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JourneyThe journey is so much longer
when you don't use your heart as a map, I say, while
traveling down your heavenly-rich brown hair.
Are you listening? or maybe you already knew that,
not surprising, but either way I'm filled up
with the most beautiful bliss, and you're to blame;
you and your smile that you're barely ever without;
hard to believe there is so much power in a simple facial expression,
but it transforms us inside, like the beauty in an autumn leaf.
Take me to where that smile comes from;
take me to where happiness walks the blue skies,
and kisses the light.
Be the heart and the map of my journey――
you're already the beauty of it――and I'm bound to
along the way see a lot of sunsets and cherry blossom trees,
that's just like you isn't it?
The First Thunder of JuneI could tell from the way
the truck barreled down the road,
how its motor revved and caught on the air,
that a storm was coming.
The dog shook,
his twelve-year hips aching with the effort
of tucking his tail between his legs
in the hope that such displays of submission
would appease the weather.
They did not.
The sky turned feral and spat on the house.
While my old-hound panted
with his panic-wide eyes,
mine filled with awe and lightning.
I Drink to the ShatteredHere's to the half-hopes,
who lie shallow in their graves,
comatose, their pulse forgotten.
And here's to unrequited love;
impossible thoughts between heartbeats,
the burning pang that follows.
A nod to the empty dreams,
their ankles hobbled, improperly set.
They walk nowhere.
Silence to commemorate the lost cause;
That never leave the womb.
To the broken and sleepless,
inane and insane,
the clueless, the lonely,
the outcasts forgotten,
to you I raise my glass.
Unlit CandlesYour spirit curled with the smoke
towards the ceiling of the funeral home.
This image brought me closure,
and relief that your soul could escape
from the open casket.
When you turned ashes to ashes,
I imagine the release was the same
as when our voices caught
on the hymn's last note
and we all blew out our candles.
Broken HushPast the hours of midnight dreaming,
the sky reflects the orange glow
of street lamps keeping to themselves
while the traffic moves like steady rain.
And I am at my window,
my clock hits 4:19 and
I am lost in the morning,
staring down the city.
It's not that I hate the sun, but
I don't want to greet her today,
when the atmosphere is a cracked slate
and all my chalk is broken.
September Whispers InAutumn's blowing in;
it cuts through the warm-butter sun
with winter on its breath.
Were my mind a siren,
it'd be screaming,
warning me of colder days to come.
Shapeless CloudsI suppose you feel ugly.
Left to "miscellaneous" and perfectly discarded,
you are aimless.
While lovers press their backs against the world
and ignore your existence,
you shift into a different nothing
and float onto another purpose.
Exiting DreamsSome mornings my eyes shoot open,
and I am left gasping because
I have fallen sudden out of dreaming
and didn't expect to land so hard.
With the way my hair splays out,
jigsaw curls twisting this way and that,
I wonder if I passed through lightning
on my way down.
Why else would I wake electrified?
eyes blue and dialating,
grinning at the sun even though
sleep is freedom,
so the daylight's my jailor.
Or maybe it's my savior because
I have heard that if you die in dreams
you won't wake in this world either.
And how many times have I gotten caught by the ankle,
running from a faceless nightmare
only to up and hit the bed,
Sometimes I can't remember,
Perhaps that's the best arrangement.
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung words
Together on row upon row again
Of blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.
‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;
Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?
Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,
To point with honesty failed verse of thine.
No real poet discards upper case words;
Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.
You seek to free verse of those stern letters,
Sever away bleak capital fetters,
But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,
Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.
Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;
It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,
To make our dull words sound great all the time,
Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,
Heralding a poet’s summer prime.
Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;
Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,
The subject not gilded in raiment fine;
Your bold ink font, crystal waters divine
Tastes bitter to the ton
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More