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The Memory of a Dead Man Walking
Suchlike the will of brimstone beasts,
Is the will of a dead man walking,
In each step is left the prints of carelessness.
Holding the half empty glass with a crack in the side,
stumbling around the dunes in the long wait to become
a savage before the credits roll.
A happy ending was for another tale for another man way
off back in the mirage of the desert that harbors those
dunes as he lies six feet under with a smile by rigor
mortis and a silent song in the beatless heart, there
beneath a tombstone that read,
here lies a memory.
Come Hell or high Heaven, the dead man walking
walks on without a goal or care for the world,
a bottle of dried up whiskey hanging loosely
in hand, gathering sand from the winds of that
coming storm. Illusive would have been his
laughter to sober eyes in that wasteland.
The Memory looks on as a shade beyond the grave,
staring straight at a man of woe, watching those
apathetic trails disappear. The glass fell into
the bosom of those lands beyond greener pastur
Just One More Time
Those chains, how their cheers can resonate
in wake and dream alike. My shoulders are
strained in time without a proper word.
How bound I am from the starting line of my
own naivety to my lack of bliss in
the lack of ignorance?
I am no longer blind, but climbing my
Jacob's ladder upwards from shame
where chains pull me back
In that foolish past, I was never aware
of these bloody chains that before me countless
others have worn in varied forms and guidance.
Stable ground that welcomes my feet is
above my head, just out of reach as the
seconds take my few grains of sand.
Those chains labor me, like massive serpents
of unholy iron that constrict with
all my struggling.
Take my heart and hands, for alone
I will only fall with the inevitable
results of time and temptation.
The Devil on Your Shoulder
Wrapped like a gift in sheets, playing the role
of cold turkey while sweat shakes down the flesh.
Frozen in time, forced to see life flash before
the gaping eyes as though a Pale Horse had
come alone in jest and spite.
The rapid blinks that pan the camera angles for
unsettling cinematography make for a trip to an
avant-garde Hades for the audience of one.
Those damned subliminal messages hidden
in merciless metaphors.
Demons behind the curtains, sending in paper
airplanes with scribbled teasing and temptation,
awaiting their gift to open itself and become
a savory meal that would only blend with
the memories of what once was.
A husk once called man will sit, quivering alone
in the room of his own induced Hell, while those
demons cackle and drool from every angle as the
hallucinatory short films escalate into
the award-winning nightmares.
They call for him to come out and play,
with voices like friends and tones like killers.
Strength wraps the blanket tighter, absorbing
the sweat of th
Serenaded are the vultures past the
silence of calm demeanor,
where only leaves fall in a quiet Autumn.
The gusts of haunted winds run through a
chilled air that even ghosts choose to
evade in the darkest hours.
No Sunlight had touched the soils below
in any matter of time,
though it had given first light to growth.
Though that canopy cannot keep away the
howls and screams of undead scavengers
which only muffled the sounds of better
birds who sang for the sun.
Third eyes were stitched shut and feet
were bound by illusive chains. How little
the closed treasure chest could ever hold,
where when opened it would have overflowed,
blotting out the haunted sounds and using
the limited light within darkness.
The vultures search only to find with eyeless
sockets, the lively canopy of those growing woods.
Time and all of space could never have grazed those
soils, however wet or dry. Whatever was let in was
by the canopy that guards and shelters.
There were paths in those woods, where many feet h
The Oldest Trick in the Book
The recurring theme of malinger and tomfoolery
pushes an envelope packed with counterfeit
bills across a desk made by the hands of hungry children.
So blatant a sin as to lie to a land of suspecting
psyches is that of a rape to every thought crossing
the pathways of synapses and morality.
The clueless neckties were never clueless,
as free will is the truest catalyst to the monsters
beneath the skin of miracles, like cannon fire in an orphanage.
Deception is a talent practiced while mastered by Hell,
and surely the envelope holds origins from places of evil?
Bills, from mangled trees, grow into newer roots of evil.
Rot can be proven and believed in any walk of life
in and across the world. A thing like evil is illusive
but worth the hunt. Thus end this cycle before it expands.
It is old and respected only by the evil and the ignorant,
the breeds who are related in sin. Let never a single demon win,
and take only the challenges that ring bells in Heaven.
