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So I come back to deviantart after a really bad case of bronchitis, and find the nicest surprise ever! Another DD? Thank you guys so much for the messages, all the love and awesomeness! Special thanks to hopeburnsblue and GrimFace242 for the feature, I can't believe it still! Thank you so much deviantart! I'm going to go and try answer all those lovely comments now, but watch this space for another set of beautiful works by the talented writers of DA. I love going through the lit section of this website, there are just so many good writers! :hug:
Its been a long time since I've been on dA. I've been ill, busy, then ill again, then short on cash, and finally ill once more, just in time summer. Thankfully I finally have a month off. Its time to take a nice deep breath, and enjoy the sunshine, do some writing...and enjoy these beautiful works down below.

Thank you guys for being so wonderful. :heart:

[transmissions of a dead girl]i am the
moon: i am
the silver pill
descending
down
your throat
to weigh down
lashes
into leaden eyes--
i am the
moon: lover
of the dark.
the stars are
all dead in their
twinkling dance--
you'll be safe, dear,
as i am the moon,
with all of their
secrets.
you're alright.
(i am good bye and yet,
you think only of romantic
rues)
i am the moon.
i am the crescent
pearl,
looking dead--
and dead altogether,
i still die.
now i see the stars.there was a time when i
couldn't catch my breath whenever i
thought about you , (crippled lungs and-
boy, you hit me like an asteroid,
there's a crater on my chest now that I can't ever seem to fill,
even with
oceans of my tears cried on
nights when you couldn't be there to sing me to sleep.
thirty two poemless days after you joined the constellations,
i walked out into the yard and howled to the empty sky,
and
for a moment i was Gaea, rivers running down my cheeks,
weighted to the ground and
buried in myself, but
where there is no light there are no shadows, and
sometimes, i wonder if i miss me.
yes, yes i do.
i may not see the moon, but
i always was the girl who danced with thunderthey've issued
a flash flood warning
and i am thinking
about our legs
tangled like tree
roots beneath the
sheets.
the screen door
doesn't latch anymore
and the wind is
trying to tear it
away and i am
listening to it
scream and hearing
you say my name.
the roads are wet
and treacherous and
all i am thinking about
is you and your
wet lips slippery tongue
roadside teeth in my
skin and the sky is
falling down around
me and--
--all of these warnings
are just another metaphor
for you.

olivearmies march in time,
shouting and stamping
into Vietnam swamps
with booming voices
and dirty boots.
a soldier can't keep up,
falls to the side in tall jungle grass
and vomits out his homesickness
into the damp shrubs.
grenades crescendo
while the American girl
giggles and taps her nails
on the grimy paint of the bar,
chewing the toothpick
of her martini.
outside, leaves curl into mulch,
and summer shrivels
like a rotting pea pod.
Tutelary's Untangled QuiltTutelary's Untangled Quilt
Pull God's filament
till stripped phantoms ascend in 
unveiled firmament.
.green children
force themselves
up and out
of their beds -
the sun smiles,
and reaches down
to embrace them
Of Chocolate Frogs and Pepper ImpsAges ago, life
was breathed into stone; he seeks
the timeless reward.
In darkened halls an
evil lurks; sweet child, dare not
look it in the eye.
And even on the
brightest eves take heed, beware
the night’s palest face.
In the wake of death
there is rebirth, though hardly
in equal measure.
The future foretold
is valuable but must be
bought through sacrifice.
We know there is strength
in numbers, the enemy
is informed as well.
Peace has high costs, paid
gladly for the greater good;
friendship conquers all.

<da:thumb id="461835136"/> jackal grinMy orange peel
lips split: the beams
are sun-steeped
chrysanthemum,
a deck of cards
sprawled across
nana’s worn porch,
and fingers weaving
through grass blades
when the light is
soft and warm.
(have you f
                 a
            l
                   l
                      e
               n
yet)
I misspelled our love, and that's where we went...I always thought I was a sparrow, nesting in tomorrows like the moon would drop from her orbit and gift me firmer ribs. I thought men and love would fall from dimples and roses, but I found out they drop much like you: unceremoniously and jumbled. They break  wings… and god, the sound… but I guess they sing as they work, and that’s got to be well-meant.
So I fondled November like it fondled me, caught it early in the middle of snow angels and hayrides so it could feel the unexpected earthquake of ‘molested’. The world strung me from those letters, giving the past not only a face, but a name, as it bent gravity over horizons ‘til I could only see his toes. I puked a watercolor of someone else’s impact, and maybe that’s the worst: not knowing if I’m the one moving, or if you’re still writhing inside me like worms and April rain.
the definition of dangerhe is alabaster porcelain;
only so many heaped spoonfuls
of disappointment in a china        
cup                                 he is smoke he is mirrors;
                                    here today, gone tomorrow
                                    he's nothing more than a
he is icarus incarnate              well-designed party trick.
he believed he could rise above
us rise above himself -
poised to fall                      he is a stardust sunburst.
                                    one moment, a flare of beauty
 

Paper TownsI found you in innocent parks
next to a rotting corpse.
We passed each other in hallways
mirrors directing our course.
I pulled you out on a night of adventure
I vanished out of sight.
I loved you forever and always
I just wanted to watch the lights.
You searched my trail of fragmented clues
and saw the hearts of your friends.
You stayed in empty buildings just like I did
but I laid in towns that paper penned.
The hunt warped the world in glass,
gave you eyes to see truth
My strings broke,
you felt the grass,
and we saw each other in cracked submarines.
Because for all your hopes and wishes
only the finding found me.
weighted down1. I am sixteen, suddenly.
I have grown up without anyone
telling me. My car keys rest heavily in
my palm. Each new college I hear about
rests heavily on my shoulders. I am
not sure how much longer I can take this,
all this extra weight of responsibilities, of choices,
of the future I’m not sure I want to have.
My skin feels stretched across my body
in places that don’t really make sense.
I still feel too big in every bad way—I’m
afraid I always will.
2. My first boyfriend tells me he
thinks I must have bits of the
universe inside of me. I try not
to get offended: I know he means to say
that kissing me is like kissing stars,
and that I hold the secrets of creation
inside my soul, but all I can think about
is how huge the universe is.
3. He breaks up with me at night.
For hours, I lean against my truck in
the driveway and look at the sky.
Stars are cold and distant,
I realize. The universe is big
and lonely.
4. Someone in my philosophy class tries to tell me
that
In TimeI wait:
      underneath my thoughts, 
blood pulses 
through its riverbeds.
One day,
      tears fall into dry banks
and mountain
memories fill them.
Lost and FoundHe has prayed as much
as he said "I love you"
in both cases
they were inaudible
Occasionally you can hear him
when he traces the outline of you
similar to the way
a stroke induced December
remembers to speak spring
like he's seen you before in his dreams
You can hear him
when his eyes linger at your smile
as if he could find faith
from your light
trapped, imbedded in insecurity
his way is a broken record even the deaf could listen to
He will not say I love you
not because he doesn't
but because you can not hear a man
you have yet to meet
but when you do, oh god, you will be brutally aware
Because with love like his
you could drown twice
and not want to come up for air
I just wanted to take some time to share some lovely works I have read on here. It was a rainy day today, and I had a cup of hot cocoa, this was the loveliest way to spend the afternoon. Thank you, all you lovely poets! :)

I've ForgottenWhen she died
I tied a knot in my stomach
so I would remember
but I've been so busy
trying to remember her dying
I forgot how to forget.
I've forgotten
how to let go -
and the doctors said
they would cut me open
and snip her out
a blade between the bows
and she,
and the pain, would be gone
but I've forgotten
how to let go -
and I still don't want to.
not sure the scars make the pain go awayhe's not sure
what's real anymore --
flashes of light
dance behind eyelids that are
rubbed raw from sleepless
nights without waking
from bitter
dreams;
his bones creak
like the floorboards beneath
feet that won't
walk anymore; he's
too tired to
remember that the days
don't make the
clock turn, but
the ticking makes
his hair stand on end
anyway.
the voices in his head
beat along to the drumming
of his heart
against his ribs, broken
when he wasn't looking
because
that's just how the
world works,
these days;
the only time the flashbacks
don't dig too deep
into his rotting cerebrum
is when his
veins are pulsing
to the sound of car traffic
and breaking glass; he
never knew the
world was colored in
so many
ways that relate
to just one;
otherwise the words
cause the world to tilt and spin --
he can't tell
up from down anymore
but it doesn't matter
anyway since
his blood's been
drowning him for months now.
the light never
bothered him the way
the silence
did, but
the shadows hiding between
his
the atlantic ocean is big enough to hide secretsin that twilight period of summer turning to fall-
in that bend in the road from september to october-
i couldn't explain it but i so desperately wanted to send a piece of myself to you
by mail
so you would have something to look forward to
from someone,
with love.
i said, if there's a force to change the tides and turn the earth
and people think it's the most essential force in this world,
then i know they've never met you.
'who me? little old me?'
yes you, little old you,
you have enough resonance in the beats of your heart
to make armies march,
you have enough light in your smile
to make a blind man see,
you have enough magnitude in everything you do
to cause earthquakes to destroy the world,
or maybe just me:
i would die in your hands if you would only let me.
the beginning of october is stunning when the colours
are like fire engines and fireflies and fireworks.
bright flashes of everything that is beautiful and nothing that is hurt.
but after an immense burst of light;
after the
CurrentsCurrents
 
Some men yearn to clasp
The edges of stars by their fingertips
To at least hold onto the debris,
That creates golden iotas
In midnight oceans;
And whispers of olden tales,
Singing of a microscopic sphere,
That twinkles within the vastness of emptiness.
 
But I yearn to hold wind in a jar,
Capture the oxygen
And never let go of its essence.
 
Carry it with me.
Take it to a place only she and I know of,
And cradle the edge of her hand,
Into the wrinkles and crevices
Of my solemn grip.
 
I’m not big, nor very strong,
And I don’t have the power
That could protect you,
From all of the injustices
That could befall you—
 
But what I do have,
Are my hands to hold yours,
To feel the warmth of my palm,
Meld into your grasp.
 
A body to shield you from the
Debris of falling dust,
Cascading words,
And descending storm.
 
And words,
That can cushion gusts,
And quell hurr

Dancing Among The StarsHe seemed to move in waves, swaying to the beat of his heart, dancing with the moon just to appease her. A people pleaser, he never once said no, not even to me. And I never once thanked him because he knew my admiration for him stretched far beyond the many miles that separated us.
So much we exposed about each other, left one another vulnerable and naked by the end of our conversations about God, astrology, and the silver cross he bore on his chest.
So little was said about the way he walked, how his eyes became glassy when he mentioned his estranged sister, and how my heart beat with his in synchronization despite the murmurs I underwent in his presence.
And in all that commotion, I never once asked for a dance. Not because I couldn't, but because I knew I'd trample on his twinkle toes and cause his sky to come crashing down.
  don't look back - oh.before the
      before, face it,
there were faces indelible,
       the viscosity of
tar in his voice...
 
       tar on his coarse fingers;
like everywhere
        in everything
there was the sacred drunkard illuminating
a way...
when i hid by the bucket and
nettle brushed my shoulder, the poison
was slow;
      (in reality, he
ran his cows over with a tractor and there
the sacredness should have ended;
didn't;
before the before there was gnarled bark
off unidentified trees
            whispering by the river,
rough to the touch
         i would spread out my fingers
fascinated by the splinters
now it is morning and i realize
i have never really seen an ocean
the canyons were nonexistent,
   the bazaars
         barely there impressionistic
space; flawed geometry
there is nothing to leave behind,
he'll win, somedayit seems like everything he loves
has sharp edges
everything he treasures
is broken glass
and he either is the glue,
or he glues it back together
and none of it seems to last
Summer Hazewe met and fell
into a summer haze
with hearts racing
and fingertips
blazing,
lips
held secrets
only touch
could untangle,
days
were spend
with only words
slipping
across curves
and skin,
while
the august
heat
sweltered
and burned
memories
of forever
upon our
eager souls.

DisenchantedDuped the victim, she
allows him to lead. Her life
scattered like ashes.
i will be with you when you lose your breathhow different would things have been if i would've taken your hand beneath the floodlight? if maybe i would've held it a bit longer instead of pushing you away along with the notion that you loved me? 
i changed my mind too late. fourteen days and twenty-three hours too late. yeah, i do, i think about it a little more than i should. 
i find myself still waking up, wishing id let you buy me a water ice, or breathing in what little of your face i can remember from then. i swear i still feel your skin, cold but still radiating the love that now doesn't exist. 
i guess i should speak up more but all ive done is lock myself farther away, trap my voice in a tomb of collapsing lungs and crumbling ribs. i don't even feel like singing anymore, unless im crooning to my empty bedroom or sobbing to the shower head when nobody else is home. they all say i sound so sad. i say, if i don't get it out now i never ever will. 
WarWhat the hell is this?
Darkness everywhere.
All I hear is cackles.
Malicious chanting
The rising of the undead.
What the hell is all this?
Where did the sunlight go?
The Care Bears and sprinkles,
Warmth that went deep to the soul,
Excitement-created tears
And a bright burning pride.
What the hell is all this?
The sunlight barricaded by dark-thirsty headaches
The warmth blasted out by venomous A/C
The excited squeals morphed into droning.
I'm stepping back,
And finding my own song to dance to, damnit.
*Lost in Love*Complicated love
Maze of emotional turmoil
Romantically lost.
2014 Delice1941
27th April2014

a poem on the inner workings of my chaotic mindit isn't like i'm
lazy or anything it's just that
the thought of getting lost
in a crowd of ten or more people
makes me want to puke.
this is not just some
stupid little hang-up that you can
joke about when i'm
digging my fingernails into my palm so
hard that blood is drawn as we walk through
school hallways so packed that it feels
like we're suffocating from too much
oxygen but i just grit my teeth and
laugh "yeah, i know, i just don't like
being around people sometimes."
but you know,
there's just something about the way
my mother says "go out and have a life
and stop looking like the world
betrays you every day"
that makes my stomach drop
or when my dad looks at me and just
sighs, like they've finally realized
i was never good enough to be
their daughter.
and to everyone who believes that
i just need to relax,
to just calm down and think:
fuck you. fuck you for trying to pretend
like you know how it feels when my
bones grind together like broken
gears as i walk by people who may
or
Part of being Human:The way
they're all
talking and mumbling
half-truths and
dreams and
even though
they're all so flawed
and it's all so
beautiful you almost
can't quite
believe it.
She doesn't believe
in love
-he's living some
beautiful lie and
how she always
says thank you
(over and over)
like a broken record.
and-we're all so
human and
sometimes reaching out
(you can almost
touch them by
the fingertips.)
Because,
sometimes (when)
it's just
a little too
much
of yourself to
give away,
because to trust
and when you love
it means they can
alway take it all
away and
(you'll be shattered)
all alone
and you're afraid
you'll be like that
forever.
sheepskinYour love smells like snow
in the deep of August, sucking
me like mosquitoes and you.
damn, you always had a talented
tongue, knowing just what to say
to roll me between your teeth and
keep me there; and I was hoping—
no, trusting— I’d not be crushed.
I should have known when
you raised your bones against me,
when you clattered your molars
together but never bothered hiding
the truth below your belt.
And a part of me says  
I was in love with you.
So I have given my final two premium memberships and they are to the lovely, kind Carson (confidenceAlive) and amazing Gabriela (weirdandproudofit)!

