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World of SoundThe drum beats, faster and faster, drum sticks rebounding, higher and higher
Your heart beats alongside, blood thumping a counterpoint
The rhythm stops.
You hear the scratch of steel brushes on skin stretched taut
You hear the dull, booming beat that shakes the floor
You hear the fast rat-a-tat-tat of sticks on wood
You hear the gloomy bong of the warden's truncheon on the prison bars
You hear the blood pulsing darkly in your veins
You hear the thin, wavering cries of the carrion birds above
You hear the shallow wailing of the siren, calling, calling
You hear the sharp splintering of glass snapping, at long last
You hear the reverberating twang of the bending knife
You hear the high keening erupting uncontrollably from your own throat
You hear the soft trickle of tears on skin
You hear the gentle patter of falling rain
You hear the drumming of your blood hitting the floor, louder than silence
You see your blood, thick, dark, red, not quite fitting into this World of Sound.
IslandImagine an ocean of thought.
Down in the deeps, where no sunshine penetrates
Are the abstract, philosophical thoughts
Here dwell the slow-moving whales, the thoughts that make you you
And the rapid sharks, which are the thoughts you're too scared to think
But which you just can't keep away from.
Higher up, where the sea is no longer inky-black
Are the mundane, everyday thoughts
Here dwell the darting fish, the thoughts you think every day
And the swirling currents, which are the thoughts you'll hope will get you through the day
But don't quite manage.
Then at the surface, where everything becomes crystal clear
Are the thoughts which you don't even know you think
Here dwell the floating flotsam and jetsam, the thoughts that barely qualify
And the passing boats, which are the thoughts given to by other people
But you don't want to accept.
But I can't stay there forever, on the ocean of thought
Amongst the stormy turmoil of chaotic thoughts
Or the endless monotony of the tides.
PowerWitches. Brooms. Cat. Black.
Bewitch them, haunt their rooms, feed them to a giant rat, curse that track,
Gremlins make their computers glitch
Deafen them with a thunderous boom
Turn into a bat
Break the earth with a shuddering crack.
Magic. Minion. Wand. Spell.
Tragic power, tear off the bird's pinion, break the prisoners bonds, torment them with an unholy yell
Bedazzle with illusions, it's not a trick
Force your will upon them, leave them no opinion
Scare them, throw them around, hurl them into a pond
Peal upon peal of your magic bell, sounding a death knell.
Mage. Blood. Staff. Fear.
Page upon page of demonic incantations, drown them in a flood, move the path, make them shed a tear
Destruction is your only wage
Turn their brains to mud
Drive them insane with your manic laugh
Madden them with your evil leer.
ChessIt's night, the street is dark, lamposts block out the night sky
But still, between the patches of light are patches of darkness
From above, looking down, it looks like a chessboard
Squares of black, squares of white, stretching off into infinity
But who are the players?
But who are the pieces?
It's day, the sky is partially overcast, clouds block the sun
But still, between patches of darkness are patches of light
From above, looking down, it looks like a chessboard
Squares of white, squares of black, stretching off into infinity
But who are the players?
But who are the pieces?
It is said that gods play games with lives of men
It is said that Death would not take you if you beat him at chess
But are these the players that play this game?
But are you but a piece on a board?
Or is it you that plays this game, is it you that plays this game,
Moving yourself from square to square, both player and piece
Every square a new day, a new challenge, a new problem
Every day a new night, a new joy,
Fish, or a theory on the evolution of mankindIf fishes drink like fishes, are they permanently drunk
Because if they were drunk, would that make them a skunk?
And if a drunk fish made a wish, would that wish become a horse
Because if wishes were horses, would beggars really ride?
Or if the beggar's wishes were horses, then why not make more than on wish
Because if the beggar had more than one horse, then he could choose, and beggar's can't be choosers.
But if a drunk fish was actually a skunk, then it might stink like one
Because everyone knows that skunks stink to high heaven.
If heaven is high, is there a middle heaven, and a low one, or is there just limbo
Because if you were not quite good, and not quite bad, wouldn't it be strange to have to do the limbo?
But if you were in limbo then you might be between, and being between is between a rock and a hard place
Because limbo is a concept invented before hammers and anvils, when people beat things with rocks.
