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This is the Death of MeThe hunger within that claws the cage that is my stomach. Cage the beast. Make
it angry. Play Pandora. Back to the beginning, repeat step one.
Deadly repetition never ends. Misery becomes my saturation. Drink the wine of
lust and pretend its love. Close my eyes and believe. It's all good.
This leaves an empty place inside, one that only you can fill. But who are you and
why do I feel the need to swim the ocean for you?
Compulsions drive my actions, gives me no control to this story's end. The quill in
Bloodlines - ProloguePrologue
Beams of light reflected across the old ruins. Minuscule particles embedded the weathered stones, causing the stones to have a shimmered glow of a thousand colors. Many years of elemental exposure had reduced towering columns to mere stumps, grand walls to waist high inconveniences. Age had allowed the forest to overcome the ruins. Great oaks had torn apart the stone with immense root systems and brush had cluttered the grounds. Peace that only time could bring whispered through the ruins, mixed with the slightest hint of sorrow.
A young boy, not a day over eleven, hid behind a larger section of the ruined walls. Back pressed against the crumbling stone, the boy sat motionless with his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. Long, deep, breaths escaped his lips, leaving no trace of sound. His dark blue eyes stared intensely at the bush that tucked him against the old wall segment.
At the boy
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