The person who has enabled me to be able to give these gifts is the wonderful IntraSect who made a very generous contribution of 3500 points to me which took me completely by surprise as I had not expected it at all. So this gift is therefore from both of us and I thank him for his extremely kind and generous gift. Now, as he gave me this gift, I think it is only fair that I give premiums to a few more people than I originally intended, and I have chosen some who are simply amazing and brilliant writers. So thank you Nullibicity and A-Lovely-Anxiety for being so incredible with your craft. If you haven't read their work, please go and have a read. Here are a couple of pieces from their galleries:

slowly, and then all at onceand for once, he slips on his wedding ring, to cure the monotony.  it slides over his knuckle, a perfect fit, and in the morning release of sunlight the silver gleams at him.  it glares, calling him a liar: she is not a whorehouse and you are too broke to own her, you harlot, you.  he buttons up, tucks in his shirt tail, and buckles his belt.  the clinking of metal parts is the only sound in the room besides the dusting of her breathing beside him.  and when he's gone, the only thing he leaves behind are the bruises on her collarbone.
-
you find him because you're lonely, (well, it's actually the opposite.)  he finds you because his wardrobe is black and his shoes are scuffed and he asks you where your castle is.  you're the only princess he sees 'round here.  the rain soaks into his shirt and he curses it, grinning.  and damn girl, you follow him, because you think you see some kinda warmth in his ice blue eyes.
-
it takes you days t
4 things about a boy who called himself man1.
he would reply,
"well, you asked for a man, didn't you?"
and i would have to press my
whole-lotta-honey colored lips together
and whisper,
"and i got one, didn't i?"
his words were always cold when he was with me.
2.
the thing i loved most
about him was the fact that he wanted
to teach me.
about the things he loved,
about music, about appreciation,
and i think at some point he wanted to teach me
love.
(he just didn't go about it
the right way, i don't think.)
"i want you to have these experiences,
even if we don't
end up together."
and i guess that should've been
my warning sign.
y'know:
that we weren't going to end up together.
3.
it's not easy to remember the little
stuff about me.
it's not easy to remember
all my little dates and the fact that
i'm sick or need medicine.
(and i guess
that since he was the first one to do it,
it just attracted me more,
and i suffered for hoping that he loved me,
too.)
it's not easy to remember me.
but i don't think he'll forget me.
4.
sometimes, wh
<da:thumb id="388838908"/>
Gardening for dummiesHer head is a flowery poem,
filled with pots and weeds
and mother earth
dug deep in roots and taciturn.
Now no one will come near,
but she has thorns
and worm-filled words,
and a spade for planting
the lesser verse…
but the loneliness
she buries
beneath roots and words
and stanza stems
until it digs ant tunnels
to resurface
again.
A Poet's RomanceShe was the quiet sort,
tsunamis tucked
within her eyes,
anxieties pinned
to pottery skin;
she would mold herself
into moonlight butterflies
and glist'ning calla lilies,
pure and white and
beautiful.
and when night cast
itself upon her in
heated, hard'ning flames,
she’d smash herself
upon the rocks
and in morning start
again.
InfiniteWe’d make a beautiful constellation,
You and I –
shivering galaxies that may implode
but who keep expanding,
still hiding in gravitational lenses
of sheer splendor -
a thousand and one stars;
we could wish for personals
or company
or maskless parades
without crippling facades-
not nameless but known.
You and I,
we could be brighter
than the sun.


I want to thank you guys again for supporting me. I would love to do more give aways like this because I can't even begin to tell you how much I appreciate all of your comments, faves and love. :hug:

FEATURES


Amazing stuff I have found recently:

To be a writerYou taste like decaying leaves
and October's bad habits-
when it’s halfway through February
that still haunts these bones.
I have allowed you to
claw your love
into my arms
and chant into my
uninterested ears
for much too long.
I wish I was one of those girls
who could say wild flowers
grow up through my nooks
and my crannies just to tear
through my skin, screaming.
I’m just that dead eyed deer
on the side of the road dreaming
of shoving a pen down my throat
and writing these verses inside out.
I am no scribe, prophet, or spell caster.
I know it.
My skin knows it.
My pen knows it too.
Years and years
from now
my mind will dwell
on the way your fingers
chain linked between my ribs
and shook my
vulnerable inside,
violently.
But,
to be a writer
is to be a masochist,
and I refuse to get off
on the pain anymore.
Curing Depression in Seven Easy Steps1. apologize profusely to
the ones you were honest with,
the ones who believe in you,
the ones who never cared,
the boy who thought you were
worth it, the girl who stayed up
all night to hear you breakdown,
the doctors, the nurses, the stars,
your scars, your little brother
who told you he hoped your sad
would go away, yourself
2. fall in love with someone
who doesn’t understand you.
write poems about his eyes being
a lighthouse, and his hands
being sirens. tell him he is
your happiness, he makes you
better. tell him his scars are
beautiful, he is so breathtakingly
beautiful that it’s reasonable
you should cry; love him
infinitely, love him like they say
you need to love yourself
3. eat away emotions
you didn’t realize you had. eat
when you’re sad, eat when
you’re bored, eat when he forgets
to call. eat when you think
you’re the only person alive
in a dead universe, eat when
you don’t remember when you
were last happy; pretend
the emptiness is
First friend, first loveI’ve been sitting alone for so long
That I’ve forgotten the meaning of "friend"
But just when I started to think I don’t belong
You became a person that I could befriend
But as time passed along, you seemed like more to me
My heart would grow warm, every time we’d speak
But I just don’t know if we could ever be
But I’ll take the first step, to start something unique

Night haikuThe moon comforts a wave
Before its impending death
Upon the shore
Indeed, emotions are powerful Indeed, emotions are powerful incentives.Yet emotions are also the cause of both our difficulties and determination.It is our personal thoughts and perspective, that focuses our determination and resilience to push on past our comfort zone towards our chosen course of evolution...Everything is a matter of perspective and opinion no matter who, what, or where you are..:) things stay the sameStripped tinsel
crushed beneath;
warm lights and
the red-gold glow of
reflections
Crepe and cellophane
drowning in
half-empty wine glasses--
tape hung over
under trash and
the re-gifted morning
afters
Tree-lights and ribbon-frays
tracing paper and
curled to
remember resolutions
crawling beneath
the bows
of years to come

Pharaoh of My HeartSomewhere deep within my heart,
a pharaoh holds an ankh-shaped key,
guarding the corridors of his love
until time beckons us to be.
As shifting currents in the Nile,
he alters my soul upon a sea,
and in his eyes my essence wades
until time beckons us to be.
The oil may try to relinquish light,
or let dusk settle there between,
but even still, we'll hold our will
until time beckons us to be - 
Until time calls for us to fall
into each other's armory,
and behold the beauty of a sun
from an ancient dynasty. 
There is a pharaoh in my heart,
and forever I will lie with he,
until the clock of scarabs unlock
and time beckons us to be.
TyndallToday I tried to write a poem about the depth of your eyes
But I've run out of ways to describe their particular hue
Because the sky, more often than clear blue,
Is a storm of grey, starkest white, or the deepest black.
Oceans I always found cold, uninviting, with untrustworthy silence,
Offering no more than the suffocating abyss,
I could liken them to rain but I feel I'd be cheating you
As they're so much greater than a drizzle of weather
I think maybe this language can’t encapsulate the Other
Eyes are really much deeper than oceans or skies.
<da:thumb id="401109198"/> mechanicI want to kiss every aching wound you have,
bandage your heart every time it bleeds,
and patch up your mind over and over
because not a single tear deserves to fall
from your brandy-drenched eyes;
This dripping heart of mine can only feel,
and the healing honey words it flames get caught
in the back of my throat and on the roof of my mouth,
so I only have these passionate guttural cries
to tell you that I care all too much.
In order to fix you up again,
I would need to tear myself to tatters
and trade all of my working parts
for your leftover, fading pieces
but I just haven’t figured out how.

(I won't need you)The last time I saw you, frost
was lingering on the windowsill, penetrating
through a layer of glass and
attaching itself to the
walls of my bedroom.
I’ve packed and unpacked my
bags, told myself I would
find you;
told myself that I would let
you go.
I haven’t forgotten the way your
eyes looked on the day
we said our
goodbye’s.
Or the way that your lip curled
up into a forced smile
as tears pooled in the corners
of your eyes.
One day, I will finally pack my bags
and forget how sad we were
when you boarded that
plane and never called again.
One day, I won’t need to remember
what color your eyes were just
to make myself happy.
One day, I won’t need
you.
owlsof the mist whispers and
soggy willow branches
above the werewolves and
jasmine flower blossoms-
niched to brown liquid
flowing in veins and
the half-smile of the moon;
dragonfly eyed and hickory
wings sailing the milky
way until the sun crack
lulls reality into
day
AsphodelA beckoning:
watercolour sky shrinking,
too late, teeth fall; pearls
from a broken string.
Blink and the moon ignites—
but the sheets are still
envelope-stiff.
things stay the sameStripped tinsel
crushed beneath;
warm lights and
the red-gold glow of
reflections
Crepe and cellophane
drowning in
half-empty wine glasses--
tape hung over
under trash and
the re-gifted morning
afters
Tree-lights and ribbon-frays
tracing paper and
curled to
remember resolutions
crawling beneath
the bows
of years to come


Heylo everyone,

I was wondering if you all had a moment to go vote on my story at JP Serials. www.jukepopserials.com/home/re…

The story is called Because the Blue Fairy Said So and the summary reads something like this:

Rita is a girl in trouble. She is pregnant and definitely not prepared for motherhood. To make matters worse, the father of her child happens to be her confused, recently out gay best friend. So clearly, she is an ideal candidate for talking owls, magical mobsters and the knowledge that she may be carrying a child that is not human. Throw in a couple of sarcastic girlfriends and a blue fairy who happens to be a man and you have a recipe for disaster!

I've been writing this for a while and have some really fun stuff planned for the next chapter, but the story needs votes to survive, so please please please...if you have a facebook account I could use all the help I can get!

Also, out of curiousity, is anyone taking part in NaNoWriMo this year?

And I found something fun on the internet which both amused me and has me really pleased. www.friendburst.com/blog/11187…

Also, there are still two premiums left to give to watchers, and this week one has been given to w-anderlust for being so wonderful, caring and supportive!

FEATURES


colors.red is a power color.
red is stoplights, anger. rage.
red is my nose when i cry about my parents.
“women are more attractive to men
when they wear red,” he says once
so you cut yourself
because red is blood
and when he ignores the bandages, you say,
“no. look what i did.
look what i did for you.”
but he doesn’t fall in love with you
and
red is the scream that
comes out of your mouth.
--
blue is the veins under your skin and
blue is depression that tells you to slice them
open.
blue is the weeks you spend after him
and blue is the great, wide sky above you,
trying to remind you that the rest of the world
is still waiting.
--
your brother says he’s looking for the light
at the end of the tunnel
but the world is full of light.
(you would know. we can hardly see the stars
because of it.)
the world is not full of you
so you try.
black is what surrounds him
and black is burns
and you’ve been burned, scalded
so you blend in.
you’re backgr
He and SheHe was religion,
she was the world,
it took her a while, 
but she slowly believed.
His verses filled her with a hope, 
beyond her wildest dreams. 
He was love,
She was society.
He seeped in her structures 
built skyscrapers in her skies
and mended the cracks in her fragile bones
He was imagination,
and she was insanity.
together they were the spark
of an idea, that ignited 
a blaze on her mountain peaks 
He was the winter,
and she warmed him up.
She was the summer,
and he was her shade.
They blended together, 
a match set by fate. 
Their path was dark,
so they lit a candle 
and were burned by its flames.
The autumn of their love
turned into falling leaves, 
and she was the victim
of a passion that killed her
in her early years of spring. 
for those who want to be in loveyou want to fall in love
hard enough to break your bones and
lighten your feet
lighten your heart
so softly that the butterflies you feel
pattering with their gossamer wings
beneath the cage of your ribs
can escape;
and the breath,
blue in the summer,
can kiss you and the monarchs
as sweetly as your love
and her lips.
you dream of them at night.
silken like clean bedsheets,
familiar as your favourite chair
when you curl up with
a mug of herbal tea.
you feel at home
with her body curled in yours,
only able to sleep
with her skin under your fingers
scenting the blankets
with something no perfume
could ever mirror.
you write love letters
in biology
love poems
in economics
you dream emptily
unless she is there.
you want to fall in love
the way the gods drink ambrosia,
you want to treat her
better than their nectar,
sweeter than honeybees
and their summer-sticky feet.
you want a love beyond poetry,
from winter flurries
to springtime rosebuds
to summer sweet lemonade
to autumnal red leaves u
Double NegativeI have never loved you.
I did not love you from that misty
September morning when we met.
I did not love you the first moment
I gazed into those saccharine eyes.
I have never, in fact, loved the roughness
in your soft voice when it says my name.
I have never loved the look on your face
when you smile over your bagel at me.
I don't love the cocoa streaked in your hair
or the way it ruffles its feathers upright
when you fall from your warm bed-nest,
half asleep, vulnerable and shy in the morning.
I do not love you.
I did not love you in that very moment
when your breath snagged against my lip
as it finally brushed yours - no, I did not.
I did not love you the first, second, or last time.
Listen to me carefully, my sweet -
I have never loved you, I will never love you.
I will not love you until my very last breath
and the absences of breath beyond that.
I will never love you for all that makes you
the warm, compassionate fighter in my corner.
I won't accept you for all your innocen

casual blasphemyfor the past four years
I’ve been in love with a boy
who’s too busy loving life to notice
I exist. I don’t think he’s ever seen me
past his tunnel vision living--
I’m in love with a boy who
wears black gauges and swears
he’s a deist who’s fed up with
the backwards-fucked system
that governs our lives; he talks to me
about the symbolic importance
of hunger and need and rebellion
and isolationism and death as
Orwell and Golding must have written it,
and, god, I just want to crack open
my ribs so he can see the literary
starvation destroying me, the not-quite
metaphoric devastation of my liver and
paper cuts scarring my heart. I want
him to talk to me about the reasons
we ought to avoid college
and capitalism and commitment and explain
to me what this all really means.
[I want to be so unflinchingly honest
with you that it will be as natural
and sinful as all the others
before, just without the glare
of bare skin and self-hate. I want to tell you
symptoms of red               a materialist
               inside of you
               unknitting your sweater
               & in your dream
               you are a wolf eating
               a flower in an orange field. the world
               is ending. an unnamed girl stains you
               as if she were tea
               giving up to a
               foaming ocean.
               she writes a story: the unrequited
               blurry visions of two visionaries
               

Reminders to Myself1. Every time you feed the goldfish, feed yourself. Even if it's once a day, even if it's once a week.
2. Carry yourself like a house-plant. Take your body outside when it rains; open the blinds to let it sip the sun. Remember to turn yourself daily, like the world, so your branches don't all grow one direction. Don't leave and forget to take care of yourself.
3. It's okay to draw pictures in the dust and leave them for a while.
4. Couch cushions don't always have to have romantic connotations. Sometimes, they are just another quadrant of what you call home, and all they are full of is lose change, pencils, crumbs, and cough drops, and that's okay.
5. Staircases are for running up on all fours and streaking down on pillows. Staircases are for a continuation: never stop moving. Even if you have to drag yourself down screaming before you can make it back up again.
6. One day, there will be a boy whom you serve yourself up to in your grandmother's china tea cup. He will not take milk or s
whitewashedmother refuses to drink the honey
she paints our rooms with, for
curtaining the timid female quarters of home
is just as frightening
as a monsoon-poor September.
the kind she weaves
with her own words seem far
sweeter than the jars they make
in the farm down
the tree-cut boulevard.
she hides stories in her collars, spilling
only when her honey jars are raised
to counter
her red-hot honesty
and our yellow, foolish,
innocent laughter.
the forlorn scent of industry
seeps into the cheap marble floor
and cracked bathroom tiles,
till it reaches father's nose where it
vaporizes in fear of being shunned.
father will paint the ceiling blue
because aloof girls make broken homes, sewn seam
by seam to a delusional perfection.
we are perfect, bent at the knees and spine
to the fetus we compare to
but the shoulders we always are.
we dare not tremble;
his reign, unquestionable,
eternal.
vandalismI.
it was only under the weight of the stars
that vulnerability personified
and he floated into my arms like an honest promise.
II.
we built castles with our mouths,
safe havens with our teeth.
III.
after all this time, i still can't tell
whether he decorated my life
or vandalized it.
and i wonder if i will ever see him again:
painted and proud with those lips like royalty.