Some people used to beat other people with rocks too
Because they coul
TimeWalking down the corridor in the house that was never built
Opening the door that wasn't there
Seeing the shadows from the torches I never lit
And everywhere the twinkling possibilities of "Could have been"
And everywhere the thorns of "Should have been"
But nowhere, just for one second, the twinkling thorns of "Is"
Are intertwined with the fragments of "Was"
In the realm that was never there, never now, never then.
A man in the rainThe storm clouds are grey, as is the lighting caused by the Sun's feeble attempts to filter through the gloomy, oppressive weather. Even the rain seems grey, blown almost horizontal by the driving wind, causing ripples to spread out from the ever-growing puddles, and interfering with the ripples caused by other raindrops, creating a hypnotic vision of interlocking and concentric circles, an endlessly repeating yet constantly shifting motif, as far as the eye can see.
Thunder rolls somewhere in the distance, although the bright flash of light that had caused the window-shaking boom was nowhere to be seen, presumably having been obscured by the nearby towering edifices, their myriad windows dimly reflecting the fitful flickering of the street lamps. Still the deluge carries on.
Splashing his way through what is, by now, a single puddle, a man struggles against the wind, his umbrella, ill-equipped as it is to deal with this kind of weather, turning inside-out every few seconds, causing hi
Orgueil et PrejugesIl y avait deux personnes fières
Elles se disputaient constamment, jusqu'à hier
Quand elles ont été reunies par un voleur
Et son mariage avec une sur
Et maintenant leur amour on ne peut nier.
StormThe boat tumbled downwards into yet another trough, yet more water rushing over the side with every second, the wind driving it into a flurry of foam, lit up by the constant lightning strikes.
Amongst all this, one figure remained on deck, secured tightly by rope that had swelled from the water, causing him difficulty with his breathing. He'd been so immersed in his work that he hadn't heard the storm warning, hadn't even noticed there'd been a storm until the first peal of thunder had jerked him away from his studies.
Even then, his first thoughts had been of his work. He was so close to finding the cause of that frequency that he'd first discovered looking for earthquakes - it had been that that brought him out on this voyage in the first place.
With a speed born of desperation, he'd lashed his equipment down, protecting it with a tarpaulin as best he could. By then it had been too dangerous for him to attempt the crossing of the deck, so he'd had no choice but to tie himself down. H
ExposureThere are so many reasons to pick a four leafed clover.
There are so many reasons to cry and die and fight over.
There are so many reasons to let my pulse have a different composer.
There are so many reasons to smile and laugh and stay sober.
There are so many reasons why I can't love her.
The Empty ChairThe evening breeze and the extra cup,
A lonely shadow upon the ceiling
And all things “destined” on the up:
Absent from a funeral of feeling.
The cloak of a Sunday in the sun;
Each passing taxi reeks of a plan:
In lieu of nothing, the day is won
Affords to think a better man.
Killing moments, playing tag with the mind:
The first paramour of pagan day;
A second honeymoon of lost fears can find
A love for that familiar blue Bombay.
The erratic world can be rather still:
A man and his betrothed corner of air
A deadbeat verse on a diner bill
Wooing the crevices of the empty chair.
SleepIf I could sleep believe me I would, but it's not
as easy as it looks.
The constant fear of running the wrong way,
bad dream, bad story to say.
Don't fall too deep, because the darkness can keep -
keep the warmest part of your soul and
rip it to pieces then let it go.
Broken you will wander the world like I am,
imagination will be all you have.
The voices won't tell you the right way, you will hide,
but will be unable to run away.
Hear me, go to sleep, don't think too deep.
It will catch you and make you belong.
Close your eyes but not for too long.
Stay awake just enough to fulfill what you need,
hallways full of paths are nearby, doors with broken
keys. But once you find yourself, you will find the
shiny one you really need.
© Martina H.
Soon to topple downwards
Into a mess never to be cleansed
By its unknowing argumentative owners
Who didn't even notice the fall of their creation
And who most likely wouldn't care if they did notice
For the focus has always been on the endless argument
Never on the silent growing of a disastrous and deadly storm
Who finally snapped and unleashed hell upon the people below
But not an outwards hell like the one formed from the argument
An inner hell like that of a personal fire that was never ceased of coal
And now the aftermath, a broken tower and an outward hell forever evolving
And at rubble dear but glance do deser
La amistad y el amor no se compranMuchos padres que están acostumbrados, a vivir de lujos y quieren lo mismo para sus hijos, quieren que se relacionen con personas que tengan su mismo nivel económico, por que dice que ellos le pueden dar de todo, pero hay algo que no se compra y es el cariño.
