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On a Notebook, She WroteIf I left this somewhere
Or if life left me
And this is the only piece of me you know
Please take a minute
To cradle this in your hands
And then read its pages
And know you now know me
On the days where I could not find myself
And in moments where I knew myself too well.
And you can keep me
Or let me go,
But please do not throw me away.
The CourtThe first time I saw you:
The flag salute.
They told us not to stare.
I could not help but notice
Your knuckles, bruised.
You spoke like your tongue was swollen.
You told your jokes in Spanish.
When you said his name
You never set foot on the asphalt.
We sat in the grass in the outfield
Watching kids play basketball.
I wonder if you saw them.
I wonder if you were somewhere else.
They dribble the ball.
He takes the first swing at your head.
They stop, looking for a pass.
You push him, kids are gathering.
They spot an open, an arm blocks the path.
You are on the ground. He is on top of you.
He is punching you. He takes a swing at your head.
You push him. Off of you. Climb on top.
You punch. You don't stop.
You don't hear anyone. Especially not him.
You take the last swing at his head.
It cracks against the pavement.
Cheers erupt. Nothing, but net.
The last time I saw you:
The six o'clock news.
My father turns off the television.
My mother calls you a murderer.
I remember when y
I think this was a poem at one point in timeI like to tell the story
of when my mother dropped me as a baby
to save my sister
who was drowning in a pool
and I start to think of my childhood
when my father
sang the same lullaby
to my sister and i
as he sat in the hallway
where we each could see him
from our separate rooms
and everything was dark
except for the light in the hallway
which cast shadows over his face
and he always looked tired
and always tucked us in at 7 pm
and my parents said i was
a peaceful sleeper as a baby
and my mother had heart attacks
and ran to my crib
to make sure i was breathing
because i never cried
and before i went to kindergarten
i lied in bed and thought
what happens when people die?
and i was scared
because i realized
i did not want to be forgotten
and i did not want to forget myself
and i didn’t know
if dead people could eat mcdonald’s fries.
so i ran out to my father in the living room
and i cried to him
and he told me not to worry
and he said my mother would be home from c
It is.The other day I heard some boys
talking in the hallway.
They were complaining about poetry,
when they knew nothing about it.
Shakespeare and Robert Frost,
What they learn in a classroom.
A class is a class,
just like any other.
English becomes Biology
When taking a poem and dissecting it.
Word by line by stanza,
Cutting it with clear definition.
But that is not poetry.
Poetry is not writing.
It can not be explained in thirty minutes.
Like a machine,
It can be taken apart,
but is only useful when the pieces are together.
and that's all it can be.
It is a language,
And even though you speak it,
only a poet will understand it.
It is not about.
It is not roads or paths
Or women or snow
Or stairs or homes.
It is not only your heart
and how it beats,
It is your gut
and how it wrenches.
It is your eyes
and how they crinkle.
It is your palms
and how they sweat.
It's the bend in our knees,
And the way our spines curve.
It is the little twitches of our mouths.
It is our ears and
Mother's AgingMom owns a red tanktop,
That she's had for five long years.
It has a little hole she's never bothered to patch,
and it hangs on her body,
the way it never used to.
And time's been hard on it,
fading it from bright red to grey,
Just like time's been hard on the roots of her hair,
fading them from bright red to grey.
Mom can't read her favorite books,
Her eyes are weak,
And she's too stubborn to wear the glasses
that she's had for five long years,
because she thinks the lenses are too big.
And William Golding collects dust on the bookshelf
Because he hasn't been used in years,
Just like her body collects dust in the canyons of her skin,
Because it hasn't really been used in years.
Mom's knitting needles lie in a basket
that sits right next to her chair.
She doesn't reach for them,
She hasn't in five long years,
because she doesn't use them,
because she can't hold them.
And her hands shake like a city in an earthquake,
whenever she tries to hold mine.
Just like her eyes flood like a city
angeliathere's a story i could tell,
one i know so very well,
of a girl with a single dream;
one to fly with beautiful wings.
and there's a girl that i know,
one who's never seen the snow.
at her window, during the day,
she likes to view the birds so far away.
there's a story i've been told,
one about a girl so very bold.
she sprouted wings and away she flew
just like she always wanted to.
but there's a reason girls can't fly
and so this girl fell from the sky.
she fell silently towards the ground,
landing in my arms, safe and sound.
there are many things this girl can do,
some of which she never knew.
flying is not for boy nor girl,
but down here we have a better world.
and so it was a secret that i told her,
one i believed would keep her on the ground for sure,
"the bird does not wish to fly,
it simply envies you and i."
of course she didn't believe me,
so i tried to help her see clearly,
that everytime a songbird sings,
it's a simple wish to lose it's wings.
all birds wish their wings woul
X-23Maybe her name was Lily: a beauty like no other.
In the summer you would see her in the park,
Bright and graceful, her arms opening,
her fingers stretching, a bright red in her cheeks.
She welcomed all, she welcomed you.
Whenever I needed, she even welcomed me,
her eyes holding specks of her adventures. A mere peek
into her existence.
Maybe her name was Iris, a pleasant voice to have around.
She was kind, one of a million,
but one nonetheless.
She had a whicker chair in the garden. On days
that held summer breezes I sat with her,
her breath of watermelon and voice of divinity.
I would listen to her tell a million stories,
none of which I could understand.