bear witness to the tragedies i causewe speak of weekends,
plan every detail of what
is just intangible, relative time.
when you are here, i leave reminders
of myself on your neck, little purple marks,
and though they are temporary, they stain
my mind like your promises stain my
hair;
when you are not here, i lose my mind.
what is there to love when there is nothing
to touch?
we are not just an hour and a half apart -
our distance spans four years of
uncertainty, shouting matches over the phone,
loving text messages.
they tell me that years from now, i'll look back and
laugh at my problems, but i always find
my problems laughing back at me.
when you are here, my skin lights up
like lightning on a darkened sky;
when you are not here, neither am i.
<da:thumb id="404346539"/> pollenwasp-waisted beauty
pray into my collarbone
let your snake tongue slither
with the syllables.
i wish for soft-chested nights,
and the trickle of champagne down crystal glass.
poppy-lips, lull me to sleep,
nurse my coiling tongue with yours;
tap my scalp like a silent drum,
and wind my hair in between your fingers
like broken guitar strings.
(serenade me with the buzz of pollen in your kiss.)
So far, I have given two premium memberships to two of my watchers, three more to go! Sorry guys, I would do this once and for all but I am waiting to get paid again next week to award the remaining three! Congratulations to LightOverpowers58 and UnluckyNumberXIII

Thanks for your awesome support you guys! I truly appreciate it! :hug:

Stay tuned for next week for the next three! :)

FEATURES


colors.red is a power color.
red is stoplights, anger. rage.
red is my nose when i cry about my parents.
“women are more attractive to men
when they wear red,” he says once
so you cut yourself
because red is blood
and when he ignores the bandages, you say,
“no. look what i did.
look what i did for you.”
but he doesn’t fall in love with you
and
red is the scream that
comes out of your mouth.
--
blue is the veins under your skin and
blue is depression that tells you to slice them
open.
blue is the weeks you spend after him
and blue is the great, wide sky above you,
trying to remind you that the rest of the world
is still waiting.
--
your brother says he’s looking for the light
at the end of the tunnel
but the world is full of light.
(you would know. we can hardly see the stars
because of it.)
the world is not full of you
so you try.
black is what surrounds him
and black is burns
and you’ve been burned, scalded
so you blend in.
you’re backgr
He and SheHe was religion,
she was the world,
it took her a while, 
but she slowly believed.
His verses filled her with a hope, 
beyond her wildest dreams. 
He was love,
She was society.
He seeped in her structures 
built skyscrapers in her skies
and mended the cracks in her fragile bones
He was imagination,
and she was insanity.
together they were the spark
of an idea, that ignited 
a blaze on her mountain peaks 
He was the winter,
and she warmed him up.
She was the summer,
and he was her shade.
They blended together, 
a match set by fate. 
Their path was dark,
so they lit a candle 
and were burned by its flames.
The autumn of their love
turned into falling leaves, 
and she was the victim
of a passion that killed her
in her early years of spring. 
for those who want to be in loveyou want to fall in love
hard enough to break your bones and
lighten your feet
lighten your heart
so softly that the butterflies you feel
pattering with their gossamer wings
beneath the cage of your ribs
can escape;
and the breath,
blue in the summer,
can kiss you and the monarchs
as sweetly as your love
and her lips.
you dream of them at night.
silken like clean bedsheets,
familiar as your favourite chair
when you curl up with
a mug of herbal tea.
you feel at home
with her body curled in yours,
only able to sleep
with her skin under your fingers
scenting the blankets
with something no perfume
could ever mirror.
you write love letters
in biology
love poems
in economics
you dream emptily
unless she is there.
you want to fall in love
the way the gods drink ambrosia,
you want to treat her
better than their nectar,
sweeter than honeybees
and their summer-sticky feet.
you want a love beyond poetry,
from winter flurries
to springtime rosebuds
to summer sweet lemonade
to autumnal red leaves u
Double NegativeI have never loved you.
I did not love you from that misty
September morning when we met.
I did not love you the first moment
I gazed into those saccharine eyes.
I have never, in fact, loved the roughness
in your soft voice when it says my name.
I have never loved the look on your face
when you smile over your bagel at me.
I don't love the cocoa streaked in your hair
or the way it ruffles its feathers upright
when you fall from your warm bed-nest,
half asleep, vulnerable and shy in the morning.
I do not love you.
I did not love you in that very moment
when your breath snagged against my lip
as it finally brushed yours - no, I did not.
I did not love you the first, second, or last time.
Listen to me carefully, my sweet -
I have never loved you, I will never love you.
I will not love you until my very last breath
and the absences of breath beyond that.
I will never love you for all that makes you
the warm, compassionate fighter in my corner.
I won't accept you for all your innocen

casual blasphemyfor the past four years
I’ve been in love with a boy
who’s too busy loving life to notice
I exist. I don’t think he’s ever seen me
past his tunnel vision living--
I’m in love with a boy who
wears black gauges and swears
he’s a deist who’s fed up with
the backwards-fucked system
that governs our lives; he talks to me
about the symbolic importance
of hunger and need and rebellion
and isolationism and death as
Orwell and Golding must have written it,
and, god, I just want to crack open
my ribs so he can see the literary
starvation destroying me, the not-quite
metaphoric devastation of my liver and
paper cuts scarring my heart. I want
him to talk to me about the reasons
we ought to avoid college
and capitalism and commitment and explain
to me what this all really means.
[I want to be so unflinchingly honest
with you that it will be as natural
and sinful as all the others
before, just without the glare
of bare skin and self-hate. I want to tell you
symptoms of red               a materialist
               inside of you
               unknitting your sweater
               & in your dream
               you are a wolf eating
               a flower in an orange field. the world
               is ending. an unnamed girl stains you
               as if she were tea
               giving up to a
               foaming ocean.
               she writes a story: the unrequited
               blurry visions of two visionaries
               

Reminders to Myself1. Every time you feed the goldfish, feed yourself. Even if it's once a day, even if it's once a week.
2. Carry yourself like a house-plant. Take your body outside when it rains; open the blinds to let it sip the sun. Remember to turn yourself daily, like the world, so your branches don't all grow one direction. Don't leave and forget to take care of yourself.
3. It's okay to draw pictures in the dust and leave them for a while.
4. Couch cushions don't always have to have romantic connotations. Sometimes, they are just another quadrant of what you call home, and all they are full of is lose change, pencils, crumbs, and cough drops, and that's okay.
5. Staircases are for running up on all fours and streaking down on pillows. Staircases are for a continuation: never stop moving. Even if you have to drag yourself down screaming before you can make it back up again.
6. One day, there will be a boy whom you serve yourself up to in your grandmother's china tea cup. He will not take milk or s
whitewashedmother refuses to drink the honey
she paints our rooms with, for
curtaining the timid female quarters of home
is just as frightening
as a monsoon-poor September.
the kind she weaves
with her own words seem far
sweeter than the jars they make
in the farm down
the tree-cut boulevard.
she hides stories in her collars, spilling
only when her honey jars are raised
to counter
her red-hot honesty
and our yellow, foolish,
innocent laughter.
the forlorn scent of industry
seeps into the cheap marble floor
and cracked bathroom tiles,
till it reaches father's nose where it
vaporizes in fear of being shunned.
father will paint the ceiling blue
because aloof girls make broken homes, sewn seam
by seam to a delusional perfection.
we are perfect, bent at the knees and spine
to the fetus we compare to
but the shoulders we always are.
we dare not tremble;
his reign, unquestionable,
eternal.
vandalismI.
it was only under the weight of the stars
that vulnerability personified
and he floated into my arms like an honest promise.
II.
we built castles with our mouths,
safe havens with our teeth.
III.
after all this time, i still can't tell
whether he decorated my life
or vandalized it.
and i wonder if i will ever see him again:
painted and proud with those lips like royalty.

bear witness to the tragedies i causewe speak of weekends,
plan every detail of what
is just intangible, relative time.
when you are here, i leave reminders
of myself on your neck, little purple marks,
and though they are temporary, they stain
my mind like your promises stain my
hair;
when you are not here, i lose my mind.
what is there to love when there is nothing
to touch?
we are not just an hour and a half apart -
our distance spans four years of
uncertainty, shouting matches over the phone,
loving text messages.
they tell me that years from now, i'll look back and
laugh at my problems, but i always find
my problems laughing back at me.
when you are here, my skin lights up
like lightning on a darkened sky;
when you are not here, neither am i.
<da:thumb id="404346539"/> weaving the tidethere is no word as prominent as control,
but how can you cross satellite minds
unbound, weighing down the swimmers,
telephone lines and fish hooks,
and altogether unfortunate believers?
I've been cocoon wrapped isolation
trading frequencies through nerve endings;
I always thought I was drowning,
but now I'm just pulling you down
finger tips trace your neckline
brushing your collar bone
lightly stroking strands of hair
soft as an angel's touch
a subtle smile, and a kiss
on your brow to make it sweet
right before the weight of me
falls on you like a boulder
calling on the enemy to keep us safe
to keep these dreams of mine
I always thought I was drowning,
because I wasn't holding the line
with fishing poles made of lace
and yesterday's sunrise
weaves tomorrow's golden rope
to wrap around the lies.
pollenwasp-waisted beauty
pray into my collarbone
let your snake tongue slither
with the syllables.
i wish for soft-chested nights,
and the trickle of champagne down crystal glass.
poppy-lips, lull me to sleep,
nurse my coiling tongue with yours;
tap my scalp like a silent drum,
and wind my hair in between your fingers
like broken guitar strings.
(serenade me with the buzz of pollen in your kiss.)

(Because 3,000 is done way too often.)

Hello there everyone! I was just checking my stats and I realised that I have reached 3,090 watchers and I am AMAZED at the love and the support that this community has given me. As a gift, I will be giving away three month premium memberships to five of my watchers.

What you need to do:

Absolutely nothing. I will be doing this by random selection of five people who already watch me!

Thank you guys for all your love and support. You are all amazing and I hope to host more give aways more often!




FEATURES


Some of the lovely works I have read this week and been inspired by.

Autumn was my first love.October, I follow you -
from the magic lights of New York
to moonshines in Georgia,
until the colors dissolve.
The anxious poetry of autumn
made a memory of me.
Here’s to things I take for granted:
September blues,
chasing airplanes,
country road thunderstorms.
Unspoken words, unwritten ideas.
October, I follow you;
I thought I saw you on the shore
where the river runs through gold
on the last boat leaving the city of a hundred spires -
or perhaps Pittsburgh
(it was the lights I guess).
Here’s to the things we leave behind:
sunbeams in November,
letters addressed to no one,
poems, wounds, dead birds.
I’ve got that summertime sadness.
Maybe you’re gonna come back;
we’re changing our ways, taking different roads
and loneliness knows me by name
but October, I follow you;
without you I’m a winter heart,
a love story you don’t want,
a November shade of grey hunting ghosts
in cities that sleep inside our heads.
You told me you lied the night you kiss
His queen, my muse.Pomegranate seeds
have the most
bitter of tastes.
She is more
than a myth,
you know;
unsullied
and untainted,
a spring's
breeze with
the most
arabesque
of lips.
There are more
flames beneath her
skin than in all of
Hades. With every
breath she takes,
winter cries out
for redemption.
She is magenta.
A maiden of
jasper and agate;
lily eyelashes and
locks of supple ivy.
His goddess:
eternal,
unwavering—
a hyacinth among
weeds and sweet
harvest among
the wretched.
she can't keep secrets, i can't keep friendsthe first time I see her in months,
she still hugs me like i’m the only thing
keeping her world up.
i remember a time when this was true.
we do not talk about anything we used to—
those things have become taboo,
almost while our heads were turned away.
subjects are now landmines, with us tiptoeing around them,
me in my beat up converse and her in her sky-high stilettos.
we do not talk about how she did not say goodbye.
we do not talk about her old-new-old-old-gone boyfriend.
we don’t mention any new holes in my heart
or any new episodes of a now cancelled television show.
we do not talk about the new kid who looks like her
and we don’t talk about the school of new kids she looks at every morning.
i do not tell her that i have written seventeen poems about her
because she does not understand my way of letting go.
i do not tell her that it is close to October
and i have stopped marking off days on my calendar
and today i haven’t eaten any food
but i doubt sh

things I learned at 11 am while I was half-asleepi
I’m spending most of my time
not crying, and I’m sorry,
but I don’t think I’ll ever love anyone
as much as aspirin, or lullabies,
or the cheap wine  sold for two dollars a bottle,  
or overly-apologetic letters bending over backwards
to make a point of themselves, or the pink petals
blooming on my wrists like flesh and blood miracles,
or the songs named after women
worth loving.
ii
Radical acceptance
is understanding
things may not change,
but you will have to.
iii
I am most alone
surrounded by people
and the buzzing in my head of words
that should have lost their meaning
back when I discovered
they never meant anything
at all.
iv
Dedications are only relevant
to people who appreciate shitty poetry,
or you.  Insanity is writing the same thing
over and over and expecting it not
to sound clichéd.
v
and as much as anyone will swear otherwise,
I am a statistic. A number, an example,
a case study in the manipulation of
narcissism and moving on
slowly, and then all at onceand for once, he slips on his wedding ring, to cure the monotony.  it slides over his knuckle, a perfect fit, and in the morning release of sunlight the silver gleams at him.  it glares, calling him a liar: she is not a whorehouse and you are too broke to own her, you harlot, you.  he buttons up, tucks in his shirt tail, and buckles his belt.  the clinking of metal parts is the only sound in the room besides the dusting of her breathing beside him.  and when he's gone, the only thing he leaves behind are the bruises on her collarbone.
-
you find him because you're lonely, (well, it's actually the opposite.)  he finds you because his wardrobe is black and his shoes are scuffed and he asks you where your castle is.  you're the only princess he sees 'round here.  the rain soaks into his shirt and he curses it, grinning.  and damn girl, you follow him, because you think you see some kinda warmth in his ice blue eyes.
-
it takes you days t
removedi feel separate
to time and place
from others -
not lost
i am not lost
i always know where i am, i am
painfully aware of that
fidelic whore-- this is appropriation
my sweet synchronicity ,
i have downed your appetite
in a bed of front teeth 
(it is morning in perth
midnight in dublin, and the noon
sun has been lost behind
a dress of mothy curtains)
do i taste of
your forethought 
of love making;
do i reek of
the weeds that 
have infiltrated
the posture of your spine?
-
you bend over
my lap a curve of guilt
and weep all night.
i collect each knob of your body
like a gift. press it to my mouth.
swallow, spit.