The Fate in Miracles
Do her eyes love what they see?
Do they dilate and tear up with the loving devotion?
If they could, the makeup would run and
she would care little as she ran faster, towards him.
No pace is fast enough for her racing heart
that beats a million strong to bombard the soul.
How she has missed the arms that wrap her like
a present, that sport the hands that wipe the tears.
Not an eternity would suffice for her hearts
desire that only matches his for the woman he embraces.
He stops only to unwrap a gift from God and
kiss the lips that Heaven gave perfection to.
His eyes were tired, mixed with her tears,
while sparks of life came in every breath of relief.
Miraculous was a name for this reunion that was
to outweigh every obstacle of the Hell gone through.
There was no question now that God did in fact
smile from a throne, upon Heavenly joy.
A devil on the shoulder had lost its voice and
become only a whisper in the presence of an angel.
A heart beats and I am back where I belong,
In the arms of a woman whose soul never
left that broken heart.
My breathing, no longer labored, is the deep
breath of a relieved man once in mourning,
brought peace by resurrection.
Glory, oh glory to our God above who conducted
the miracle that is shared in warm
embrace and elation.
The scent of better days has risen to my nose
with every breath and the day becomes
brighter when my eyes are open.
They are open to the works of my God,
this miracle of a love that binds us in freedom
for a great story in the making.
Never again, will be the words I say to a brutal
past while smiling...for a heart beats and
I am back where I belong.
A Poem for Deaf Ears
Victor oh Victor! Was a lesson not learned of any cautionary tale? You are an ape within your own ego. Curious George with a lab coat and a pompous tone creating what you have yet to call God as the script is written by your hands, covered in made up fantasies and shaking with pride. The lessons you know are self taught, as while building an empire hardly different from any of the past. You have built with your hands, a legacy that could be founded by any Curious George in a lab coat, my dear Victor. The monster that you have created, oh my dear Victor. Such potential, cast aside for all that makes it a growing monster. It is beautiful within and misunderstood, even by you, on its exterior. You know it best of us all, yet you are still caught in your world, where everything you claim to know, is unexplainable and by chance. The Monster has changed only so much with time, becoming trained and nothing more.
To those with plugged ears and eyes sewn shut, yours is in fact a religion. Nothi
To Those Who Take The First Step
A lesson in anguish in line of this
our cautionary tale and present process.
The eyes stare back like wet stones
at empty fields covered over with fog.
What Hell has been gone through to
Now see some patch of light beyond
Clouds and a few rolling slopes left,
To see now and to feel hesitation.
Ominous, is that fog, full of life
Without so much as a pulse
As floats like a lesser cloud over
These fields meant for running feet.
Thunder applauds from just
over the shoulder, as Hell awaits.
Turn around and see us, they cheer.
The voices take all tones in memory.
The carcass of a tree stems upward
Reaching like inverted roots in search
Of soils and waters to be reborn
There in a land of mistrust and confusion.
The bliss that radiates from that patch
Beamed down from Heaven,
Awaiting a tired soul in this cautionary tale
To equip deaf ears to Hell over the shoulder.
The eyes stare on, lacking in faith
They doubt themselves as messengers,
For known are the illusions wrought
by the past, unto th
a note from an angry feministdon't you think it's strange
(and with strange
i mean complete and utter bullshit)
that some ladies don't have the obvious right
to their own bodies
that hundreds of thousands acts of rape happen every year
and you can bet your ass
that it's the one fake accusation that makes it into the papers
that in media
seventy six percent of main characters are dudes
that women still have to fight
for the same wage
for the same god damn job
that breasts are threatening
if it's not in a sexual situation
that fragile societal structures
make less than ten percent of world population
that the gender binary
is actually a thing
that people will roll their eyes when you-
"feminism isn't needed anyway"
Digital synth pop makes you smile
Neon dreams color your eyes
And your room dances with fireflies
I want to hold your polyphonic skin
And drink the angels of your electric virility in
Beneath the black light's ice fire glow
As the beats and the rhythms swell and grow
And 3.14 here comes the music I never heard before
Echoing through your pulsing muscles
Pulsing through your rushing veins
Rushing through the guitar's strings
Right down to the electronicore
I want to hold your polyphonic skin
So we can feel the world's shaking vibrations and spin
I want the heart of the music that lies between the calm and the restless
And the soul of the music in the times that leave us breathless
The creme de la creme of auditory expressions
All Quiet?Who weighed up the price
who built satanic engines to deploy in total war
who ordaining the sacrifice
conscripting legions, reducing youth to gore?
