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The Places You Found LoveEveryone, but you especially as a woman, is biologically programmed to find babies cute. It's an evolutionary imperative, because the rational thing to do when you've got a screaming, shitting dependant taking up your food, is to kill it, and we need something to stop us doing that. It's also why people are generally attracted to big eyes and smooth skin - because they're characteristics of children.
And I'm not saying this to detract from the beauty of parenthood, or to make you sad, I'm saying it to point out that this fact doesn't make a baby's laugh any less wonderful. And I don't think the source of anything can make it less so.
This is why I can point out that any form of love isn't God or fate or destiny, it's that if two people have a strong emotional attachment, their children are more likely to survive.
Atomic bombs are beautiful.
So I will say that the me I am now, will and always has been feeling what I feel, but that sentence doesn't even make sense until we consider that
The Reasons We DieWhat I meant to say was that sometimes I just stare at the cigarette in my hands and beg for it to stop messing around and just kill me already.
But I figured you don't want to hear that.
The Shifting Nature of RealityYou asked me, "In these dreams, what does it look like?" I told you it looks different every time. Sometimes it's like a million feathers falling, sometimes it's like snow, sometimes it's like little stones, sometimes like ash, sometimes like a fine sand blowing across the hills. It's always silent. It falls around me but it never touches me. It never sticks. I told you sometimes I see dim figures walking in the distance through all the falling white. I told you I wish one would turn around and come to me. I wish one had your face. I wish the pink of your cheeks and blue of your eyes would appear to me unveiled from out of the drift. But the sad small figures don't turn around. They walk on, shoulders low, and disappear. I just watch them. You said, "I'm here now," and touched my hand. "I'm here now."
The Time Gone ByTick tock. All day. Every day is tick tocking by. There is no clock in your office that ticks or tocks, but you can hear the tick tock in your head. Tick. That's another second of your life gone, you think. Tock. That's one more second waiting for the man to tell you what to do. Tick. I'm a thinker, you think. Tock. Time to be a doer. Tick. You walk into your boss' office. Tock. I quit.
The clock stops.
The NuancePlay it one more time please, I need to hear it again. I need to make sure that its the only sound in my head. Play it again for me, I want to hear it once more. I want to make sure the only sound is correct. I don't want to hear that stare again. I don't want to see those words. I'll play the part again, I need to play it again. I need to make sure that every note is right. Give me a second to rehearse that part once more, I haven't been playing it right this entire time. I know it might sound right to you, but it doesn't sound right to me. I can't hear those words anymore. I never want to see that stare again. I have to keep playing. I never want to hear that again.
The Silence Goes On For YearsIn case of emergency, break glass. Throw plates. Cave to the insecurities you've harbored all along. Scream. Curse. Panic. Accuse her of never loving you, even though you know she did and still does. Tell her you never loved her. Tell yourself. Feel the world crumbling around you. Rip the rest of it down. Ignore her pleas. Her tears. Your regrets. Watch yourself leave, unable to stop your own feet. Slam the door. Keep walking. Realize, too late, that you didn't mean it.
The Art of Finding FlawsMaybe that's all it means, to grow up; to watch your heroes become human, right before your eyes.
the Millennia LaterDesolation has its own stark beauty. It's in the limbs of dead trees twisting up, pleading at the grey sky. It's in the air, cold with a faint hint of smoke and the barest breeze that stirs up the dust at your feet. The white-grey ash falls like snowflakes, dusting your hair, your coat, your mask. You catch one of the flakes and it crumbles between your gloved fingers. The ground is packed as hard as concrete under your boots as you turn your back on this cold, still world. You look up; the moon is barely visible. You will carry that memory with you as you go back underground. Mankind no longer has use for the stars.
Wrong side of the mirrorI can see a woman, watching me through the glass. She is young, in her early twenties, with a haunted look about her. There is nothing especially spectacular about her, but something something quietly remarkable draws you in; captures your attention; fixes you to the spot.
Her eyes are a slate grey, intense and piercing; a dark energy smouldering in their depths. You notice that they glow a deep blue, like the ocean, when caught by the morning light, sometimes even the shade of a pale winter sky. A subtle ring of gold accents the border between her pupils and irises, which hold a faint sparkle of mischief against their black voids.
A shock of tight, red curls, messy yet somehow precise, frames her face. The sides of her hairstyle are trimmed short, not quite a mohawk; showing her natural gold-tinted brown. You could almost imagine her as one of the blond, adorable, cherub children, if not for the shadows of experience marking her features.