CompressWhen I was young, my mother
taught me how to draw the curves
of a profile.
Strange to think, of course, that
the side of a head is easier to face
when I, as a child, rarely saw more
than the pointed chin of an adult
looking down their nose. How I
wished, so innocently, for her approval;
to know that she would love
the fruit of my juvenile efforts
so that I would always feel
her arms wrapped around the
angles of those brittle tooth-pick
boxes I kept for shoulders.
My father, she drew him once –
the silver gel-ink sketch still sticks to the
fridge door. Perhaps she feared
that I would forget him.
Maybe I would have.
Maybe I have.
And sometimes I think that nothing
has changed, that I’m still a child
with a hole for a memory, because
I’m still facing life side on, and
vying for my mother’s approval so
that she’ll never leave.
The Koi PondHer father had had koi fish for as long as she could remember.
Ever since she was a little girl, she had been hunched by the small pond in the garden with her father, looking at the beautiful fish and feeding them with bits of fish food.
He used to tell her that the koi fish could grant wishes if you wished hard enough.
She was a grown woman now, staring at the small pond with memories flashing before her eyes. She remembered how her father had been sitting on his knees, carefully picking fallen leaves from the water so they wouldn't clutter the small pond. The loving care he had put into arranging the white chalked stones around it and planting Forget-me-nots between them.
Her mother's favourite flowers.
It saddened her to see how the white paint was flaking from the stones, and how weed had crept in between the cracks to strangle the delicate flowers. As she watched, a crimson leaf tore free from the half naked branch of the old tree close to the pond, floating gently through the
dragonfly wingsi. There is an entire generation of humans who grew up learning how to be murderers,
learning how to wound creatures for an audience and a laugh, and oh
how they love to laugh, pigtailed executioners
and torturers of all that frail life
that could be contained in a quiet garden.
ii. They take spiders by their bellies and put them one each on two ends of a stick,
and they poke and prod and push until one decides to eat the other,
for there must be a duel, there must be a death, or there is no fun,
and the children will race off to find new things to hurt.
They take dragonflies by the wings and stick their jewel tails into electric sockets,
playing god in their pajamas, leaving peanut butter fingerprints
on the little pockets of heaven they find and fight over,
keeping the pretty pieces for their scrapbooks, like you could trap life
beneath scotch tape and label it between lines red-blue-red.
iii. Well maybe they know better, if you want to believe there's a muted brilliance
hidd
I am a Poeti am a poet
 i can not speak
     (not with my mouth)
the ink on that page:
  shouts the passion of my soul &
 cries with vengeance
i am a poet
  my work
strings together my thoughts,
 and knits a golden fleece
to revive my tired bones
i am a poet
the world is not a happy place
  my writing unveils that,
  strips it bare
and leaves it hanging
  off of four lined stanzas
I am a poet
    and I will be heard


Issue Six of MDF is out, featuring the extremely talented your-methamphetamine! Her beautiful work is wonderfully thought provoking and deep, and we are delighted to have the opportunity to feature such a talented writer in our humble little literary magazine.

See her work here: moderndayfairytales.weebly.com…

Also, I can't believe it but my piece
Nothing Lives Foreveri.
When you were a child, we would sit on the porch to talk about your day. And sometimes, we would find a dead bird, or a frog on there. And you would ask me about death and why it happens, looking at the poor creature in my hands, its life cut short and touch it tenderly. I would always say the same thing.
Nothing is meant to live forever, my dear.
ii.
The school called me in on your twelfth birthday and asked if I had known how clever you were, that your test scores were the best in the state. They asked me if I knew I had a genius child on my hands who grew bored easily in class and tended to distract others in his classroom, sometimes causing arguments, fistfights and could manipulate his classmates into doing anything.
We don't think this is the school for him. He needs to be challenged appropriately.
iii.
You fell in love at seventeen and she was lovely. Kind, caring and beautiful, I couldn't ask for a better girl for you. She was our neighbour
has got a DD! Thank you to hypermagical for suggesting it and to DorianHarper for featuring it!

A LITTLE ABOUT THE MAGAZINE


Modern Day Fairytales is a literary journal dedicated to showcasing the very best of magical, whimsical fantasy based poetry, flash fiction and micro reads. If you believe that this description fits your work, then please feel free to submit your work to us. We promise to respect your work, your ideas and treat you with the greatest care because we know that it is not easy to share your words with strangers.  

FEATURES


Some of the lovely works I have read this week and been inspired by.

Autumn was my first love.October, I follow you -
from the magic lights of New York
to moonshines in Georgia,
until the colors dissolve.
The anxious poetry of autumn
made a memory of me.
Here’s to things I take for granted:
September blues,
chasing airplanes,
country road thunderstorms.
Unspoken words, unwritten ideas.
October, I follow you;
I thought I saw you on the shore
where the river runs through gold
on the last boat leaving the city of a hundred spires -
or perhaps Pittsburgh
(it was the lights I guess).
Here’s to the things we leave behind:
sunbeams in November,
letters addressed to no one,
poems, wounds, dead birds.
I’ve got that summertime sadness.
Maybe you’re gonna come back;
we’re changing our ways, taking different roads
and loneliness knows me by name
but October, I follow you;
without you I’m a winter heart,
a love story you don’t want,
a November shade of grey hunting ghosts
in cities that sleep inside our heads.
You told me you lied the night you kiss
His queen, my muse.Pomegranate seeds
have the most
bitter of tastes.
She is more
than a myth,
you know;
unsullied
and untainted,
a spring's
breeze with
the most
arabesque
of lips.
There are more
flames beneath her
skin than in all of
Hades. With every
breath she takes,
winter cries out
for redemption.
She is magenta.
A maiden of
jasper and agate;
lily eyelashes and
locks of supple ivy.
His goddess:
eternal,
unwavering—
a hyacinth among
weeds and sweet
harvest among
the wretched.
she can't keep secrets, i can't keep friendsthe first time I see her in months,
she still hugs me like i’m the only thing
keeping her world up.
i remember a time when this was true.
we do not talk about anything we used to—
those things have become taboo,
almost while our heads were turned away.
subjects are now landmines, with us tiptoeing around them,
me in my beat up converse and her in her sky-high stilettos.
we do not talk about how she did not say goodbye.
we do not talk about her old-new-old-old-gone boyfriend.
we don’t mention any new holes in my heart
or any new episodes of a now cancelled television show.
we do not talk about the new kid who looks like her
and we don’t talk about the school of new kids she looks at every morning.
i do not tell her that i have written seventeen poems about her
because she does not understand my way of letting go.
i do not tell her that it is close to October
and i have stopped marking off days on my calendar
and today i haven’t eaten any food
but i doubt sh

things I learned at 11 am while I was half-asleepi
I’m spending most of my time
not crying, and I’m sorry,
but I don’t think I’ll ever love anyone
as much as aspirin, or lullabies,
or the cheap wine  sold for two dollars a bottle,  
or overly-apologetic letters bending over backwards
to make a point of themselves, or the pink petals
blooming on my wrists like flesh and blood miracles,
or the songs named after women
worth loving.
ii
Radical acceptance
is understanding
things may not change,
but you will have to.
iii
I am most alone
surrounded by people
and the buzzing in my head of words
that should have lost their meaning
back when I discovered
they never meant anything
at all.
iv
Dedications are only relevant
to people who appreciate shitty poetry,
or you.  Insanity is writing the same thing
over and over and expecting it not
to sound clichéd.
v
and as much as anyone will swear otherwise,
I am a statistic. A number, an example,
a case study in the manipulation of
narcissism and moving on
slowly, and then all at onceand for once, he slips on his wedding ring, to cure the monotony.  it slides over his knuckle, a perfect fit, and in the morning release of sunlight the silver gleams at him.  it glares, calling him a liar: she is not a whorehouse and you are too broke to own her, you harlot, you.  he buttons up, tucks in his shirt tail, and buckles his belt.  the clinking of metal parts is the only sound in the room besides the dusting of her breathing beside him.  and when he's gone, the only thing he leaves behind are the bruises on her collarbone.
-
you find him because you're lonely, (well, it's actually the opposite.)  he finds you because his wardrobe is black and his shoes are scuffed and he asks you where your castle is.  you're the only princess he sees 'round here.  the rain soaks into his shirt and he curses it, grinning.  and damn girl, you follow him, because you think you see some kinda warmth in his ice blue eyes.
-
it takes you days t
removedi feel separate
to time and place
from others -
not lost
i am not lost
i always know where i am, i am
painfully aware of that
fidelic whore-- this is appropriation
my sweet synchronicity ,
i have downed your appetite
in a bed of front teeth 
(it is morning in perth
midnight in dublin, and the noon
sun has been lost behind
a dress of mothy curtains)
do i taste of
your forethought 
of love making;
do i reek of
the weeds that 
have infiltrated
the posture of your spine?
-
you bend over
my lap a curve of guilt
and weep all night.
i collect each knob of your body
like a gift. press it to my mouth.
swallow, spit.

CompressWhen I was young, my mother
taught me how to draw the curves
of a profile.
Strange to think, of course, that
the side of a head is easier to face
when I, as a child, rarely saw more
than the pointed chin of an adult
looking down their nose. How I
wished, so innocently, for her approval;
to know that she would love
the fruit of my juvenile efforts
so that I would always feel
her arms wrapped around the
angles of those brittle tooth-pick
boxes I kept for shoulders.
My father, she drew him once –
the silver gel-ink sketch still sticks to the
fridge door. Perhaps she feared
that I would forget him.
Maybe I would have.
Maybe I have.
And sometimes I think that nothing
has changed, that I’m still a child
with a hole for a memory, because
I’m still facing life side on, and
vying for my mother’s approval so
that she’ll never leave.
The Koi PondHer father had had koi fish for as long as she could remember.
Ever since she was a little girl, she had been hunched by the small pond in the garden with her father, looking at the beautiful fish and feeding them with bits of fish food.
He used to tell her that the koi fish could grant wishes if you wished hard enough.
She was a grown woman now, staring at the small pond with memories flashing before her eyes. She remembered how her father had been sitting on his knees, carefully picking fallen leaves from the water so they wouldn't clutter the small pond. The loving care he had put into arranging the white chalked stones around it and planting Forget-me-nots between them.
Her mother's favourite flowers.
It saddened her to see how the white paint was flaking from the stones, and how weed had crept in between the cracks to strangle the delicate flowers. As she watched, a crimson leaf tore free from the half naked branch of the old tree close to the pond, floating gently through the
dragonfly wingsi. There is an entire generation of humans who grew up learning how to be murderers,
learning how to wound creatures for an audience and a laugh, and oh
how they love to laugh, pigtailed executioners
and torturers of all that frail life
that could be contained in a quiet garden.
ii. They take spiders by their bellies and put them one each on two ends of a stick,
and they poke and prod and push until one decides to eat the other,
for there must be a duel, there must be a death, or there is no fun,
and the children will race off to find new things to hurt.
They take dragonflies by the wings and stick their jewel tails into electric sockets,
playing god in their pajamas, leaving peanut butter fingerprints
on the little pockets of heaven they find and fight over,
keeping the pretty pieces for their scrapbooks, like you could trap life
beneath scotch tape and label it between lines red-blue-red.
iii. Well maybe they know better, if you want to believe there's a muted brilliance
hidd
I am a Poeti am a poet
 i can not speak
     (not with my mouth)
the ink on that page:
  shouts the passion of my soul &
 cries with vengeance
i am a poet
  my work
strings together my thoughts,
 and knits a golden fleece
to revive my tired bones
i am a poet
the world is not a happy place
  my writing unveils that,
  strips it bare
and leaves it hanging
  off of four lined stanzas
I am a poet
    and I will be heard


Issue five of MDF is out featuring our own chromeantennae's microfiction Romantic Awakenings! If you don't know Ricky, then you really should. He's a gifted writer, a good friend and an all around awesome person. He writes the most delightful microfiction and is a big support to the literature community!

See his work here: 

Also, we now have a wikipedia page! en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Modern_D…


A LITTLE ABOUT THE MAGAZINE


Modern Day Fairytales is a literary journal dedicated to showcasing the very best of magical, whimsical fantasy based poetry, flash fiction and micro reads. If you believe that this description fits your work, then please feel free to submit your work to us. We promise to respect your work, your ideas and treat you with the greatest care because we know that it is not easy to share your words with strangers.  

FEATURES


Sometimes we find work that amazes us or impresses us greatly! Deviantart has so many great writers it is hard to feature them all in one go (or this would be a massive article!) Here are this week's features!


She was hisHope can be dragged through memories
and ice skate blades; it can be
gracelessly covered with clothes
that mismatch the seasons, but
it butterflies inside her chest with a simple
brush of chastened skin.
lately.he holds the dying stub
of a cigarette 
between his fingers,
the stars
drinking up the decaying smoke
that curls from his lips.
i do not look at him-
it was me
that came here,
and it was my idea
to see him,
but i would rather see the grass die beneath my shoes
than to meet his eyes.
i don't want to be rude. do you want a smoke?


(it's not like i try
to find the unspoken i miss you
in his words;
and it's not like i have to tell myself not to be upset
when i don't see it.) 
perched on the edge 
of a disintegrating swing 
with the atmosphere eating away at his skin
he looks like an empty paragraph.
i wonder 
who his author is.
maybe it's the cold
or maybe
it's the fact 
that it's been over fifty-six blood boiling hours
since i've had my last drag,
but i find myself shrugging
as i reached forward and open my hand.
the little roll
falls into my palm, 
an offering 
from the gods;
thanks.


all i can do
is hope that h
<da:thumb id="399137687"/> to the woman who eats cold apricotswhat didn't you give to yourself?
you must see it in me, how i wear
heels like i'm not sure who put them
on. how i don't talk about the ones
who put me on my knees. how i stay
there now willingly. i wonder if you
ever swabbed the back of your throat
like stroking the swathe of scales
sheathing a snake or if my acts are
the physical manifestation of what you
have been trying to do for years: pull
out the shame. i wish i could love myself
half as much as the love i wish i could give
to you
because i know that i pinch my thighs
like you know i dream of pleasing you know
i can't sleep like you know i eat like you
go mute like you drift through memories like
you. the limitations, those persistent lip
peeling lines, where i want to tell you
i can't decide what disgusts me more: the excess
or the inadequacy. the part where i buy the
two-piece for the beach or the part where i
am scared to wear it, where i wonder if poseidon
will turn me into a sea urchin for my unsightly
audacity or pity the

Gathering MossWe all roll down hill once and a while, and by chance do we gather moss.
From green lips comes the kiss of vegetation
passionately burning from sun leafs
yet unforgiving as poison oak  
Fingers rooting from soil crooked looking for water
as dew falls towards the sky
and they suffer thirsty
Stones un-bleeding
As cold as stone, buried deep like coal, everyone of us have roles.
But I find myself rolling and tossed
We once and a while are rocks gathering moss.
Chalk OutlineA chalk outline waits for me
sometimes it slips into bed with my shadow
and I can do nothing but roll my eyes
like a mis=abused and weary parent,
but every night when my shadow
merges with the edges of the day's page
and blurs into a dirty midnight orange
I lie in bed and shudder;
without my shadow's protection I feel it,
a chalk outline waits for me.
5.00there is no fucking metaphor
for the way you tear me apart
it's something like lightning
ripping through the sky,
but also like the way
rivers slowly
make rocks
smooth
-
my brother is a statuemy brother has broad shoulders and a straight back.
he is a pillar of stone and a slab of concrete,
the way he marches around the house.
he has hair the consistency of canvas and his laugh
echoes like lions leading jungles. royalty,
some call it, how he sits
or taps his foot in time with his breaths:
quick then slow
quick then slow
quick then slow
again.
his artistry is bending, although he does it backwards
sometimes for the wrong people. he is carved from marble,
his chiseled muscles moving
in a sort of dance that lacks music or a partner.
he likes numbers.
counts the leaves of lettuce he allows himself,
counts his low test scores toward his inadequacy.
his statue cracks and crumbles,
his voice rises like an unwanted sun.
his sockets sprout green-tinted moss.
my brother is frozen in time, transfixed stone
with a list of spineless claims.
he is still learning to straighten.
<da:thumb id="399104213"/>
the difference between usI’ve spent far too much time
feeling small compared to you,
weaving a nest of uncertainty,
nursing doubt in my chest
like a small bird.
far too recently, I realised
that I’d been dealing in
absolutes,
and the universe does not lend itself
to those.
to a true titan
a giant is a pygmy;
scale, not size, matters.
degenerate aestheticOut all day carving
windows into the sun
to see the sky fill
with newborns making
labile signatures. Another
fleet of events & causes
and you lose your neck
in the coming together
of psychics & almanacs.
For you alone, a sculptress
tills the surface of the
oceanic and to you alone,
the abyss comes forth
in colors, in flowers,
like daughters having been
given astronomical names.
Here, a quiet of nitrogen
diffuses pacific laughter
over brick houses that
should have been glimmers
in the mist kicked up
by our revolutions, but
navigating your skin was
such a pleasurable divination.
what you bring to the tableyou know, today i read that humans
are made out of stars
and i found that really interesting
because we all look up to celebrities so much,
like they’re sent from the heavens
when it turns out,
we are too.
your mom gave birth to you and
i think that’s beautiful—
the way one living thing can make
another living thing
and the second be completely different and unique
from any living thing that has ever lived before it.
but i also think it’s beautiful the way
you are made up of things older than
you can dream to be and it doesn’t define you
and it doesn’t break you and it doesn’t really change you—
you could have been a dwarf star or someone’s sun,
but now you can be anything you want and if you’re lucky
someone’s world can still
revolve around you.
worship yourself. love the bend in your spine
when you’re carrying a backpack full of your future,
the squint in your eyes from staying up too late,
your feet that without
I fell from the sky when I tried to kill god.I gathered wild grief stricken boys
And stored them in glass jars
Their moon shine eyes hooded,
Under the train tracks red light glow
Much like the local strip of neon slit sidewalks.
I realized I was not so much the Doreen in my queer little life
So much as I was Esther.
When I’d take slugs of cheap wine whilst reading the classics
And writing obscure essays and analysing dead poets
Licking the burgundy liquid from my wrists
And mopping up the spilled ink
With my frayed sleeves.
The autumn air smells of rot and I can’t help but reminisce
About bonfires in old abandoned warehouses
Where we’d run across open fields that split the sky
Open and twisted it into
Something like a looking glass
Except there’s no fire in your eyes.
Just watered down sonnets about girls who work at diners
For minimum wage, who get into cheap bars,
And drink martinis with rich business men.
Maybe we were born to be the lost generation
Or maybe silver linings
Are just the silver refract

