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Speechless.I can no longer abide the racing pulse, shaking hands, nor the standoffish demeanor or downright cowardice of flinching when someone stands too close, or demands my attention.
I open my mouth, and the fear closes it.
Fragmented and disarrayed sentiments no longer spill from within without heeding the warnings behind their driving thoughts.
“Who do you think you are?” I ask myself.
I am reminded by my fearful echoes of thought that, no, I am not of any importance, nor are my sentiments or intentions. I am reminded of how pathetic and feeble my voice sounds.
“You’re really quiet, aren’t you?” Someone asked me today.
I want to say something, speak up! Instead, I shrug as if it means nothing, that going unheard isn’t the bane of my college experience. It’s simply the way of things, and that I’ve come to accept wallowing in its sheer mediocrity.
I want to make words that aren’t incoherent stammers. I want to voice thoughts that hav
Listening to Reason.This fickle heart knows allegiance to the depraved and mutinous,
wavering upon stillness and thriving in its animosity.
It halts, pauses and skips, with reckless abandon, leaving only uncertainty where it may fall.
A few have warned me of poison.
Stubborn and unpredictable as my own bloodstream, I have never listened.
Unwilling to drown for what feels like the thousandth time, logic clamors above the ringing in my pulse.
I am listening now.
Talk about the thing you are most proud of.Saturday, March 3rd, 2007.
You know how they say it’s good luck when it rains on your wedding day? Well, maybe, just maybe... something great will come from today. I was hopeful, even though the sky looked dismal, and I knew the rain would start any minute.
I took a moment to collect myself before getting out of bed. One minute turned into five, and then I realized I was just stalling for time.
Damn was I nervous.
“Carrie! You do still want to audition for ECA, right?! Come on, do you have any idea how hard it is to find a parking spot in New Haven?” my mom called.
I dressed in something vaguely impressive, (I never did own too many fancy clothes) and sprinted downstairs.
I picked up my Wicked score from off of my piano, as I’d been practicing “As Long as You’re Mine” for months now. This was it.
My dad thankfully found a parking spot, and my mom was talking about Grandpa. Apparently today had marked 15 years since he had passed.
Grasping at Straws.I dive into the the pit, headfirst.
To find... wait? What did I come here for?
Nothing here but blank pages.
I’ve come up empty again.
My breath almost tastes like--- Huh? I ... I forget.
TiradeI feel like a tirade.
Feverish words in all the wrong and empty spaces, filling the breathless air with animosity.
It’s been winter for far too long.
The daylight hours far too short.
The rampaging night, ravaging my somnolence.
I am colder than the deepest fathoms of... anything.
The sky, the sea, the soul, winters snapping jaws.
I am angry and alone, the force behind my words falling like a blizzard; frozen, aggravating, useless and in a while, melted and gone.
Forgotten, save for the chill it leaves in the rotting chambers of hearts growing old.
So, please, someone, anyone, tell me...
When will the world turn back to the sun?
When will the days outlive the darkness?
When will my words hold water and worth?
I am loathe to go unheard,
I don’t want to embody a blizzard.
I don't want to be a tirade.
Remorse.I was isolating again, sitting with my back against the wall, in a familiar room, separated from the musicians by a hallway filled with vending machines and painters that had come downstairs from the visual art department.
I was letting myself submerge into the spaces of my mind that generally remained unoccupied... save for a few terrible memories.
What had made them surface today? I don’t remember....
The door opened in on my solitude.
It did not shout or bang or interrupt any train of my thoughts... it blended well with my silence. It was gentle.
A stream of brilliant blonde light stood in the doorway, her hand outstretched to me.
She drove the darkness away, smiling softly. She whispered, “Come on... it’s time to go.”
I didn’t even think to hesitate. I took her hand and she led me back to class, past the vending machines, and paintings.
Upon seeing the slate grey door to Room 113, I paused, warily. She turned to look at me, her green eyes filled with c
Silence is...A tornado tears open the sky in my dreams
and still I am silent.
The tendons in my heart are snapping, splintering, and shattering
I am screaming, but in silence.
The pain threatens to throw me over the threshold of sanity, the tumult growing ever more tiresome to bear
I suffer in silence.
“How are you?” I am asked quite a few times a day.
Behind a screen
“Fine, how are you?” I type back.
Oh, how I wish to be held, to be stroked like a puppy, and let the anguished tears flow, safe in the arms of a friend.
To not be stifled by my own expectations.
Not a soul can help, why bother worrying them?
So I remain silent.
