the white,
neurologically healthy babies
in pink and blue knit caps.
“that one,” says the tearful father.
“she’s beautiful,” says the nurse
while the mother rests.
but why is it
that the default image of motherhood
is a white middle-class couple with a picket fence
and a golden retriever?
let’s postpone that cruise to the caribbean
and make a baby.”
what about the prostitutes
who get pregnant?
what about the girls in africa
who carry their rapist’s babies?
what about the babies left on the firehouse steps?
what about the welfare mothers
because they can’t pay the hospital fees?
who have heroin tracks on their arms
(like stitches that can’t hold them together)
where the patient bracelet is snapped on?
what about the 500,000 american children
waiting to get adopted?
what about miscarriages and women
who can never have kids?
we preach for the
...Speeches cut off before they start,
Hurtful truths that stay in the heart.
Under grins they'll stay
Stored ever away;
Hidden, but they never depart.
The Elevator ManEight hours a day, five days a week, for forty-one years he had pushed those buttons upon command. His place of employment - The Jansson Grande hotel in New York City. It was one of those hotels that had five stars for everything; suites, service, food, entertainment. Quite simply, it was the "best of the best."
But no one ever seemed to pay much attention to the little man who operated the elevator, the main one located just off the lobby. Occasionally he was mocked, derided. No one ever treated him with respect. From the time he was a child he was treated as someone undesirable, someone you would and should avoid. He was always smallish in size, nervous around people and quiet as a mouse. He never looked anyone in the eye, always kept his cast to the ground, even when spoken to.
His daily routine never changed. At exactly six o'clock in the morning he would rise, fix the same breakfast of one poached egg, a slice of t
8 Things I Learned Before I Turned Sixteen1. you are stronger than you think
and when you tell other people this,
do not be offended when they start talking about muscle mass.
they will not understand until they wake up
one day and are disappointed to find themselves
2. reading books about thin people
doesn’t make you thin
just like writing poems about happiness
doesn’t make you happy.
3. make new year’s resolutions. even if you know
they won’t last longer than the shower
you make them in, do it anyways because
you’ll love the idea of the person you were
washing off of you with the dirt.
4. you’re going to fall head over heels
over ankles over fingers in love with a boy.
this does not mean that you have any right
to keep him.
5. someone won’t always be there to tell you,
“hey, good job on getting out of bed today.
good job on going to school and doing your homework.
good job on surviving today.”
but good job anyways.
6. change your hair color. change your s
Know the differenceIf he asked her to bleed she would say
How deep do you want the cut?
That's not love, darling.
Stars Wish on People TooDefine me when you take swigs
the number of your hair.
The unmoving frames
of your Sunday musings
whisper in caps lock;
they want to be forgotten-
they told me,
like I could save you from myself
I’ve always wondered
what it would be like
to play the piano
with my feet on an acoustic run;
the shadow that isn’t friends
with the light like a body part
I’ve always known,
but never quite seen.
I sugarcoat myself
hanging by mere fiction,
a pendulum and a metronome
What are we but allusions
to the people behind us,
ambivalence to the rivers
that never meet the ocean.
It’s frightening how
we’ve been lost for years
but no one’s come to find us.
Dusk it seems
is the lesser of two evils,
midnight is just too mysterious.
dead dog julyI.
the summer heat lays limp in the city’s lap,
breathing long oppressive breaths.
it does not even lift its lolling head
to bark out hoarse indignancy
when a strange man brings the mail.
there might be heavy rain today,
brought by some swollen, murmuring cloud.
the world will whirl and howl,
then settle down,
to die a little more.
o, quickly, love,
press your back against the wall in fear
as the universe spreads her arms and
shuts her eyes
and starts to summon the end of all things.
come with me
to the place of windows full of speechless afternoon
hot windy whispers of half-formed solutions and resolutions,
sweltering sunlit meadows we’ll wander and then forget.
o quickly, love,
let’s to the season of forgetting
and unwind all of our harshest memories
and fill the universe’s mouth
with mute cotton.
i’ll whisper these words to you some evening
with all my exigency in the hand i rest on your arm—
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Endorell-Taelos is very well known within the community for her selfless giving and gracious community spirit. Since joining DeviantART over seven years ago, Alicia has continued to make a positive impact on many deviants. Her helpful and thoughtful approach was one of her finest attributes when serving as a Community Volunteer, and this has continued throughout the many contests which Alicia provides on a regular basis. As we approach our Birthday celebrations, we can't... Read More