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Reckoning TreeFor years, an ancient oak tree stood in front of Tribekean’s household, hiding an already clandestine family. Not until a sunshine December 1989 day did the tree snap to reveal a darkness never seen before by mankind. No records detailing the day remain. Historian hands lock up attempting to scribble it down.
Don't Stop TalkingDon’t stop talking.
Let me hear the echo of your voice
Resonating against the chambers of my head.
Don’t stop talking.
Maybe I’ll still hear you when I’m
Don’t stop talking,
But don’t you touch me.
Don’t you grab my shoulders.
Let me hear you
Before I crack against the mountain side.
So don’t stop talking.
Where I StandI am not a vagrant of society,
Rather a mobile observer of my surroundings.
I write, I listen
I learn, I write
What crosses my heart is the written word.
How else am I to be
For I am a learner, an art admirer
An appreciator of even the dark
That knows everything
Has words wired to its heart.
I hate that some slam their eyelids
And sew them close
To all the mystery of the world.
Our differences are at best to be appreciated
And at least to be tolerated.
I despise the feeling I get from social interaction
A sense of constant judgment,
I have social anxiety,
But despite myself,
I still try
Which causes strain
Which in turn causes stress
Which inevitably causes a breakdown every month or so . . .
There are worst things.
Like intolerance and senselessness.
Like lack of empathy for the other side.
Like too much apathy for even your side.
Those are the worst things.
What I adore is the love of someone
Who I admire
Or who I love back.
I adore the look on som
LayeredFrequently, I found her name waiting—
Waiting for me to call it out
To be a part of my active conscious
And also, quite selfishly, my subdued subconscious.
Her name has a backbone.
It can stand alone
From who she really is.
If her name slips out the mouth
Like the smoke of mint Hookah
Whilst rolling off the cushion of a soft pair of lips,
It cracks like a whip in air.
The name does not match the face.
Not woman, but
The name is harsh,
Just another lie
To cover her trembling truth.
She’s simply an adult
Still playing dressup in a grownup’s clothes.
As evident for weeks and months,
She’s as lost as she says she is.
Fucked as she says.
That ping-pong love.
I call her name,
I yearn for her face,
I fiend for that love
Until whipmarks and hypocrisy stripe my body
With the sweetest of blood.
Two shots of blackened caffeine
To harden my veins 'til I have no choice
But to stand upright with stand-still eyelids.
The one stop shop to no stop;
The Jazz Age in a Styrofoam cup;
Fitzgerald's active displeasure
Sprinkled as a galaxy swirl
On top of a white cloud,
Flavorful enough to inspire.
I awoke somewhat alive,
But now I'm lively dead.
Refill me again and again
Until I tremble and shake so much
I see beyond my imagined infinity.
Keeping DiggingWe work on dim comforting nights,
Kissing the cufflinks of the radiant moon
Until it throws us a moonbeam as a striking
Our mouths secrete acidic saliva
After years of our tongues massaging
The slick back of chewing tobacco.
Dirt particles crowd into our noses,
Seducing our sinuses
To create a family reunion for them.
They wanna stick like glue to one another.
Be like we-always-get-along brothers.
These brothers got some sharp skin lovers
And when they make love,
They tear the bed to bloodied shreds
And we feel the red stream into our mouths.
The moon snorts at us—
An obvious attempt to arise envy—
And it works.
We drop our tools
And we show our technique:
Seal the mouth,
Force the air,
Blow the sockets out.
We’re too blue collar to snort,
And just poor enough to fume,
So the brother’s reunion orgy
Ended with a splat in the moon’s living-room.
Until the shifting of our shovels
Start to dig into our dreams
Stop putting words in my mouthYou shove your fingers
down my throat,
and insert words
I never spoke,
in desperate hopes
to make me choke
my pearly gates
that feeds me
swallow the universedecay remembers you --
fever breath and ocean-eyed ghosts,
secrets that smoke with poison desire.
we wake only to drink, to devour
the naked voices of dismantled stars.
glass kisses turn into granite lips
and pillars of salt; a haunted embrace
melts into the cracks of the universe.
Love is not blindLove is not blind. It can see clearly.
It looks past the boundaries.
It defies the judging stares of society.
It is a force to be reckoned with.
eight.sometimes i feel
life's been played like a puppet
on a tangled
[yet still i'm lifeless without you .]
eidolon longingbreath salts open rooms
that entomb my idle hants.
in gloomy aberrance.
when the pulse was flaunted
remain the pursuit
of lanterns haunted.
questions flung like
furtive surface glances
ghost through iris eyelines
with an epiphany;
this search sparked
full body shudderings.
shuttering every window
and portal alike,
a light threatened by
the tending toward pulsatory spikes.
aorta, i spied you
spidering open your eyes
sliding the pursuit of dawn
through your dim sight.
with the sun, beat,
you forge forward for
warded window panes,
a rhythmic wonder repeat.
but eyelids live locked,
a careless cage holding
in this socket shock.
tock and tick that slick swindle options;
your image a lit blossom in a bottomless pit.
i’m reaching, but god, this
isn’t possible when
you’re this obstinate;
i am a fossil you’ve discarded
with hardly a sniff.
snuff me out, i’ll sputter devout and wish
my cardiac espousal had been more
seven.my nights for the last weeks have
consisted of liquid
poison, smoke in
and the chilled sound of
wake up with my
head half off the sidewalk,
surrounded by shards of
and a faint touch of
[ill pick myself back up on my own two
feet.. and stumble back;
she had come seeking a riotshe found religion in silence.
there wasn't a prophet's bone
in her body, not a holy cell of skin, but
somehow she was something
to believe in. she called herself a woman, not an angel nor
madonna, and the crucifix on her tongue could
not make her hold her words.
they called her witch and called her
goddess, made of something
such as marble, but she said she wasn't one
to be revered -
icons made of glass were
made to break, she claimed she was not
born to die;
(silence is found in the loudest of tongues, for speaking is an art
not all have learned-)
All of the One LightIt's all for the love
(Which is all for the show).
The quiet thrill of the hunt for thought
Bites off my tangled tongue.
All fluttering eyes to the front
As my body trimmers from behind their vision.
Who's handling the supervision of
Whatever and whomever to call my mind?
The lips of my young mouth
Already engraved with the deep scratches of time.
Words drift the cracks
Only to be damned before they soar into light.
My weakness is no source of pondering pride.
I would hang my head
But the ice of the theater bulb
Stiffens my brittle bones
Strictly to face my judgment-day north.
"Go forth with the onward march!"
They shriek and they prod.
I hear the echoing slam of the tick of the tock.
I stand right there and shatter on the spot.
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A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More