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ShuffleWhen the night is black and even Death is asleep,
My mind shuffles like the songs on my phone.
And when the music that reminds me of you
Begins to play,
I place the phone atop my breast,
Above my heart.
Hoping the lyrics, rhythm, harmony and love
Will light its way towards you in the darkness,
I play this song on repeat
That Stupid DressMarcy was wearing that stupid dress again. That one that looked like an elongated, gray button-up t-shirt. Bonnibel Bubblegum was too proper of a princess to state it in open company, but blatantly, she hated that dress. It was too plain, too gray. There weren't any frills, bows, lace or decoration of some sort—no strands of ribbon dyed the rich color of pink. (If there was any pink, it would probably get sucked into gray anyway.) For glob's sake, in living daylight —lack thereof— Bonnibel couldn't even stand being seen next to Marceline while she was wearing that dress.
She hated the little dime-sized white buttons, the little loose seam at her shoulder due to the dress's age. Bonnibel had witnessed the vampire wear the dress sporadically through most of her life —and that was really saying something!— and it had always struck a chord in her.
No pun intended.
She knitted her fine pink brow; the crinkle in her nose formed out of habitual vexation.
And so Marcy, with a whistle on her fo
A Study in PinkGray trails the soft ridge of pink, and Bonnibel's shoulder blade rolls under Marceline's touch. Bonnibel flexes some, stretches a little more, and cuddles herself deeper into the nest of pillows and sheets. The difference in heat is inviting—warm to cool to warm again—and the smaller woman lets out a fragmented sigh. Half of the princess's face is buried in fluff, even her head is turned away, but no doubt Marceline can sense a smile etch across full cherry blossom lips.
Speaking of lips, well… the vampire's mouth begins tracing the fine contour of Bonnibel's lower back. The princess decides she likes the feathery sway of black hair on her skin so much that she permits Marceline's trail of love bites. The little nibbles drag themselves up the pink plane of her body, and Bonnibel shivers from the prickly coolness of fangs. The vampire is at Bonnibel's shoulder now, and there she stops. Crimson eyes gaze down at a small lopsided diameter of discolored skin near the base of the princess'
Breathe into MeShe wrote songs because she hated getting trapped in her mind. It was, to be honest, the suckiest place to be: it was a black, jagged abyss of endless time, smoke, and the scent of burnt rubber. Memories of bombs, fries, the loss of a friend… Ash's punk-ass pawning off Hambo, a broken relationship—she hated thinking about it. It was so easy to tip off into the labyrinth between her pointed ears, and it was always such a damn hassle trying to get out. With a thousand years and counting (not that she was, since counting made it even worse) under her belt, writing was the only thing that kept her sane.
Her bass was the catharsis. Her music was the release.
A metronome tapped with a one-two-three-four interval. Repeat. She bobbed her head, inhaled unnecessary air. She let it flow.
"I'm gonna bury you in the ground…"
She fiddled with a string. Picked at it, slid the calloused pad of her thumb and index finger over G and A. She smirked thoughtfully, and a sharp white fang p
Not that hard to see itHis dark eyes don't ever make contact with mine, but when they do it's brief. We're always in close proximity, but we're never touching; most of the time, he's standing right next to me. We stand so close that it almost feels that we are one in the same, but off center — in a different time zone, different country even. Different in skin and blood and muscles and atoms. Yet, there is this unspoken mindset of contentment of some odd alignment of planets that keeps us the same.
His laugh is soft but his voice is softer. Like the gentle flutter of a lone petal in the wind, his eyelashes dance upon his cheeks. He is forever in a perpetual smile, harbored by some unknown —maybe even nonexistent— inside joke. His hands are strong, but small gestures like handshaking and poking and shoving don't appeal all that much. It's kind of nice, refreshing. His walking is limber and without a care in the world. He twirls on his heels.
When he runs, there's that smile tucked under a silent determination
drymy hands are dry
like my humor
like my eyes
like my smile
like my throat
do they have lotion for the soul?