El dinero solo compra cosas materiales, pero que es mejor ¿tener mucho dinero y estar solo, o tener lo necesario y estar acompañado?
No les pueden decir los padres a los hijos que su bien estar debe enfocarse solo en lujos.
Muchos que tiene dinero resultan ser muy groseros, y se burlan de la gente pobre o media, pero no se dan cuenta de que ellos también tiene sentimientos, pueden no tener lo mejor para vivir pero tiene lo necesario, y viene siendo mas honrados porque pueden no vivir con reyes pero ellos tiene mas que cariño tiene apoyo.
En la amistad uno no debe de comprarla con regalos, debe ganársela con respeto y amabilidad, si tiene amigos solo por que les dan cosas, que
me siento sola, abatida sin ganas de ver a nadie y me pongo a pensar....
¿Porque es asi?
Aveces pienso... que en en realidad no hay nadie que me comprenda realmente y tan vez es asi...
Aveces siento que nadie me escucha que soy invisible y eso aveces puede ser bueno pero la soledad aveces puede ser mejor que la compañia... asi no tenidria a nadie que me criticara los conosca o no, es mas doloroso no escucharlo...
No lo se, no se por que siento que todavia no he encontrado a esa persona que me comprenda que me entienda que pueda entenderme con solo mirarme, aveces las personas me preguntan que tengo sin saber ni siquiera mi exprecion, tal vez por que me ven callada o seria y en realidad no me entienden y por eso digo que no hay con quien pueda tener una coneccion, alguien que en verdad me entienda, que con tan solo mirarme a los ojos me diga lo que siento que sea esa persona que me entienda de verdad, es por eso que aveces me siento como un fantasma, ese es uno d
What About LoveThere's something about love.
Some sick, masochistic need that everyone possesses.
That they would do anything to have it in their lives,
despite the fact that it has the capability
to tear you apart from the inside, out.
To love is to destroy.
Any baby you can tear me apart all you'd like,
because maybe it will break me,
but there's this feint possibility
that maybe it will save me first.
Oh to binge...I wait to be forgiven by the heavens,
Most likely I already have been-
We all wait for what is easily given,
Convinced we can shouldn't be forgiven.
In the sad tale of surrender,
Every heart is tried and found wanting
We trade the innocence for the lust
Inside our hearts succubi are so daunting
For the physicality is only a shadow-
So much is behind the veil of our eyes
Countless demons waiting for a spin,
One that will keep you twirling all your life.
Call me crazy, call me mad
I lost what all I once had,
To just a night of surrender,
And to this day I want it back.
BrughIn the dark depths of the dank castle
Starts the single solitary sound of the silvery notes of a violin
Flowed by the fluid feeling evoked by a flute
In the cavernous hall, filled with chandeliers and bedecked with candles
The Lords and Ladies dance lithely
Their magnificent magics mingling
Interweaving to create interesting, inspiring images
Top hats twirling, tailcoats swirling
Dark dresses of damask dancing.
Along comes Arrogance, alone
He hunts hungrily, high and low
For knowledge he knows he must find
But the result is radically, ridiculously different
From what, from who, from when, from why
All of these pale into a pallid painting in comparison.
He finds what he's lost
Then loses it again
In the blink of an eye
Then he loses
Stuck The car sputtered and shook as it came to an almost silent stop. The engine had gone silent as the horn beeped loudly through the dark night. The orange gas light blinked mockingly at the woman behind the wheel. It was making fun of her; she knew it was making fun of her. Grabbing the black cellular phone on the passenger seat, she looked at it with full intention of calling somebody to come help her.
“Oh, what the hell?!”
The “no service” sign was mocking her at the same exact time. The horn beeped loudly as she slammed her head against it once again. The day was out to get her in general. She had arrived at all her classes late, and her son was sick with the flu. The babysitter was able to watch him as she went to her late night classes. Giving a heavy sigh, she lifted her head off the wheel to look out the window. Drops of water pooled on the windshield as rain started to fall in a pitter-patter pattern. She didn’t quite understand the message th
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More