don't tell me you're up to it again.1.
i've tried to eat the dust on my walls
my guts are already coated in the stuff, anyway;
for i'll take papers i've used for nothing
and burn them in the backyard
the fire smells like cigarettes,
man, i could use one of those;
but i can't swim in the lava i’ve fabricated like little stars burning
you know, i’ve never liked the heat.
2.
my lips are better off fried
than sealed,
but I know I can’t stop your secret
from being gutted
Oh dear,
my god,
what have you done this time?
don't tell me you’re up to it again.
3.
boney fingers attached to hands shake with the twinge of
remorse i'd been warned about.
but i blame it on the caffeine
in that lousy expensive latte.
smokey whispers course through my veins
“oh dear,
my god,
what have you done this time?”
3b.
crying is a chore.
because instead of the dust collecting in your stomach,
it collects upon your face
and it's quite hard to see through.
my vision is cobwebs
and darkness now
smoke from the fire res
Of Stormy Seas and Hammering Gales...Hey Angel where did you get that sling?
I have a bottle of glue and feathers
I will build you a set of wings
And together, we will soar
Amid the roar
Of stormy seas and hammering gales
With our own wind driving our sails
Hey, Ghost where did you get those scars?
It's ok, I have a telescope
So you can see the love in the stars
Sometimes you will be looking away
But please find there is beauty in every day
Like a diamond, you are unique
Just try and see the serenity in each day you greet
Hey, Devil where did you get that bruise?
I have a salve for those dark rings
If you look closely the Light has many hues
Yet they all forge the same
Yet are always subject to change
Just like the hues of light are infinite
The Sunlight is always Intricate.
Hey, Rainbow where did you get that gun?
It's alright; we can patch up those holes
You can't always stay on the run
But I'm here to hold your hand
Until you find your way back to land
Let your colors shine bright
Close your eyes, we will never lose si
Light"Light:"
She--
with pearly whites,
and glittering fingertips--
embraced the world,
called it "earth,"
and became mother "sun"
and it might be heardi have been wondering what
makes us so lucky
i feel good to have someone
who makes me feel so alive
in every way--
but maybe you feel lucky too
though you would pick another word
that i cannot think of now
it feels like the tables have turned
and dinner hasn't even gotten cold,
the way i was never exactly
poised for greatness but suddenly
am saved from the graceful boredom
of heaven and death and all of its
advocates. there is no home for me
amongst riddles and eyeless ghosts.
here i spend my nights flying
beneath your white wings,
letting you feed on the
tar that sits in my ugly soul
while i get drunk and high and
sleep in the warm glow
of your skin, lantern soft.
the word i should
use here is, "devoured."
pretend you don't know me,
your princess in the sky drinking
herself half awake with tears in
her eyes. wet eyes, she pretends
none of it matters.
you make me dizzy with bliss,
whispering supplication. something
cold is breathing in on my windows,
and it's so close that sometimes
yo
28 daysthey came over on a boat, i imagine,
(for i was not the there and they do not speak of it)
they came over on a boat i imagine,
just like the rest of them,
from lucerne or bavaria or kaposvar or drywseved
escaping medieval forests, rain playing peat bogs
like organ keyboards,
they were farmers, sown to wheat like arranged marriage,
mike had one ox, two bulls and a chest like stone & mortar,
he was a good man, looked god in the eyes at dawn,
whispered secrets to his bedsheets at night,
ed, ed was a freight train, handlebar moustache & coal-fired cheeks,
when he was eleven, ed built the honesdale canal with nothing except
his hands and the lord as a witness,
don't take my word for it but rumor has it there was a little napoleon
in him after all,
it was after the war,
the one of blue and grey and red
they must've looked up like children do
must've seen her, slow dancing in the harbor,
marveled at the way her arm never grew weary, brow never sweaty,
the way the green brown water smiled up a

Exhale, AmaryllisMid-summer heatwave,
I push through humid air,
like dreams of swimming, graceful,
through the streets. 
Chest aching, I
inhale heavy, tangible air
thick with scent of summer's bounty.
Honeysuckle vines tangle in my lungs, 
perfume my breath.
My sighs exhale nectar
past my lips;
words glint in sunlight.
Berry brambles twist into my veins,
thorns prick for blood from inside-out;
honey-suckle oxidized breath,
painting white blossoms red:
My heart was a pure-white bloom once,
but I inhaled arrows of golden sunlight
and bled forth Amaryllis.

july 14th (1:58 am)add a hundred miles
for every year
between us
find the day
when I can say
that's your best smile
maybe time's just a compass
(and an arrow's accomplice)
and all it's accomplished
is pointing
the way
for a while
Moonbeam MayhemMidnight on bare skin--
a subtle kiss of stardust
on a lonesome heart.


Hello everyone! A quick update to let you all know that Issue Four of MDF is out and features some of the most brilliant writers! Here is a brief bit about the stories!

  • Prince Charming is a delightful poem by Nicole Chapman.
  • The Treasure at the End of the Rainbow is a story about leprechaun hunting by David W. Landrum.
  • Rampion is Extra is a fun take on the Rapunzel story by Jocelyn Koehler.
  • Three wishes is a lovely little poem by Cassandra Arnold.
Also, we now have a wikipedia page! en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Modern_D…


A LITTLE ABOUT THE MAGAZINE


Modern Day Fairytales is a literary journal dedicated to showcasing the very best of magical, whimsical fantasy based poetry, flash fiction and micro reads. If you believe that this description fits your work, then please feel free to submit your work to us. We promise to respect your work, your ideas and treat you with the greatest care because we know that it is not easy to share your words with strangers.  

FEATURES


More amazing writers on deviantart!

nothing lies forever               & if
               we kiss
               it's because I can't
               find you
               among the grassy ribbons
               of your old zeta ego
               & if I miss tongue,
               teeth and cheeks
               let the pavement carve
               new mouths into my tights
               she writes an another
               poem about cigarettes
               her east coast
             
Beneath the RoseI can't burn the street down, the tar will fill our lungs,
I can't fix the bridges, or the bolts bedded in our tongues.
I can't explain the constant, buried deep beneath the rose,
with all the other things I broke; death and all erodes.

even so.you were my eternal bad feeling.
that lingering kick in my gut, from not knowing what stupid or self destructive thing you would be doing today.
you drank too much, and i tired to pry too many bottles out of your hands in the time i loved you.
not to say i dont still love you, but its different now. its a habit, or just the leftovers of the real thing.  somewhere it got too much, the nights got too long, and i was fighting you more than i was fighting for you. the odds were stacking up against us, and i knew i had to get out of there before they buried us.
so i let them bury you.
When A Soldier Returns“Make sure you come back alive” they said.
You’ll be strong.
You’ll be a hero.
We’ll all be proud.
Many times (when I dodged the bullets)
I thought of them never holding me again.
You can’t reach into a casket without spilling tears.
But I did make it.
I was going home.
I did come back alive.
I was a ‘hero’.
But I wasn't strong.
They won’t hold me again (or say how proud they were).
You can’t reach into rubble without spilling tears.
crushed moleculesthere is dirt in my veins:
while a monument, a dirge,
plays me weightless
i carry myself in the echoes
i clothe myself in chemicals
a steady refurbishment--
skin cells live for an average
of three weeks but blood
stains carpet for always
(and some dirt also
cannot be washed clean).

wraithI wonder what it would be like to disappear,
to fade into the shadows of existence and become something truly insubstantial,
wandering as a lonely creature with one translucent hand dipped in the reality of this crowded world, and the other making ripples in a world of its own strange imaginings.
I wonder if the burden of constantly feeling out-of-place in this colorless life would finally dwindle away to nothing –
as the substance left my body and I became nothing more than a hovering phantom, would the grief of being real flee with it?
Sometimes I wish I could test this theory of wistful thinking and finally leave behind the guilt of being who I was:
one little human of very little value – usually a waste of space, and always a nuisance and burden to everyone around me…
I imagine I would feel better, simply being allowed the chance to observe the other beings of flesh and blood wandering this perception of reality,
knowing (with relief) that I would never ag
Gardening for dummiesHer head is a flowery poem,
filled with pots and weeds
and mother earth
dug deep in roots and taciturn.
Now no one will come near,
but she has thorns
and worm-filled words,
and a spade for planting
the lesser verse…
but the loneliness
she buries
beneath roots and words
and stanza stems
until it digs ant tunnels
to resurface
again.
Silent CompanionHe sat in front of his bedroom wall, staring at the dark shape before him. The creature, brought to life by the night light plugged into the opposite wall, remained unheard. In its silence, it watched him and his every move, mimicking each little movement perfectly. Its presence expected, yet fearful in the mind of a lonesome child. Tonight, his dreams had abandoned him, despite several attempts to call them forth. So he sat facing the shape, and fashioned his fingers in various designs and characters in the darkness, bringing them to life on the wall. Several minutes passed, or perhaps hours, but his fingers grew weary. Bored of the play which had amused for so long, he sighed and stared once again at the wall.
He rose to his feet and placed his hands flat against the wall, connecting himself to his silent friend. The wall was cold to the touch, but he remained undeterred in his quest. A single finger traced the creature's outline, being as careful as he could so he did not cause his
Of Fire, Stone, and WingsDespairing, I went to the fire
– of all things most alive –
and kneeling pleaded
how to live?
Spake the fire: “Burn.”
And
I
burned.
With hair aflame and sparking eyes
I danced;
fire in my ribcage, my throat filled with smoke,
hands and fingers
burning
'til all I left of me was ashes
and smould'ring coals.
Despairing, I went to the stone
– of all things most solid –
and flick'ring pleaded
how to last?
Spake the stone: “Still.”
And
I
stilled.
Without words
without motion
without breath,
I grew
heavy,
cold.
Despairing, I went to the songbird
– of all things most joyful –
and weeping pleaded
how to sing?
Spake the songbird: “Fly.”
And
I
fell.

this is me being bravea study of stripes completed,
results inconclusive-- we're still asking
the wrong questions to private matters
printed in the morning paper.
(stop being so selfish, love,
it's not always about you, or what you think.
do[n't] tie someone else's noose with
your thoughts and feelings; we learn from example.)
parsleyI felt guilty about it --
typing instead of writing, I mean,
and there was something else
something I tried to type out
before I couldn't
-
it was about how
two people lost something
no, not lost,
it was taken, I suppose
although they had no choice
sometime past 0800
Wednesday morning
I wrote about how she remembered
wearing a blue gown;
it tied at the front
and she had to wear the silliest shoes
they kept falling off
there were other girls in the waiting room,
one was alone and had
pretty cheeks and white hair
but the other girl -
the one with the silly shoes,
she saw the circle on the screen a second time,
and he had to wait outside;
she cried in front of the surgeon
who didn't hold her hand,
maybe he was used to it
there was more waiting -
another lady told the girl
how she felt numb,
but she had cried a lot, before
something about allergies and
waking up after twelve minutes;
another room,
the surgeon was there,
and didn't smile
-
she woke up in a chair,
smothered in blankets
like
4 things about a boy who called himself man1.
he would reply,
"well, you asked for a man, didn't you?"
and i would have to press my
whole-lotta-honey colored lips together
and whisper,
"and i got one, didn't i?"
his words were always cold when he was with me.
2.
the thing i loved most
about him was the fact that he wanted
to teach me.
about the things he loved,
about music, about appreciation,
and i think at some point he wanted to teach me
love.
(he just didn't go about it
the right way, i don't think.)
"i want you to have these experiences,
even if we don't
end up together."
and i guess that should've been
my warning sign.
y'know:
that we weren't going to end up together.
3.
it's not easy to remember the little
stuff about me.
it's not easy to remember
all my little dates and the fact that
i'm sick or need medicine.
(and i guess
that since he was the first one to do it,
it just attracted me more,
and i suffered for hoping that he loved me,
too.)
it's not easy to remember me.
but i don't think he'll forget me.
4.
sometimes, wh
schadenfreudei found love
in your bone structure,
troublingly beautiful
with your soul worn across your lips.
you remind me of the sunshine
i lost in the circles
i left behind
to find someone an ocean
less far.
instead,
i am here,
watching the birds take flight
from the edges of your mouth,
watching their wings curl
with every word
strained with an accent
owned by my ancestors
born on ships.
i want you to tell me again
about the times
you found a purity in his eyes,
the blank skin upon which
they were set like jewels
and those when
you grinned cheekily
when i told you how
terribly beautiful
you really were.
i find myself wishing,
which brings paperweights
to my ankles as i
swim the seas,
that the water in which
i am sinking
would part for the benefit
of my heart;
that your contagion
would not touch me;
that,
instead,
you would.

From Mia, With Lovelast night i caught her with a finger so far down the back of her throat,
she pulled up her thoughts
into all the water
a refraction of light &
a trout
suspended until suddenly all the water in her head sloshes
(a faint inner ripple
as the pain leaks out her ears, her nose)
she was gasping to throw herself onto the next comma
but no
she sinks or swims [the cliche, a baracuda, drags her down]
but if this was a love song
she'd hate it
because she's already written 46 on her hand
to remind herself she's only human & a weak gag reflex runs in her family
so walk straight in, my love
& sink to the bottom
six feet under these bulimic stars
in the blink of an eyeshe was born on a day when
tectonic plates were crashing against each other
and i think that’s a good metaphor for her:
she was always the kind of person who fought
battles, even ones she couldn’t win.
she was a mess of moments she should have
taken seriously and too many times she tried
to laugh off the pain.
i learned how to care about other people
too much by watching her.
diagnosed as a grenade, she told me one day,
sure to blow up in someone’s face.
you’re going to be fine, i told her.
just let me leave, she said and
i couldn’t.
i wish i had, but i couldn’t,
not until she kicked and screamed her way
out of the doors, resenting everything
that stayed, a friend by memory alone.
i still have the scars  from her detonation.
i will probably carry then with me until
i, too, leave.
fast friends make fast ends make sad ends make
wondering when she stopped caring
enough to not even want to say goodbye.
to the new girl, don’t worry:
i don
beliefshumming a tune that rattled her bones as though she were a bottle of pills, she counted all the times she'd been a burden in her life. she figured it equaled nothing less than her number of breaths. laying in bed and surrounded by pillows, she tried to quiet the sound; but her body betrayed her. "you can't hide behind a closed mouth," her guts moaned, and she huddled into herself to silence them.
when she walked, it was with a careful precision she'd developed from balancing on ledges in her dreams. night after night, she withstood the trembling of her aching frame. like a ship being tossed, her bones creaked under the strain of the storm inside her. she wondered how long she could keep it restrained.
the only calm she'd ever tasted was the center of the storm; and now she felt her own hurricane twisting the wilderness within. she found her beliefs, the redwoods of her being, uprooted with the abruptness of a fitful toddler tossing her head to the floor. it would hurt. it did hurt. but
maria:she is splayed
beneath the moon, a
[star]fish out of
water;
 
dry-eyed &
melancholy, she
swallows the sounds of
summer,
 
devours clumsily
keyed piano concertos
& suddenly, she
realizes - this
 
is how it must feel to
be [at peace
with] death.
Hello everyone! A quick update to let you all know that Issue Three of MDF is out and features some of the most brilliant writers on dA and outside of dA! Here are some of their biographies to read!