Maybe her name was Ivy and she looked frail and dull.
She was ordinary by visage, but I'd witnessed
her amazing strength, her lengthy patience. Her ability,
one to conquer any task. She waited and prevailed.
When she spoke her words grew,
they slipped through stones, but never once
did they skip your mind. She broke through
Never Grow UpMaggie was four when her family moved to a subdivision, a new one. One with houses that held no people, one with no children to play with. Maggie bounced a ball against the garage door and Maggie played the piano when her mother told her to. Maggie read the books her parents gave her about fish and giants and princesses and dogs and boys who never grew up and Maggie played with her dolls. In the evening she watched tv with her daddy, curled up on his lap, and as he ran his fingers through her hair he explained it all to her. Wars, money, disasters, heroes, religion, people she needed to know about, people he despised She sat and listened to him speak, but never understood a word he said. Instead she'd put one ear to his belly and as she'd listen to him talk she'd listen to his insides make foreign noises and giggle and he'd smile at her as he ran his fingers through her hair and explained it all.
As time went by the houses filled with people and furniture and pets and children. Lots of
If Beauty Had a FaceIf you know Abigail you know
She's one of a kind.
She'll zip your mouth and leave you speechless.
She'll hold your hand and tell you she'll be yours.
But then you see her with someone else.
And when you see her
She'll turn your eyes to green.
She'll take your inspiration and
She'll steal what made you
No one wants to share her.
She's a gift, whether
Honestly, I don't believe anyone cares.
Because when you have Abigail
You have it all.
when you find yourself
in a crowd of familiar faces,
the struggle for breath
You Will PayI can taste the fear upon you:
The cold sweat in your palms,
The eyes that dart at shadows,
And the lips that are forced into a tightened smile.
You wait beneath the blankets,
Shivering each night as the anxiety rises.
You gasp at the slightest sounds and quiver...
For you are afraid of the curse that comes.
In your mind you see what you have done to me.
You watched as you ripped my tongue
And stole the very voice from my soul!
But even if I am without a body,
Even if I can no longer hold a knife to your throat.
Fear alone is enough for me to silence you,
And I will NEVER allow you to be heard!
MazeLost within myself
Looking for a way out
This cannot end like this
Trapped in my own mind
A maze with no exit
I keep running and running
But I always end up
In the same place where I began
Inner DemonI harbour a monster,
It lingers deep within.
It wants to escape me,
To tear free from my skin.
It gnaws at my insides,
And hopes that I'll give in.
It works hard to tempt me,
To lead me into sin.
It wants me to suffer
To feel its wretched sting.
But I stand true and strong,
I will not let it win.
The nights are the hardest,
In bed I pray and sing
To the Lord God above
To rid me of this thing.
But instead it remains,
My monster still within.
RustThe dwelling rust
swells this hollow garden
and somewhere in the yard
a tire swing goes flat
against the skyline.
It chokes the autumn light
in the silo,
the crush of
mums and ragged berries
It bubbles in the percolator
steeping still life
in the caul
of early morning -
the red-brown crumbs
of breakfast toast and jam
growing ghosts upon
And deep inside
I still hear you waking up
the soft salute
of morning voices
stirring the wind
outside my window.
Slaves of the deadSlaves of the dead
to find another land,
but they couldn't stand the desert and the frost.
Some died, some returned.
For those who returned
the masters had prepared a special punishment.
Their memory was wiped off.
They became thieves,
without ever understanding why.
They just felt it was the right thing to do.
Croon.And you will have my arms around you
long after the first frost
silences the crickets
that played us to sleep
through our first summer,
and their children
and the children of theirs
will play those same songs
as creases form and deepen
beside our eyes.
And I know this because
of our childish jokes
and because of the words
we are writing.
there’s something about
these kisses hitting their marks
from thousands of miles away
eliciting rouge beneath pale;
I see on your face
the dumbfounded grin
I feel spreading across my own,
our bodies built
scattered by the hand of fate
between two states.
But it is love
who is determined
to complete our picture
and it is love
who shall have her way.
Red Light ReduxHaving a truck
Paint me red
Is the strangest feeling
I’ve ever felt.
I’ve seen myself melt away
Like a mid-summer’s ice cream
While my personality screams
To be noticed. Every wall that once
Stood between me and reality
I am finally free.
Until they strapped me down
And sewed back my hands to my head.
My heart to my mouth.
My legs to the earth.
The taste of freedom
Rests gently on my tongue,
And I’ve been trying
To no avail.
She sits on the street in the pouring rain.
for her prince to show up and take all of her
passes her by
[g oo db y e]
[g oo db y e]
as she sits and she waits under a soaking
But she swears that he'll be the next
Blood BrothersBrookie always holds my hand when we cross the street. She's never given a reason for it, she just does it. It's become this unspoken rule with us that whenever we cross the street together, she slips her hand in mine and I lace my fingers through hers and we walk hand-in-hand until we reach the other side and she drops her hand and we both wipe our palms on our jeans. Brookie's a little scared of crossing the street. Her poppa died in a car crash when we were six. He was a pedestrian. She's never gotten over it.
Brookie is my best friend going on sixteen years now, which is pretty impressive considering we're both sixteen. We don't have some cute little story about how we were born in the same hospital on the same day or about how our mothers were best friends long before they were pregnant with us and somehow passed on that bond while we were still in utero. No, Brookie and I met the same way ever
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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