The Promised Land ch2 - A Canaan Fanfic
Maria Osawa gleefully hopped up and down in the blackness of her studio's darkroom. The film strips of her last photo shoot escapade developed exceptionally well; upon walking down a peculiar alley one evening during a random stroll around downtown Tokyo, she found a remarkable sight unseen by the public eye. Walls and walls of Tokyo's underground graffiti artists' creative contributions to society were sprayed across the hidden cinderblock canvases of this alley, and it surprised Maria how far a little exploration sent her to such a promising sight. Breathless images of pain, strife, happiness and hope were evident in the graffiti, and it was so overwhelming with complete amazingness that Maria couldn't help but snap a few shots. A few turned into a lot, and a lot turned into three whole rolls of film. Any pragmatic person - especially certain women such as herself - would probably have never entered such an alley, but Maria Osawa was inevitably a curious Maria Os
The Promised Land ch1 - A Canaan Fanfic
Canaan's head tilted inquisitively.
With slight awe, she gazed curiously at the black and white face tenaciously embodying her very own. Everything about this one photo represented something - either some form of emotion or subtle trace of metaphor, both in which she hadn't thought about for some long time. A nostalgic veil covered every stringy tendril of light hair, soft eyes, and those carefree pale clouds behind her back. If being in Japan wasn't enough of a foreign stimulant to her small sense of worldly cultures, that one look alone reflected in the photograph brought her back to that same day one year, thirty-three days, and fourteen-or-so hours ago. She made note to keep track of time. She would never forget, nor did she ever want to.
The very look in her own eyes broke contact as she gazed at the dark-haired woman in the photograph next to her own. They were hard eyes, void of emotion yet so full of emotion it almost spilled out of the brim.
Haphazard DestructionThere it lay, fixed in future time,
There is no law -
All children are ruthless swine,
Growing into ruthless beasts of man.
Here there is no faith.
A rapped-out message in hybrid jargon,
Words floating out numbly around the face.
You are not only dead -
You are abolished.
Pain precedes death as surely as 99 precedes 100.
She seemed to pronounce the words as though they were italics:
I love you.
Inevitable heartbeats, void of anything...
"I'm good at staying alive."
BeautyI'd rather wear flowers in my hair,
forming a delicate chain
Than diamonds around my neck,
covering my tender blue veins
For with every precious petal
and every lucent leaf
I'm a living lesson
teaching beauty can not be bought
But rather it grows and flourishes
with every living thought
Expensive LiesI sit and stare at the toilet bowl.
A guy I know is bulimic.
When we compliment him
I see the twist of agony in his eyes
as his brain reprograms it
to sound like an expensive lie
that costs him another tear
in his tattered dignity.
Friends hurry to him,
to reassure him, to love him.
They tell him how beautiful he is.
We didn't know him before,
but he's definitely not fat now.
We whisper things in concern like;
body dysmorphic disorder.
'I know you'll never believe me
but you are so gorgeous -
not just on the inside.' Not just.
And they're right, I join in,
because they are right to say it
because it happens to be true -
he is stunning. Not just on the outside.
And we want him to see himself
the way we see him, beautiful.
And I join in because
I've felt that strangle of pain
in my stomach, bowels and belly,
when someone used to tell me lies.
So I know how he feels.
Only, he is beautiful on the outside
and I'm not.
He's not seeing reality in the mirror
and I am.
And people rush to correc
Fearing MeI'm not afraid to cry
and I do it
a lot more than you would guess.
It isn't always sadness,
I just feel like I need to,
feel everything so strongly
that it's the only way
to let go for a moment
because if I hold on for too long,
if my grip gets too tight
I'll break myself,
I will break you like glass
and we will both
I am a good guy
who hasn't yet found a way
to show it,
I am a good guy
who still identifies with the villains,
hides everything important
anything to throw you
off of my trail....
and I don't know why,
but I am trying.
Maybe I think
that if you could see me,
the real me,
you wouldn't want to look anymore,
want to be anywhere near me,
and the idea
that I can't add up
to be enough for you,
to be enough for me,
is so fucking heart breaking
I can hardly fathom it.