How many would-be fathers died before
love had discovered them, paying a price
in shattered gut and sinew. Who was there to deplore
this evil squandering, this ultimate vice?
Who declared the victory, but death
who triumphed across hamlets, cities, towns,
who left fields and pastures lifeless, bereft
without the hope of harvest, while winter frowns
While whole populations die
too weak to resist the cruel disease
that raged irresistible, to belie
the empty promise men called peace.
OptimismI don't want to hear another rant,
Another sentence which involves the word can't.
All I ever hear is the moaning of the masses
Combined with the tossing of blame in the switching of classes.
What happened to joy and creativity
Which flooded the halls in Elementary?
We've gone from wonder to nihilism
Mixed in with sarcasm and narcissism.
I just want to lay back and talk about fun,
Maybe toss back and forth a pun.
But all I ever get to hear,
Is a scream of self-pity in my ear.
Maybe you could have it worse,
It's not like you've been locked into a voodoo curse.
So stop saying "Woe is me!"
And start being a little more gutsy.
Because the only way things are going to be ok,
Is if you go out and find that way.
The one that leads to a future and your posterity.
And you won't get there by going through your life covered in self-pity.
RainHave you ever felt the mud
Between your toes?
And sat there watching the bud
Fresh as it grows.
And thought "I am just carbon,
Dying with each breath.
My blood it is a dragon
Burning with that death."
Music cannot be just sound,
Neither can my laugh.
There's blood running through the ground.
I cannot do math.
Giving up, look at the sky,
Letting the grass grow,
Knowing you will not find why,
Decide to let go.
Cookie-CutterStaring into the mirror
Hair brushed and twisted elegantly
Lips coated with shimmery gloss
Eyelashes flared boldly
Cheeks artificially tinted pink
Eyes lined with purple-
Staring into the cracked mirror
Hair dull and matted from sleep
Lips chipped and chewed raw
Eyelashes limp from forgotten tears
Cheeks naturally discolored
Eyes shadowed by nightmares-
Bodies Are Not ToysLather on the makeup
and flaunt that new dress and skirt-
your body's such a toy-
but it's not when you're a boy-
AmericanI’m a firework on the 4th of July,
I’m a crack in a bell
I’m a 4-wheeler in the mud
I’m an apple pie
I’m a Friday night football game at a small high school
I’m a Coca-Cola and a giant burp, excused with a “Sorry” and a blush
I’m a cowboy in a 10-gallon hat
I’m Thomas Jefferson, Ben Franklin, and John Hancock
I’m a businessman on the top floor of the World Trade Center
I’m a child playing with a Barbie doll
I’m a striped flag flapping in the breeze
I’m an ambassador
I’m a hamburger with extra ketchup
I’m a teenager with angst and high texting charges
I’m a soldier on the field
I’m a song
I’m a prayer
I’m a love
I’m an American.
Men's SocietyNo one likes an intelligent girl
because women are meant
to be seen
and not heard-
we stifle them with insults,
battery, and rape-
thinking their innocence
is ours to take-
and it is our job
to not care
and to not weep
for fear we become
one of them
and endure the same treatment
by our own brethren-
is the cruelty of society
Have you looked into the shattered mirror,
to find the subject of your exasperation?
Accursed hypocrites of the heathen reign,
"Make them suffer for the sins of their ancestors!"
What know you of history's bloody course?
Not a thing, not a damn thing.
Look in the mirror of this worlds memory,
let the record show that which is yours,
the folly, the choking arguments.
Evidence is all you have,
just and yet, the other term, of faith...
Yet again and again,
abased, abashed, by my shear hatred for you all,
Of what do you know in regards to faith?
Not a thing, not a damn thing.
You walk hand in hand with
the blind, deaf & dumb
whose names are covered over with genius.
Ignorance is fear, the blood that flows,
will bleed out to write your part of history...
yet what of history do you truly know,
repeated by basic word of mouth...?
Not a thing...
Keep in Touch!
Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More