  • Kim Peter Kovac loves telling stories - on stage with plays for young audiences, on the page with poems, prose poems, creative non-fiction, mostly for adults. 
  • Chen Yuan Wen rose from the streets, so he could write in the skies. On deviantart, he is known as WordofChen.
  • Matthew "Crash" has been creative writing for the past nine years. He began writing punk music lyrics in at the age of fifteen and has developed several interests in creative writing including two books (in progress), a television comedy (in progress), electronic music/lyrics and poetry. On deviantart, he is known as RejectedSavior.

NEW CATEGORY


And finally to celebrate the launch of our new Short Story category (1000-5000 words), a wonderful writer who runs three literary journals of his own and has written story collections Children & Other Wicked Things (James Ward Kirk Fiction, 2013), Hollow Boy (Horrified Press, 2014), and Always After Thieves Watch (Wildside Press, 2010); the dictionary Pirate Lingo (Wildside, 2009); the satirical novel The Pirates of St. Augustine (Wildside, 2011); and the poetic studies Dark Sayings of Old (Kirk Fiction, 2013), Golgotha (Punkin House, 2011), and Emhain Macha Dark Rain (RS Press, 2010), Scathe meic Beorh! 

Please do go have a look at the website here: Modern Day Fairytales

Spread the news so that more authors can get features on there!

A LITTLE ABOUT THE MAGAZINE


Modern Day Fairytales is a literary journal dedicated to showcasing the very best of magical, whimsical fantasy based poetry, flash fiction and micro reads. If you believe that this description fits your work, then please feel free to submit your work to us. We promise to respect your work, your ideas and treat you with the greatest care because we know that it is not easy to share your words with strangers.  

FEATURES


More amazing writers on deviantart!

nothing lies forever               & if
               we kiss
               it's because I can't
               find you
               among the grassy ribbons
               of your old zeta ego
               & if I miss tongue,
               teeth and cheeks
               let the pavement carve
               new mouths into my tights
               she writes an another
               poem about cigarettes
               her east coast
             
Beneath the RoseI can't burn the street down, the tar will fill our lungs,
I can't fix the bridges, or the bolts bedded in our tongues.
I can't explain the constant, buried deep beneath the rose,
with all the other things I broke; death and all erodes.

even so.you were my eternal bad feeling.
that lingering kick in my gut, from not knowing what stupid or self destructive thing you would be doing today.
you drank too much, and i tired to pry too many bottles out of your hands in the time i loved you.
not to say i dont still love you, but its different now. its a habit, or just the leftovers of the real thing.  somewhere it got too much, the nights got too long, and i was fighting you more than i was fighting for you. the odds were stacking up against us, and i knew i had to get out of there before they buried us.
so i let them bury you.
When A Soldier Returns“Make sure you come back alive” they said.
You’ll be strong.
You’ll be a hero.
We’ll all be proud.
Many times (when I dodged the bullets)
I thought of them never holding me again.
You can’t reach into a casket without spilling tears.
But I did make it.
I was going home.
I did come back alive.
I was a ‘hero’.
But I wasn't strong.
They won’t hold me again (or say how proud they were).
You can’t reach into rubble without spilling tears.
crushed moleculesthere is dirt in my veins:
while a monument, a dirge,
plays me weightless
i carry myself in the echoes
i clothe myself in chemicals
a steady refurbishment--
skin cells live for an average
of three weeks but blood
stains carpet for always
(and some dirt also
cannot be washed clean).

wraithI wonder what it would be like to disappear,
to fade into the shadows of existence and become something truly insubstantial,
wandering as a lonely creature with one translucent hand dipped in the reality of this crowded world, and the other making ripples in a world of its own strange imaginings.
I wonder if the burden of constantly feeling out-of-place in this colorless life would finally dwindle away to nothing –
as the substance left my body and I became nothing more than a hovering phantom, would the grief of being real flee with it?
Sometimes I wish I could test this theory of wistful thinking and finally leave behind the guilt of being who I was:
one little human of very little value – usually a waste of space, and always a nuisance and burden to everyone around me…
I imagine I would feel better, simply being allowed the chance to observe the other beings of flesh and blood wandering this perception of reality,
knowing (with relief) that I would never ag
Gardening for dummiesHer head is a flowery poem,
filled with pots and weeds
and mother earth
dug deep in roots and taciturn.
Now no one will come near,
but she has thorns
and worm-filled words,
and a spade for planting
the lesser verse…
but the loneliness
she buries
beneath roots and words
and stanza stems
until it digs ant tunnels
to resurface
again.
Silent CompanionHe sat in front of his bedroom wall, staring at the dark shape before him. The creature, brought to life by the night light plugged into the opposite wall, remained unheard. In its silence, it watched him and his every move, mimicking each little movement perfectly. Its presence expected, yet fearful in the mind of a lonesome child. Tonight, his dreams had abandoned him, despite several attempts to call them forth. So he sat facing the shape, and fashioned his fingers in various designs and characters in the darkness, bringing them to life on the wall. Several minutes passed, or perhaps hours, but his fingers grew weary. Bored of the play which had amused for so long, he sighed and stared once again at the wall.
He rose to his feet and placed his hands flat against the wall, connecting himself to his silent friend. The wall was cold to the touch, but he remained undeterred in his quest. A single finger traced the creature's outline, being as careful as he could so he did not cause his
Of Fire, Stone, and WingsDespairing, I went to the fire
– of all things most alive –
and kneeling pleaded
how to live?
Spake the fire: “Burn.”
And
I
burned.
With hair aflame and sparking eyes
I danced;
fire in my ribcage, my throat filled with smoke,
hands and fingers
burning
'til all I left of me was ashes
and smould'ring coals.
Despairing, I went to the stone
– of all things most solid –
and flick'ring pleaded
how to last?
Spake the stone: “Still.”
And
I
stilled.
Without words
without motion
without breath,
I grew
heavy,
cold.
Despairing, I went to the songbird
– of all things most joyful –
and weeping pleaded
how to sing?
Spake the songbird: “Fly.”
And
I
fell.

this is me being bravea study of stripes completed,
results inconclusive-- we're still asking
the wrong questions to private matters
printed in the morning paper.
(stop being so selfish, love,
it's not always about you, or what you think.
do[n't] tie someone else's noose with
your thoughts and feelings; we learn from example.)
parsleyI felt guilty about it --
typing instead of writing, I mean,
and there was something else
something I tried to type out
before I couldn't
-
it was about how
two people lost something
no, not lost,
it was taken, I suppose
although they had no choice
sometime past 0800
Wednesday morning
I wrote about how she remembered
wearing a blue gown;
it tied at the front
and she had to wear the silliest shoes
they kept falling off
there were other girls in the waiting room,
one was alone and had
pretty cheeks and white hair
but the other girl -
the one with the silly shoes,
she saw the circle on the screen a second time,
and he had to wait outside;
she cried in front of the surgeon
who didn't hold her hand,
maybe he was used to it
there was more waiting -
another lady told the girl
how she felt numb,
but she had cried a lot, before
something about allergies and
waking up after twelve minutes;
another room,
the surgeon was there,
and didn't smile
-
she woke up in a chair,
smothered in blankets
like
4 things about a boy who called himself man1.
he would reply,
"well, you asked for a man, didn't you?"
and i would have to press my
whole-lotta-honey colored lips together
and whisper,
"and i got one, didn't i?"
his words were always cold when he was with me.
2.
the thing i loved most
about him was the fact that he wanted
to teach me.
about the things he loved,
about music, about appreciation,
and i think at some point he wanted to teach me
love.
(he just didn't go about it
the right way, i don't think.)
"i want you to have these experiences,
even if we don't
end up together."
and i guess that should've been
my warning sign.
y'know:
that we weren't going to end up together.
3.
it's not easy to remember the little
stuff about me.
it's not easy to remember
all my little dates and the fact that
i'm sick or need medicine.
(and i guess
that since he was the first one to do it,
it just attracted me more,
and i suffered for hoping that he loved me,
too.)
it's not easy to remember me.
but i don't think he'll forget me.
4.
sometimes, wh
schadenfreudei found love
in your bone structure,
troublingly beautiful
with your soul worn across your lips.
you remind me of the sunshine
i lost in the circles
i left behind
to find someone an ocean
less far.
instead,
i am here,
watching the birds take flight
from the edges of your mouth,
watching their wings curl
with every word
strained with an accent
owned by my ancestors
born on ships.
i want you to tell me again
about the times
you found a purity in his eyes,
the blank skin upon which
they were set like jewels
and those when
you grinned cheekily
when i told you how
terribly beautiful
you really were.
i find myself wishing,
which brings paperweights
to my ankles as i
swim the seas,
that the water in which
i am sinking
would part for the benefit
of my heart;
that your contagion
would not touch me;
that,
instead,
you would.

From Mia, With Lovelast night i caught her with a finger so far down the back of her throat,
she pulled up her thoughts
into all the water
a refraction of light &
a trout
suspended until suddenly all the water in her head sloshes
(a faint inner ripple
as the pain leaks out her ears, her nose)
she was gasping to throw herself onto the next comma
but no
she sinks or swims [the cliche, a baracuda, drags her down]
but if this was a love song
she'd hate it
because she's already written 46 on her hand
to remind herself she's only human & a weak gag reflex runs in her family
so walk straight in, my love
& sink to the bottom
six feet under these bulimic stars
in the blink of an eyeshe was born on a day when
tectonic plates were crashing against each other
and i think that’s a good metaphor for her:
she was always the kind of person who fought
battles, even ones she couldn’t win.
she was a mess of moments she should have
taken seriously and too many times she tried
to laugh off the pain.
i learned how to care about other people
too much by watching her.
diagnosed as a grenade, she told me one day,
sure to blow up in someone’s face.
you’re going to be fine, i told her.
just let me leave, she said and
i couldn’t.
i wish i had, but i couldn’t,
not until she kicked and screamed her way
out of the doors, resenting everything
that stayed, a friend by memory alone.
i still have the scars  from her detonation.
i will probably carry then with me until
i, too, leave.
fast friends make fast ends make sad ends make
wondering when she stopped caring
enough to not even want to say goodbye.
to the new girl, don’t worry:
i don
beliefshumming a tune that rattled her bones as though she were a bottle of pills, she counted all the times she'd been a burden in her life. she figured it equaled nothing less than her number of breaths. laying in bed and surrounded by pillows, she tried to quiet the sound; but her body betrayed her. "you can't hide behind a closed mouth," her guts moaned, and she huddled into herself to silence them.
when she walked, it was with a careful precision she'd developed from balancing on ledges in her dreams. night after night, she withstood the trembling of her aching frame. like a ship being tossed, her bones creaked under the strain of the storm inside her. she wondered how long she could keep it restrained.
the only calm she'd ever tasted was the center of the storm; and now she felt her own hurricane twisting the wilderness within. she found her beliefs, the redwoods of her being, uprooted with the abruptness of a fitful toddler tossing her head to the floor. it would hurt. it did hurt. but
maria:she is splayed
beneath the moon, a
[star]fish out of
water;
 
dry-eyed &
melancholy, she
swallows the sounds of
summer,
 
devours clumsily
keyed piano concertos
& suddenly, she
realizes - this
 
is how it must feel to
be [at peace
with] death.



PUBLISHED!


So of recent, I've had the good fortune to be featured in four online literary journals right here! I am pleased as punch and feel extremely blessed to have this good fortune, and thought I would share it here with you.



NEWS ABOUT MODERN DAY FAIRYTALES


Hello everyone!

So exciting news all around, Modern Day Fairytales is now officially Duotrope listed and I am so overwhelmed with the wonderful submissions I have been getting both from there and on deviantart. If you would like to see the listing it is here: Official Duotrope Listing

Also, I would like to announce, after the amazing contributors to Issue 1, Issue 2 is out and it features more wonderful writers such as GuinevereToGwen, NotenSMSK, and ravenwritingclaw

Thank you to all of you for being so wonderfully supportive and kind. I look forward to reading and showcasing more of your work and am currently playing with the idea of a quarterly print version of the journal for your entertainment!

Please do go have a look at the website here: Modern Day Fairytales

Spread the news so that more authors can get features on there!

A LITTLE ABOUT THE MAGAZINE


Modern Day Fairytales is a literary journal dedicated to showcasing the very best of magical, whimsical fantasy based poetry, flash fiction and micro reads. If you believe that this description fits your work, then please feel free to submit your work to us. We promise to respect your work, your ideas and treat you with the greatest care because we know that it is not easy to share your words with strangers.  

FEATURES


The following writing has moved me so much. Please do have a read. :)


shoresHonestly this is not the catastrophe
or the lonely tired preaching an end,
preaching the body's borders as a brittle coastline
preaching the probability of mountains
as absolute
What blooms from the traffic
in the youngest city in America-
I am learning that sleep is exile but not homesickness,
that every generation declares theirs the last.
What comes shakes the destination or it shakes the vessel
But either way god was excommunicated out of necessity
and our rain manufactured elsewhere for the same reason.
And I don't know who this heaviness belongs to,
the sky thick with a violet and red violence,
the translation is a sea which watches us back
But every single day we receive calls for asylum
through a bright universe of broken glass
rememberingRemembering
i.
I rarely remember the bridge and that lonely evening, where the season was changing its colors, and I stood, like the children stood on snowy days, looking out the window, at those two flocks of geese soaring past the city bridge. I rarely remember the section of the bridge that are your big eyes and straight nose, a smiling mouth with two dimples, the dimples of the boys that are very sweet.
Easily as the boats sway from dock to dock, the water covers the time of our life and the fisherman's oars dissolve our moments. Under our aimless boat is another world, a world split when we made that decision under the liquidating sun. I keep my eyes closed because I want to break like a fever, the way the soft river makes way for everything.
In the transience of the seasonal changes, we have all lost someone.
ii.
I told you to forget me, forget the way our movements merged with the twisted arch of a soaring forest, forget the crimson explosions on the print of the breakfast table
Acceptancehow do you sleep well on thoughts about how
tomorrow you're going to bleed all over the floor and the walls and your heart
is going to get smeared across someone's mouth and swallowed, consumed in everything from
vengeance to fear with so many sides to this story
how can you sleep without suffocating beneath the weight of
knowing tomorrow you'll breathe your last and maybe you'll have words before that
maybe not but maybe someone will be there to watch you, to watch over you
keep the vultures away and, worse, hold you close to watch you too closely
how is it you can smile and kiss me softly and tell me to rest my pretty head
knowing that it's probably the last time you'll get to press your mouth against mine while blood
still rushes through your blushing face in the most innocent, acceptable of ways
how are you not dying already oh love please don't tell me you're dying already
we've yet to begin living together like we're meant to please don't tell me you're
to the end of the earthif you should die
before the right time
i would hope the world
would stop spinning
and start crumbling away
until gravity was nonexistent
and i would run to the edge
until my feet lifted off the ground
and i was united with you once more