Beautiful is not a word that suits her, and de
When Home Becomes a Prison (Strength)When your pillow is no longer the fresh place to lay your emaciated spirit
But is now the chain on the ball that is your bed.
When a door is no longer the entrance to a retreat from the world
But a metaphorical lock keeping you ensconced, never stepping foot out into it.
When windows suddenly become looking glasses that never break,
Just heckle you with what you're missing in their transparent prisons.
A token of what you used to be in the faces of the people walking passed.
The people who pay no note to you;
Who have no inclination of what they are; the symbols of your long-ago life.
The sharp splinters of nostalgia that just glimpsing upon their face sends into your heart.
Every time they walk their dog,
You grimace because you cannot walk long enough to do the same for yours.
Constant reminders in everything everyone does in everywhere you go
of the things you are losing without control.
You clutch and grasp while slipping into sliding as you clasp onto what is left o
Dear JamesI placed a candle on the water for you today. It flickered and floated and gathered with candles of other losses; fathers, friends – whoever. It was as hard as letting you go; if that candle drifted away from me then would I lose you again? When they scooped the candle from the water and your flame went out who would remember that I honoured you? So I took your candle from the water and placed it into my bag. Not because I can’t let you go but because I want to remember. I will light that candle to remember you on special days.
James darling, I missed you more today than any other. I know I will miss you more again at Christmas, on your birthday and on the day you died. You are an angel but you are still with me – in the heart covered by the tattoo of your name. The ink came from within, seeping up through my skin and not down.
I am grateful for the two sonograms I have of you, yet part of me yearns to know what your face would have looked like. Would you have his thi
SaturdaysBrought into this world on a rainy Saturday morning
No memories of the years that follow
Until the pain
Eyes of a beast
Tears of a child
Walls subconsciously building to keep the child safe
But are the walls for safety or containment
Blood and bone breaking
Screaming into the night
Anatomy of a Writer.All them writers, poets, and composers. They all have a curse.
Their memory and their time, their love and their pride. They all live in another world.
They will forget about the keys inside a house or even lose their soul there. They will forget about what you said yesterday, about those late night news that everyone was talking about. They will forget why they are alive. They will forget why they though there was so much pain yesterday. They will forget about themselves, sometimes. They will cry for no reason. But some of them are already so dry they wont shed a tear for nothing at all. Some of them won't let you read them. Some of them won't let you write them.
Writers will remember you, though. And if they love you, They will love you forever.
They will immortalize you inside of a beautiful hand made mess, made out of words.
They will create a goddess out of you, as the letters unite, time after time. They will carry you wherever they go, even if you are miles away.
Hidden Language"Is he ok?"
Is he alive?
"Is he alright?"
Is he breathing?
"Is he sleeping?"
Is he dead...?
DreamsDreams are merely dreams...but sometimes they reflect your deepest desires, don't they?
He stole my breath away.
He was a stunning being, a mix of a man that I could not easily describe to you. With ebony-black hair and stormy gray eyes, he captured my heart in an instant. At times he would tower over me, lovingly, his presence nearing mine, and I could feel the warmth from his body.
"Sometimes I wish I could just steal a smile from you," he murmured easily. "Write you a love poem. Give you roses. I want to love you like love from the past."
I blinked, and smiled slightly back at his beautiful face. "Why the past?"
He shrugged, then he stared at me defiantly, with the Mexican pride I knew so well. "Love from even a generation ago, it was different. An innocent love, a subtle, tender thing that was cultured from a simple fire. And it grew into a tremendous passion, showing a respect of sorts. I want to show you that I love you, not just tell you. I want to appreciate you, respect you
Lonely ChristmasThe clock ticked
It mocked me
As I sat there
For them to come
For you to come
But how can you?
You've passed away
But I still wait
On this silent Christmas day
Stay or Leave?"Don't get mad. I don't like it."
"Don't cry. I don't like it."
"Don't be sad. I don't like it."
"Don't smile. I don't like it."
"Don't laugh. I don't like it"
"Don't be you. I don't like it"
Then what am I supposed to do?
Then who am I?
You're saying you don't like me.
But you stay with me.
To change me into someone else
So that I don't exist anymore
I'm tired of it
I'm tired of changing
But I don't stop
I'm able to but I don't
Because you are the only one left
If you're gone,
I'll be left behind
All over again
But if you stay
I won't exist
But it wouldn't matter anyways.
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More