Loud, Lost, LonelyMy parents shout more
than the summer cicadas
Just get a divorce
I am without dreams
Why can’t I shift anymore?
Is my wolf soul dead?
It is funny how
The word “pain” rhymes with “Maine”, no?
I really miss you
UntitledI hear a sonata in my head
I hear a canon, far off key
The days of ECA are dead
And what, dear God, will happen to me?
I sat down at my piano today
With a tune we once all knew
I sat down to find, I just couldn’t play
and that I meant nothing to you.
I’ll make a reference if I might,
I wish we were Candor, unable to lie
Or Amity the peaceful, unable to fight.
Dauntless the brave, always able to try.
My fatal flaw is loyalty,
while yours is deadly pride
You see yourself as royalty,
and I am cast aside.
“You gave me hope and took it away”
Eleven once had said.
Now something like that, surely, you’d say
Is enough to mess with your head.
“Pathetic” is the word she chose
to describe my failing song
“How could you forget all those?
Those notes you’re hitting wrong?”
I miss each Monday, each 12:15
I miss each 1 o clock
I miss the German we used to sing
and how we used to talk.
I study the culture of those who can’t hear,
Theme Prompt - SoliloquyI was thinking about my poetry and some of the stories I’ve written and I realized something interesting. When I write, I bare a small piece of my soul and am usually speaking to someone in particular. At least when it comes to the poems that resonate the most with me when I re-read them. There are a few that I just have no feeling for at all and, if I didn’t know I wrote it, I wouldn’t attribute to myself.
I’ve written poetry to my father, my aunt, my grandmother, my ex, and my friends. Some with good intentions and feelings and some not so good. I’ve written alternately hopeful and sad, longing poems to a nebulous person that I hope to meet in the future. I’ve worked through my emotions for everyone and showed how I truly felt about them all. The gratitude and love for my friends, the sorrow and love for my family, and the love and, subsequently, anger and regret for my ex. Yet I’ve never really tried to work through my own feelings towards m
Once NecessaryFrom a young age, she always looked the same. A tangled mass of blonde, hazel eyes glued to the print of a story. She was once asked why she was always reading and the answer was simple. Print was easier then People.
She learned in a hard way to hide her legs. Dead and dried skin cracked it's way along her calves and shins, stopping at her dried knees, only to turn into Braille on her thighs. Jeans turned into necessity and the skirts and dresses she loved were pushed to the side and she forgot that she even liked them.
The calming effect of reading was negated by a series of horrible math teachers, all speaking in a flurry of a language that she had chosen to take but could never learn how to say. Her grades plummeted and she left the class, only to become the person kids stared at in the halls.
Her mind grew fast, her body grew slow. Bigger books, longer novels. She watched as the people around her showed their colors and she was afraid. Afraid of what they would say and what would h
Grandpa Dad’s cell phone rang, breaking the peaceful silence. Nobody moved; we waited it out. Grogginess held us all in her loving claws. The voicemail ring sounded, and the room lapsed back into silence for a whole five minutes. Voicemail rang again, annoying me.
Who just calls at 6 a.m. anyway?
Slight fear stirred inside of me, but I quelled it. It wasn’t possible. We were safe and sound in a hotel room in Ohio, save for my little sister’s stomach and Mom’s intestines. Dad dubbed it “screaming diarrhea” because Mom screamed when she sat on the toilet. It made for a very long trip back from visiting family in West Virginia for spring break, but they were all safe and secure as we were, maybe even more so. Grandpa was doing much better, and at 94 with pneumonia, he had spent the first half of our week-visit in the hospital an hour away. He talked to us the night before, and was awake and eating breakfast when we left
T15 Empty SpacesI lived and worked in Vietnam for an amputated year.
Before leaving for Vietnam I burned all bridges, spent a month in the north country and the day before leaving cut my hair. I arrived in Ho Chi Minh City/Saigon with a half a hundred dollars in my pocket, a bag of clothes and no interest in looking back.
A year later I left as a stranger to myself, returned to my life and mostly stitched myself back together.
I worked six days a week at a school in the center of town on the side of what for cars would be a six lane road, but for motorcycles was more of an 18 lane highway. I slept in a house tucked away in a district on the edge of the city.
I lived on my motorcycle. Everyone in Ho Chi Minh City does.
Sunday mornings school started early. I took to starting even earlier.
I’d ride my motorcycle over the stinking rivers and through the traffic to get to the park across from the school. Every Sunday, I walked the park. I walked slowly, looked at the trees and let the city disappear
himera..cand greutatea intunericului.
imi inchide pleoapele..
nici chiar moartea nu va putea..
sa traga definitiv cortina intre mine si eu..
sangele meu curge pana si..