it's not enoughshe held her breath and jumped from the clifftop.
one.
two.
three.
the shockwave of her body slapping against the surface told her, breathe, breathe.
but she refused.
the waves smacked her upside the head.  breathe, breathe.
but she refused.
her lover pounded against her chest.  breathe, breathe.
she refused.
history remembers.i.
history repeats itself.
i realize this the fourth time i find myself on a couch
with the head of a boy i don’t know
between my stiff, nonresponding legs.
i realize this on the third sip of alcohol. on the fourth.
the fifth. the eleventh. the first time i black out. the eighth.
history repeats itself
and i am napoleon marching across russia
and i only pretend the water is poisoned.
i only pretend the earth is burned to ground.
i pretend that destruction is inevitable
and that help is not an option.
--
ii.
we got close, him and i.
sometimes you get so close to a person
you can feel their lips stiffen
when you try to kiss them.
sometimes you get close to a person,
under them, between damp sheets.
sometimes,
they never stop believing
that you are beneath them.
--
iii.
“help me,” he says. i say okay.
he tells me to sleep with him later
so i say the wrong name in bed,
but so does he;
he means it,
i say it because it’s the only way i can
I hope you are reading thisthe person I love loves music much too much
and the person I love loves that I love the quiet and easy days 
loves that I like to stay up late (or early) till the birds sing of morning and
the person I love loves that I love to hold hands and hold a body but only when I know them fully
and the person I love loves listening to my songs and listening to my voice and to my poetry and stories
the person I love has songs to share too and a voice that melts my heart and words that mold it back into something nostalgia old and inspired new
and the person I love loves to look around and take it in once in a while and wonders why we can’t just run away to a secluded place in the forest with a cabin that harbors all of our needs, keeps you and me in a space apart where it rains when we’re sad because we would always be sad together and where the sun is warm on our skin when we are smiling together and laughing together because I made a spectacular pun out of seemingly nothing sp

to my only crush.you were the first and last person i ever liked.
after the age of 14 something broke,
or maybe i just liked the thought of someone liking me back,
or the way you made me laugh.
i liked the concept of you,
until you grew up.
i've known you for 9 years, or known of you i suppose,
but i don't really know you. not anymore.
i know the you that was buried 4 years ago beside a father.
i never saw you break, but i saw the tailspin, the rubble after the crash.
you've been in a tailspin for years,
praying to a god you don't believe in to just stop the ride long enough for you to get your bearings.
you used to be the smell of hamburgers grilling and outdoors and pavement.
you were blue sky summers with my brothers,
your smile a stop sign for my 12 year old breath.
you were airsofting, halo, and the screamo band in the garage disrupting my reading.
you were jokes and guitar strings and water balloon fights.
but by the time i was 14 i'd outgrown liking you,
outgrown liking anyone at all
and you'd o
orionto remember your name
a rib of stars and heartwood,
shaped in the echo
of a careless sky. earthbound, i
am settling into the silky mists
before sleep, listening for the sound
of the river in you
dragging its heavy body
to the sea.
to have forgotten the whole of it
and remembered pieces. your hands over me
in a numerology
of habit, the arc and fall
like punctuation in a phrase.
those moments i felt the shape
of the letters underneath, hydrogen
and bone, promises branded
in dark. the phantom chase
that binds you. the poison carrying
your name.

to know you then,
already strung with ache and sinew
to the swinging axis of the sky,
fractured godhead sheathed
in wounds. and i,
a holy fool,
still writing prayers to sunken mattresses,
wilted gardens,  the cosmic pause
of your longing on mine--
before i sleep again
in this body full of ghosts
like an abandoned temple.
this cobwebbed vacancy,
ellipsis moon.
oh, my wandering hunter.
drowned compass bent
in the shape of artillery. gone again
Summer Days"Summer Days:"
Snug in my comfort clothes,
This feeling can't be beat
Air conditioning: keep the doors closed!
Else, you'll bask in summer heat
Not a care for hair, today
Your bedhead style will do
Sigh, let troubles melt away
(Including assignments due!)
'Tis the last day of summer!
Enjoy a cup, or few
Of your favorite flavored ice cream
And gain a pound or two!
Please, relish the lovely haze,
And reminisce your Summer Days!
woodland childthe sounds of the city
don't sing the same lullaby
as the whispers and cries
of the forest
and the stone buildings
don't soothe the same way
as the rain and the moon and
the stars

oceans in her lungsshe was tired. it wasn't the physical kind of tired. not the kind that can be fixed with exactly 8.5 hours of sleep. no. she was mentally tired, emotionally tired and that exhaustion had already seeped into her bones for such an extent of time that she couldn't remember a time when they weren't always so heavy. when it wasn't so damn hard to hold her head up high.
no amount of sleep helped. no amount of words eased the pain that was slowly turning her insides into mush. some nights she would just lay in bed, staring into the darkness and she would swear that it felt like she was drowning. her sorrows and the sheer amount of pain you managed to cause her flooding her body, pooling in her lungs. wave after wave crashed against her ribs until they were fractured with water seeping in and out in equal parts.
every time she inhaled it felt as if the water was coming a little closer. all of this because she'd fallen in love with you. you have no idea how tired you make her feel. how the cons
Oklahoma, where the wind came and swept you awayThe wind is sweeping down the plains, wheezing through the aching, battered homestead I yearned for. Amidst forever grass and azure oblivion, you eroded me more than wind ever could; reduced to crystalline rubble, you brushed me off into the carmine clay-dust beneath you and fled, leaving naught but unfillable footprints on unstable ground.
I know I can't build sand castles with these glassy silicon shards, but still I smother them with silt-ridden adhesive and pulverize them into a new shape--a form of me a mirror would admire for a Picasso. Mayhaps an artist's eye will find beauty here someday, but until then I will shelter from rain and locusts and seek a new self in all this titian-tinged glue.
the rainchild, the skin dripped from his fingers & the blood beneath was clearer than the truth, rivulets of rainsong pouring down the storm drain straight to the pacific ocean ; he never needed to cry. "the clouds
shed enough tears for all of us," he told me once and i remember
when i first met him, those arms outstretched & palms like little pools, oases running through lifelines. the fortune teller told him he would only live as long
as the storm
"it's the water in my veins," he said; "it washes away the stardust & we are all drinking our ancestors' ashes, did you know my grandfather tasted," he said, "like raspberry cordial & did you know that freckles
are like nebulae & your cheeks are full of moonlight, did you know that thunder
only claps after the lights go out?"
when i was young i counted miles in the silence before those soundwaves drowned my ears in rumbles. the longer the silence the farther the light & now, my voice is racing to catch up with your radiancy. sometimes we can see but we
april twenty-fourththis morning i slid out of a bed
that's never felt like mine,
heaving an exhausted breath
and prying open still-sleeping eyes.
when i exhaled,
i felt as if my life was seeping
out my lungs.
when i breathed back in,
the cold air slid between
the slits of my skeleton,
bringing nothing but emptiness.
it's strange to think that this is my life
in its rawest form, and that
if i decorated it with
ribbons of good grades
and certificates of good friends,
it wouldn't really be my life
in its rawest form
anymore.
and something about that saddens me.
i'm just another girl, really,
who uses frilly words
and too many run-on sentences,
and hopes against hope
that one day i'll be able to lift my life
in its truest, barest, rawest form
in the fragile jail of my fingers
and the cracked cup of my palms,
and look it straight in the eye and say,
"today, you are not a tragedy
and you are not a sad lullaby.
today, you are the most
sweet-sounding dissonance
to ever grace these ears."
PolarisThis night
is black, like a
crow;
and as a hand-print
bleeds against
fogged glass,
she calls to you—
an echo of
what once was.
Haunted by
a half-truth, back-
alley eidolon,
this night
is too dark to
guide you home.

a mind, a man, a songlearn about choking.
learn about space &
the distance from the pier
to the bottom of the ocean.
contemplate obscure types of light, wonder
why they don't reach out & touch you,
imagine yourself beyond a veil,
separated.
see life as a collection of images
stitched together by the clumsy fingers
of an amateur.
find consistency in the rough parts, beauty
in the disturbed & the dark
between fine straight lines.
don't put too much stock in words:
sound is a language some can't
comprehend, raw
as callused, bleeding hands.
there is no mundane.
minds are bendable.
shadows can be touched.
when you press your fingers into your eye sockets,
the sparks you see are real.
fill yourself with precipices, reflections,
the soft touch of human hearts.
explain to yourself that you are a man
but explain your tears as well.
know reason;
feel anger;
taste fear;
cut yourself with love;
believe in beauty.
you're meant for this; you can feel it,
like you're drowning
(it's warm water &
you can still breathe).
th
artist's dawnhalf past four
mellifluous silence hung buoyant
on gossamer skies
she painted the sun lithe
and lissom strokes brushing space
with sunrise bursting from her fingers
she perspired morning
brow beading imagination
of clean towel clouds
and citrus sunlight
dallying
1.Said the eagle to the fish
As he sped to splatter on a dinner-plate rock:
"Close your mouth, skydiver-
if you swallow a cloud, you'll never come down."
"Rituals, smituals!" Rejoined the fish,
"I am hooked on hope like you will never believe;
even a fish can learn to soar."
Houdinii used to be disgusted by the scars 
etched beneath my collarbone,
the tally of my worst mistakes-
yet i am not the only one condemned
with the sins of an escape artist:
you shed your shell with me, then took
the fastest route that led just south of intimacy.
i thought you were a hero. i thought 
you were a wild thing- a fearless soul, a heart
that refused to be contained. and i knew
something like this with you-
our little taste of fireworks 
and trumpets. i saw the veins 
on the inside of your thigh, tasted
the sweat on your upper lip,
felt all your calluses and soft spots-
the great and terrible entanglement
of limbs and lives, blooming
like a flower, or a bruise-
and when i touched the life
between your lungs,
you disappeared.
i think the worst is that we'll never know, now, 
if the marks we left would have been scars 
or not.
i wish that we had tried:
we could have proved them all wrong,
you and i.

  • Mood: Love
  • Listening to: 2cellos
  • Reading: Little Bee by Chris Cleave
As writers we all dream of being published. Sometimes it is as simple as you send out pieces, someone likes it, and it gets published. But most times it isn't that easy and you get rejection after rejection to the point where you start doubting your craft. The problem usually is not your writing, it is that most of the 'serious' places (literary journals) where you would like to be published are very low acceptance rate submissions and are really niche on what they are looking at from a writer.

But having a publishing credit gives you credibility as a writer and in effect is a leg up into the more serious world of publishing.

Since I last got my good news, a few of my friends here have asked me for advice. I am just a girl who happened to get lucky and the advice that I can give is based on very very limited experience. However, what I can do, is try and help all my lovely and wonderful friends here, showcase their beautiful words and works on a more serious publishing forum.

So I have started Modern Day Fairytales, a literary journal based on fantasy literature. It is whimsical and dreamy and asks for literature that is just that: moderndayfairytales.weebly.com…

This is a serious literary journal and is going to be listed on duotrope and other literary journal listings as just that, thus exposing the works of some of the very very talented writers on dA, on a literature only centric forum,  counting as a publishing credit.

For the launch some of the best and brightest of dA have contributed. For this week, featuring the works of xlntwtch, BloodshotInk, MistressofQuills, PrussianPersephone, UnluckyNumberXIII and DearPoetry. These six wonderful kind and amazing writers are certainly ones you should watch and I am not the first to tell you this, and I certainly won't be the last.

Go have a look at the website, and if you would like, please do contribute. I will be really happy to read your work!

On a side note, I hung out in Guildford today with the lovely kittielarue and we had a fabulous time discussing writing, the publishing industry and various other fun things! :D

Something Amazing Has Happened

Journal Entry: Tue Aug 13, 2013, 4:18 PM
A long time ago, I wrote the prologue to a story that never happened. untamedunwanted.deviantart.com…



I put it up here and people were very kind about it. But I couldn't write anymore to it, because I was creatively blocked. 
Over the last few months, however, I have felt an odd sort of release and all the words of this two year old prologue have suddenly come to make sense.

I had an idea, the prologue and made some semblence of a manuscript...and decided to be brave about it and start shopping the concept around. 
I didn't think anyone would like it, or anyone would be interested.

I was wrong.I can very tentatively tell you, someone has shown interest in it. 
Someone wants to publish it. 


Properly publish it.

As in, in book stores. In places where people will actually read it...

I am still reeling. 
For superstition's sake, I will keep the details until the whole thing is final and I actually get a concrete contract, after finishing the book.

But this...this is better than anything I could have hoped for. :D :D :D


Because you have all been so wonderful to me, I wanted to give you sneak peeks into who the characters are. 
My latest deviation, another fractured fairytale, introduces Grace: untamedunwanted.deviantart.com…


First Alyssa of Wonderland, now Grace of Neverland. 
Two more to go.

Thank you for believing in me, my friends. I love you all for it. :hug: 


I really really hope this follows through. :D


Featuring Writing that Moves Me

Journal Entry: Fri Aug 9, 2013, 9:50 AM
I have spent so much time on deviantart lately, and partly because I have discovered some really stunning work on here. I thought that I may share a few of these gems I have discovered today in this feature. :) 

LandingWhen a butterfly
pauses on your freckled nose
so does the summer.
CopperThe underside of my heart
has rusted through the shell.
Smooth tissue hangs, sodden,
through the ring of oxidised needles.
The frantic muscle
takes on water, tries not to drown,
in the body of fluids
you spat into my chest cavity.
Heavy barnacles of regret
cluster cancerously 'round 'til,
like all else, they disintegrate
with the acidic memory of you.
:thumb243834981: Autumn's dance"The autumn leaves dance
Merrily, while the wind sings
Of their glory days."
The Significance of Tolling Bells and Tearseach toll of the bell signified another hour gone, wasted
away, dashed from the pages of life—lost within its heady
sands b l o w i n g through the desert winds dampened only by
falling tears—splashes of salted water, nourishment for parched
throats stagnant with the aching illness of pain; overwhelming
sensory glands with acute thuds [pulsing throbs] against flaking
skin, cracking under the scorching sun—beaming rays catching
foolhardy thoughts established in heat-induced mania, time
slowly passing by while trudging steps searched for the way out of
the forest—refusing to admit the only way out was the same thing
that made tears fall, ever closer to the ground…until…eyes close,
fluttering shut with tired strokes—tears leaking for one last time;
desert sands, inescapable heat taking the life of yet another whose
bells have finally stopped tolling; another whose tears fall no more.

Scattered StarscapesThin cloud fingers
stretch across the moon; Scorpio's
tail curls toward dawn.
wild thingsthere are days i
want to run with wolves.
to howl at the stars because
the moon has never done
anything for me, and swallow roses
like their thorns never
existed.
but this cage -
it seems there's no way
out,
and i fear it's
too
deep
down
for anyone to hear me.
life is just a zoo full of
all our monsters, and
[it's our fault] we
can't stop
feeding them.
Actualitywhen I was young, I wanted
to be a punk rocker
metal holes lining my body like
trophies of war, hair teased
and bleached and styled for hours
on end until  it looked effortless,
inked up with words and symbols
I swore were profound with
a cigarette hanging lazily
from my fingers, lonely
for a reason
   (and he told me, sweetie,
   you are like a fucking eclipse,
   the bloody dawn  
   God plagued us with
   I always wondered
   if mistakes understood
   the reason they
   came to be in this world
 I guess not).