I can't say that it doesn't hurt
because it does,
it hurts a whole hell of a lot,
I've come to depend on pain,
to befriend misery
you're just a question marki met you so long ago
but back then our bodies were made of metal
and nowadays they’re made of the blades of
grass and dirt settling
underneath my fingernails.
my fingers are having a hard time
reaching the keys and
my organs are shaking mostly because i haven’t
eaten in two days but also
because i’m worried about the things you're doing to yourself.
we didn’t meet very long ago at all but it feels like forever ago
and you say you don’t know me
that you don’t know anyone
but baby you're turning into a skeleton and i’m peeling back my skin
to try and reach my bones, just like you.
i hope you're happy,
i’m covering the hard wood floors now
the bits and pieces splattered.
they are calling it a suicide but i’m calling it
a way to see my brain and
just how dark it has become, and honestly
i don’t want you to try and see about your’s.
i’m mourning the loss of my heart and wish you weren’t either -
Black hole BulimicThe Composition:
I birth poems — not amaranths
in graveyards — not gardens.
sows seeds of doubt
into skeleton weeds.
A farmer plucks the bones
from Apollo's hyacinth; his
I binge on broken
cracked collectors of rocks,
of pebbles kidnapped
from barren beaches:
where crooked kings
buried in books whose
pages creak to crickets
in an abandoned abyss
of an attic—caskets on
an antiquated shelf. I
choke on the dust and
twitch in recoil.
The bickering sky
A cloud coughs—
The clock's scythe hand
swivels to the beckoning
twelve. Spastic ticking—
each bleak stroke
of a midnight heart.
The sundials do not work
now. The vampires know
I kill poems—
obligation steam machineas always
grinding the cankerous
of your cognition
until the lack of compassion
leaves you unlubricated
seized frozen bound stuck
only then the machine of
your fears will burst to steam
squealing to suckle
at the genius of my
the unsung soiled hero
of middle-class ferocity
savior of the undeserving
winding slowly deftly dying
martyr to the self-justified cause
A Kiss not Forgotten (a special tribute)Like a frost spread across valleys silent and dreary,
ever my longing lost in shimmers of shadow & wind
And days bled into years, the seas became deserts
But thoughts of thee would not perish
Thru memories untamed I staggered far and long;
upon solemn nights lit by the torch of your soul
O’ how deep I miss your fragrant cheer ..
Of warm evenings shared across Lake’s reverie,
watching horizons journey into Autumn’s dream
— wherest our hearts once bloomed a fabled sky
Those passions shared will forsake me not
Lest the Moon would bestow solace upon my ache:
I will lay marooned, haunted by thy seraphic-figure,
Or the ever fleeting caress of your gaze ...
So my soul shall yield to this mythic abyss; –
as I peer from my carriage to Nirvana
And thou away, from my arms, the Sun weeps
Unto eternity—my dear beloved, we are entwined
Forever our footprints cast in golden firmament
A kiss not forgotten in a ballet of light softly falling
I now bear the want
as love for summer fades.late morning-
there's the tease of
snow in the clouds,
in the air, and the trees
have finally lost their
the sunlight is damp.
alters the room
as it graces my skin,
and for once
i don't wake up right away.
instead i lay
between my memory bitten
sheets, and i think
about all the times he said
that he hated winter.
i don't remember
when i began to love it,
and i don't care.
nothing can shatter that.
things i cannot doi cannot sleep
and most certainly stay asleep-
with the black edged creatures
trembling at the corners
to trap me in tendrils of nightmare,
i shift too emptily for peace.
i cannot brave an appointment
i need hands to hold
this broken ship
caught in the waves with no crests.
i forget about the things i love,
but things i hate include
how i am haunted everyday
how i cannot seem
to call him by name
or directly address him-
there is no "you"
in my words,
only fear and flashbacks.
i cannot leave an unfinished crossword out of my thoughts
just like a relationship that had tapered off;
i cannot let go of things that have melted into my grip;
i cannot break a heart
Keep in Touch!
^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