..ce-as fi ajuns fara clipa vietii tale..
intriga tuturor umbrelor..
exista in mine..
insa durerea grea..
o voi simti si in ochii noptii eterne..
puternici sunt plamanii vantului..
propriei agonii prada..
plina de pofta ascult..
chemarea altei lumi..
cand luna rosie apare..
sufletul lacom priveste afara..
prin perdeaua de lacrimi a ochilor stinsi..
care-au uitat sa vada..
aud chemarea ..
3.March.2014Tell the story of an event (a dinner, a game, a film) in three different ways, depending on who is telling the story.
THE HOST: The once cozy, lived-in home had turned into a place that resembled a model display. There was not a throw pillow out of place in the painstakingly organized living room, and not a speck of dust dared reveal itself to be upon the impeccably dusted tables and shelves. The windows were washed so completely that no one would have been surprised if an unfortunate bird met its untimely end upon the crystalline glass pane. The kitchen was, though bustling with activity, as pristine as ever, the stainless steel surfaces reflecting light onto the dark granite countertops whereupon the food for the evening sat, ready to be placed.
The hostess herself, however, was of another demeanor altogether. Her strikingly haggard appearance was the antithesis of the environment, with her disheveled chocolate hair thrown into a ha
Dream 51A bit of an update if anyone is reading this : For the past long while I have had some issues with my memory which have seriously impacted my dream recollection. When I do remember dreams, it is usually a small detail, not enough to have a flowing sequence of events. The dream I had today, though not as full of information as my recollections used to be, was the most saturated amount of recollection that I have had in a very long time.
It began with me being in a small town full of very old homes, the intricate kind with white walls and red clay roofs that you might see in Europe. There was a new years gathering there, my family was there, so were many others. I wandered around before finding my father, who was sitting crooked and acting silly. It was clear that he was drunk. This was an enormous shock to me since I have never seen my father drunk in my entire life (Thank god.). I told him that if he needed to go anywhere that he needs to let me know so that I can drive him. This infur
JOB 14:3A girl sat in her bed under a soft, grey blanket. She had just turned the lights off in the room and began to think about a few happenings in the week or two prior just before beginning to pray.
It was late on a Friday night and she was with her mother and step father in their room. They were doing what they normally did on the weekends: listening to music and drinking. The girl's friend was supposed to be coming over, but she hadn't heard from her all night and the clock had just struck to indicate that it was 10:30. Her phone suddenly jerked alive, vibrating violently under her hand on the counter and alerting her of a text.
She quickly uncovered her phone to see that her friend had finally texted her. Moments before that, the girl was having an anxiety attack right in front of her mother. Her breath hitched and her eyes darted around like they were paranoid something was watching them, but her mother didn't seem to notice. She was so afraid she'd done something wrong, but no one
True Story.I went to a pretty decent sized college, with about 22,000 people. For my privacy, your safety, and the people involved, I wont tell you the location. It was my 2nd month in college, and I hadnt really made any friends; just some people I saw often and said hi too in the classroom. However, there was always one guy, mind you he was in EVERY SINGLE ONE of my classes. He had medium length black hair, cut in a kind of grunge rock style. His eyes were blue, but not a normal kind of blue, the kind that just pierces into your soul kind of blue. He never said anything, never spoke a single word actually. Never made a noise, never moved. He was there when I entered the classroom, and when I left he would still be sitting there, unmoving. Finally, I got curious about him, and moved my seat to the back of the lecture hall. I decided I was going to follow him after class and see where he went. I brought my pocket knife and mini keychain flashlight just in case. After class was over at 9:30, every
'Songs that remind you of certain people'I trudged into Rm. 113. Our dinner break was almost over.
Well, I thought, this is it. Our last concert together I looked around at the faces of the other seniors.
I had forfeited my high school diploma in order to be able to come back here for one more year, next year.
I’m not sure anyone knew what I sacrificed, to be able for just one more year, to spend at the place that saved me. I’m not sure what they think.
Perhaps they think I had some sort of extra-special privilege.
No, in forfeiting my diploma until the age of 21, I sacrificed many things, years of freedom, and made myself subject-able to Massachusetts, and a fatal mistake on my diploma that said my graduating year was 2009 when it was really 2008. I should’ve told them.
Sometimes I think they were resentful.
(If I knew what was in store, I may have just let ECA go and move on, like all the other seniors.)
But next year?
It wouldn’t be the same, and I knew it. Didn’t stop me fro
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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