The Rules of FlyingThe Rules of Flying:
No#1: Don’t Fly Too High:
If you allow yourself to achieve a great height, there will only be enough air left for you to fall. Stay at a constant pace, don’t allow your head to float above the clouds.
Another juxtaposing comment upon rule 1 of flying, do not fly too close to the ground, to let creatures pull you down.
No#2: Avoid Trees:
While flying to your destination, many obstacles may get in your way, clipping a few branches may be fine for you depending on your strength. But always avoid the trunks of these obstacles, they will end your flight abruptly and you may not reach your destination in one piece.
This also applies to aeroplanes and other birds.
No#3: Don’t Flap Your Wings Too Much:
Although flapping your wings is necessary to achieve the height you require to succeed and complete your flight. Flapping unnecessarily only leaves you too tired to complete your journey.
Remember to flap your wings only when needed. Do not let another bird
Cosmic SymphonyThe notes build up deep within you
burning at your core
snaking through your veins until your skin hums red-hot with fire.
They say the sun is hottest
when you are just barely out of reach.
It is there you shall ignite.
But if I managed
to slip past your blistering corona
past the halo of light that surrounds you -
and stroke your scorching surface
would I find the right
to burn with you?
And maybe
I could learn to play you
like the instrument you are.
Helios, god of the sun,
your surface shudders with sound,
melodious vibrations
unfit for such ears as mine.
Yet still I wonder what you would sound like
if my hands would not
Everything I Needed To KnowEverything I Needed To Know
 
You said nothing, which says everything.
:thumb390286003: She is the RainHer eyes are droplets
that at will wax torrential
shredding scar tissue
revealing new flesh—
receding the Lake of Fire
where Archangel died
laying at the summit
of self-sacrificial vice.
Her hair is the daybreak:
cascading in waves
or ribbons of gold
irradiating potency
lighter than ash
that razes the sky,
and we hold our breath
for the cloudburst

It is 9 in the afternoon& I have forgotten
how to write in poetics-
tongue kissed & gaping like
a siren missing from her sea.
I have been coughing up black
for days.  Unable to clean the taste
from my mouth, these broken
typewriter keys sewn into my
fingertips scream something fierce.
They ache with longing
to tell of a story
that left them
for a better high
years ago
a story that never deserved
to make a home under the skin,
to crawl breech through an
unsuspecting womb.
-& out through the wrists
of young girls much too ripe
to fall from their beds.
I am so damn tired
of looking over railings
& wondering what
it would feel like
to fall.
the gospel of two amreading collab with your-methamphetamine - http://sta.sh/0mk0ri4ja0a
I.
I believed in unconditional love
until the conditions of the loved
built a wall to stop the flood of me.
maybe I did want you to drown
in something warm and good because
I am the blessed choking scarf:
a much needed reminder of 
how sweet breathing is.
II.
you realize something
in being the best person you can be 
to someone and that is:
perfection
means being alone.
don't let anyone call you perfect--
simply a compliment tying the noose.
it is the seemingly flawless 
who off themselves
most successfully.
sometimes
they want to be
perceived broken
so they may be loved
and nothing is more broken
(nor loved)
than the dead.
III.
my chloroform love
is the reason you can't breathe.
I am the smotherer
working to unsmother you.
IV.
goodbye now, so you may breathe
and appreciate the ability to do so--
for the perfect are sacrificial lambs.
the silence in my swift departure sways.
The Woman in WhiteI hear the singing of pen and ink
when the doors scare away the voices and names,
the outside world teaching lessons I never wished to learn.
I've always been water in a world of oil,
repelled without malice or vicious intent.
Why can’t they see that these fresh tears are for them, not me.
So I tell them secrets when they can't hear me, secrets to keep the dark away,
this shapeless face of death blossoming in my bosom.
A face I've known for long enough to love
but never long enough to know, takes over
when I cloak myself in white.
So there stands the window, to my soul and the world.
My truest words come alive on summer afternoons and I know
but the knowing is strange and tells me only lies,
leaving me to turn to a future,
unknown.
On Wanting Everything to Be RightYou got too comfortable,
forgot he could make mistakes,
and set your consciousness aside
so he could mend the thoughts
which have remained disordered
in your fumbling sobriety,
despite the years of learning to cope
with the pace of regularity:
scraping the mailbox with his key,
dining out every Sunday,
setting the thermostat to sixty degrees,
and changing despite every effort
to remain apathetic about his plans,
how your name became a constant
in his living equations,
the variable which defined the function.
On the morning you leave,
only your luggage and body will move
through the summer shadows
of oak leaves shaking in a breeze,
and only your barest senses
will know the satisfaction of hearing
his footsteps behind yours,
cicadas composing another song,
a car door slamming shut,
the engine firing up,
though your muscle memory isn't enough
to bring you peace or independence,
money or place or dignity.
When you turn onto Justamere Road,
you'll picture the nightstand
on your side of the
:thumb391754773:
:thumb387685002: :thumb391212478: Constellations of scars01-
There’s something restful about death,
She clicked the pen back, ink smudges mirroring her thin, pianist fingertips dotted along the shiny blue plastic. It had been so long since she’d written anything more than reports or letters, and now she was to keep a diary- or a journal, as her therapist had called it. Thick, uneven moleskin had been her first choice, but now it was tainted with unclear words and this didn’t sit well with her in the slightest. Clicking her tongue, she set to work writing what could only be called a figment of her imagination.
it’s like we’re music, finite events to only be considered beauty
when we’re here and then gone, a thread of memory without reason
when one closes one’s eyes. but could you perhaps tell me-
how do you see behind closed eyes- better yet,
what do you see behind closed eyes?
---
For a month, I'll write a letter almost every day. Some of those lett
on growing upit will happen like this;
one day you will be so tired of yourself and the rolling days and the sleepless nights, and you've never liked coffee before but you'll take it and you'll mix in four sugars and you'll wince with every sip but you'll drink it all. then each step is a little lighter, and the mornings a little less cold and suddenly you'll realise you've forgotten what it felt like to just be awake all by yourself.
and one day you'll cry at school and all the people walking past won't stop and your friends won't have the right words like they used to. you'll sit and you'll shake until your tears have bled you of everything that you've got, and suddenly you'll realise you don't even have the energy to be sad anymore. and you'll go home with tear streaked cheeks and your mother won't ask you what's wrong and you'll go to bed and you'll realise that maybe there's more comfort in darkness and silence than you've ever known before.
it will be the weekend and you'll come home alone an


I hope you enjoy them as much as I have. :hug:


Hi everyone. I've been gone an awfully long time, and I am sorry for it. I have been around, just completely tied up in real life. From last year to now things have changed a lot, and after a bit of a tragedy in March, life seems to be getting back on track. 

Real life has a way of catching up with us all sometimes I suppose. I feel a bit lost admittedly, but I really hope that that will change soon. I feel older than I have been before and I have K and all of you to thank for my newfound wisdom. My writing is slowly getting back on track and my latest piece is a bit different from any others I have written. 

I now live in a gorgeous little apartment above a wonderful wedding venue, and plan to get a dog the moment I have the opportunity to. :) I have been working full time at a special needs school and believe me, it is one of the most rewarding and amazing jobs ever. All of this in one year! Phew!

How have you guys been? How has real life been?

A Special Moment.

Journal Entry: Wed Dec 5, 2012, 2:43 PM



I wanted to share this with you guys because it is by far the most beautiful moment of my life.

It happens to be the day I flew back. The flight back to England was very long, only because I knew what was waiting on the other side and I couldn't wait to see him again.

When I got off the plane, I don't think I have run faster in my life. I stood in front of the area where the bags were coming out and acted like some kind of idiot really because I was literally pacing around it trying to get my bags out as fast as possible. I borrowed a stranger's phone to call Kurt at that moment because I knew when I crossed those doors, he would be waiting for me on the other side. And when I walked out with my trolley of stuff, there he was. Right in the middle wearing a white t-shirt and a pair of jeans, his arms open wide to grab me, I could see him before I even walked out of the doors at Heathrow. I left my trolley at that point because honestly, I didn't give a damn where it went and in seconds I was running, running as fast as I could towards him. We met somewhere in the middle and I jumped into his arms...I have never hugged anyone harder in my life!

And then...the kiss. That moment, when his lips touched mine again, I knew at that very moment I never ever wanted to be parted from him again... That second, that kiss in the middle of Heathrow Airport, the noisiest, loudest place in the world, completed me to the point that I know now, no matter what happens everything is going to be all right. He is my world...this man with his Knight heart and Dragon soul. I couldn't ask for any more love or happiness.

I feel...for the first time in my life...complete.

:heart:

  • Listening to: Mermaid by Okkervil River
  • Reading: The Female Eunuch by Germaine Greer
  • Watching: The Borgias
  • Playing: the ukulele
  • Eating: Bananas
  • Drinking: Milk

A Present from Kurt

Journal Entry: Sat Nov 10, 2012, 7:59 AM



Zij Hebben mij in een leven zonder zin geworpen, maar dat leven leven kan pas zin krijg als Ik myself verder in werp... Ik heb nu zin in mij leven..


They have thrown me into a life without sense..but that life will start to make sense if i through myself further in...
My life has now sense!


Because of Her

  • Listening to: Mermaid by Okkervil River
  • Reading: The Female Eunuch by Germaine Greer
  • Watching: The Borgias
  • Playing: the ukulele
  • Eating: Bananas
  • Drinking: Milk

Of Broken Things and a Heartless Man

Journal Entry: Mon Aug 27, 2012, 1:05 PM



This is going to be long and stupidly detailed but I think I need to get this out because I have a feeling that I may not be the only girl with a story like this.

A couple of years ago I met a boy called S. He was kind, quiet and made me coffee every morning at an office we both despised for what it represented. I fell head over heels for his quiet charm, his music, his soothing voice: who he was. Except I didn't really know who he really was. Slowly, over the course of the relationship, he began to point out things he didn't like about me. He didn't like the way I overused certain phrases, the way I spoke, the way I sang, and he didn't want to listen to me talk about my past because it burdened him, and he didn't like that...basically all the little things that made me, ME would have to change. This is where I made the most critical mistake.

I changed for him.

I changed who I was to please S. And do you know what? The more I changed to suit his needs, the more demands he put on me. But I had already fallen for him by then and there was no going back from that. I helped him with his scholarship work, his english exam, his insecurities about not being able to make it. Because that is what you DO in a relationship. I never wanted anything back, except his love in return.

I never received it.

To cut a long story short, this man:

1. Hid me for six months from his friends and family.
2. Let other girls flirt with him in front of me.
3. Neglected me completely then became highly insecure when I left for the UK to pursue my studies.
4. Made a huge scene on facebook about a status that wasn't even about him (!)
5. Got really upset if I hung out with my friends.
6. Told me I deserved to be raped (not even a month past the incident) and I wasn't the one, he needed to find someone like him.
7. Accused me of cheating on him when I moved on with a kinder man who had actually been there for me post my rape after we had broken up (Snooped through my facebook and email on MY laptop whilst I was out, drew his own conclusions and made me feel like I was a slut for NOTHING. After a break up, my life is MY LIFE. Not his, but he didn't see it like that.)
8. Acted like my losing his child meant nothing, and my being upset/broken over it was a massive inconvenience to him.
9. Didn't even take the child's name, ever and started checking out other girls on the first night I had recovered enough to go out with him.
10. Didn't pick up his phone AFTER he had been told I was in an ambulance to even find out if I was still alive or DEAD.
11. Told his mother I CHEATED when I did NOT (see number 7), and of course no matter what happens now she will hate me. I don't blame her one bit if she does (she doesn't know me and has been told the most horrible thing by him about me), but I do want to kill him for doing that to me with a person who I have never even met but loved and respected because she is his mother.
12. Lied about the amount of girls he had slept with by SEVEN.
13. Asked me for help with EVERYTHING, from emails he wrote to how to do graphics, to actually coming to London on a scholarship, to literature, websites, trips, food, and still acted like he owed me nothing when he would yell at me, treat me like nothing. He even made sure he got what he needed from me even if I wasn't well, if I was injured (I helped him make his MA film when I was shaking and ready to break.)

I am not even going to mention the most important part of what he did because that is too sickening and horrible for words. But after doing all these things, I broke up with him, and no matter how many 'sorry' phone calls I got, I did not take him back. And a few days later, when I was completely destroyed, K came into my life.  We started out as friends because both our love lives were complicated. It was only after I told my ex we were done for good and no matter how many times he asked if it was really over, I would say "Yes, it is really over," that I grew closer to K, a guy who actually cared about me, made me feel special and loved.

Not damaged, not broken, not crippled, but BEAUTIFUL and loved and strong.

I told S about him and said I genuinely liked K SO much and I wanted to be honest with S, hoping that at the very least after all that was said and done, we could part as friends.

But he is having none of that. Once again, he is accusing me of not being entirely honest with him in this relationship, that some things don't add up and that apparently 'I know in my heart what I have done.' Essentially, there is no way he was going to be mature about this and admit that he had messed up by treating me badly and therefore I left. He would rather turn me into the bitch who cheated because that absolves him of any guilt he feels about what he did to me. This man, who worked so hard to make me feel insecure and unhappy, probably cheated on me in my relationship with him multiple times (I was only too blind to see it), and whom I could never ever speak my mind to in fear of him lashing out and hurting my feelings, who worried about his battery dying than his girlfriend crying about his treatment of her, insisted that he knew how to love, that he genuinely cared about me and still does. He thanks me for NOTHING when in truth, he and I both know he has a LOT to be grateful for. But as ungrateful and emotionally abusive as he is, no God will ever punish him because for some reason, people like him know how to scheme and scam their ways via good people all through their lives.

I have never met someone so determined to make sure I was unhappy in my life considering he knew EVERY PART of what I was going through and had gone through. He cannot and will not appreciate a woman who cooked for him, cleaned for him, loved him, looked after him, read and edited his work, dealt with losing his children ALONE, bought him gifts, lent him money, forgave him time and time and TIME again for taking girls out on dates for eight hours, checked out other girls whilst I was still losing my baby, commented on how attractive my friends are, wanted to chill with an ex girlfriend he barely knew for ten days, never made an effort to come out and see me, made me make all the effort for him, spend all my money on seeing him and being around him, making me ill, this list can go on.

I was under the impression is someone does not hit you, or rape you, it is not abuse. But it IS! Just because every now and then he would read my work, say I was talented, and once in a while actually say something nice to me (essentially crumbs to the starving), I stuck around, because that is all I thought I was WORTH. He did the bare minimum to keep me around, and the bare minimum is not good enough when someone invests so much in you.

The worst part of it all is, most emotionally abusive men never ever ever admit it. Some of them are not even AWARE of it, they are so delusional (S is one of the delusional types). They insist they are good to others, themselves, everyone around them. They are sociopathic, and can feign charm, convincing even their parents and best friends what good people they are. But they are NOT good people and they will never admit, even to themselves that they are evil, and the scum of the earth.

I wish I could punish S for what he has done to me, but I couldn't do that to someone I have once loved. I will say this though. I wasted a year and a half on a man who treated me like I was toilet paper. And the worst part about it all is: I let him treat me badly because I didn't think I deserved or could do any better.

To all the girls and boys out there in such terribly emotionally abusive relationships, there is hope. Whatever you do, do not make the mistakes I did. Do not change for anyone, do not let someone make you feel useless, DO NOT think you are worthless because someone else has made you feel that way. TAKE RESPONSIBILITY and know that you messed up by LETTING someone treat you that way as well, and learn from this (even if you have been abused that does not excuse you for letting someone do it again to you and this I say from having experienced sexual and physical abuse.). LEARN that just because you think that someone has a hold on you, YOU need to break past that and grab a hold of your life for yourself.

There are people who genuinely care about you. I found one when I felt like no one could ever love me.

Keep the faith.

I promise it will be worth it.

  • Listening to: Mermaid by Okkervil River
  • Reading: The Female Eunuch by Germaine Greer
  • Watching: The Borgias
  • Playing: the ukulele
  • Eating: Bananas
  • Drinking: Milk

For You.. Fur Dich..

Journal Entry: Fri Aug 24, 2012, 11:34 AM



I am not this perfect angel nor am I of Demons born,
Half of both i stand to oath, truth and loyalty is sworn.
I cannot say I'll guide you through this,
I cannot say we shall not fall.
All I am is just a Man, I pray that you will understand.

But with all that flows within my veins and with all within myself i give
To fight now and forever more for a love in which we both can live..

All seems strange yet all is true...Take my hand and say I do too..


This beautiful poem was not written by me, but by the one who holds my heart. Beautiful, marvellous, wonderful Knight in shining armour, who came knocking at my door one fine morning (literally!) when I least expected it (needless to say, I looked terrible the first time he met me and he STILL liked me. If that isn't love, I don't know what is!)

K, you are an angel. A perfect angel and a perfect man in my eyes.

This poem is his way of saying hi. So say hi back everyone!! :D

  • Listening to: Mermaid by Okkervil River
  • Reading: The Female Eunuch by Germaine Greer
  • Watching: The Borgias
  • Playing: the ukulele
  • Eating: Bananas
  • Drinking: Milk