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we scratched our names into cementi.
that moment when a phrase lights me on fire,
you’re there to take notes
we are strange, unnatural and mismatched –
in a “cute” way, my friends like to say
they don’t see the parallels that tie us together
like steel ribbons, interlocked bows tied in intricate knots
we have matching wrists and synched heartbeats,
not to mention a common rhythm that drive our words
in that complicated beat only we can unravel.
i can’t dance, but somehow we manage to fly –
carried by the strains of music constantly escaping my lips,
harmonies you complete just by listening and watching me
try to be beautiful in my trembling alto
it doesn’t matter,
because we’ve already scratched our names in cement
along with the word
'The Painted Girls' Book ReviewMaybe it’s the sound of the language or just the impressions we get from Broadway and Opera versions of its culture and people, but when I hear “French,” I think “romantic.” Nothing could be farther from the truth in Cathy Marie Buchanan’s The Painted Girls.
The Painted Girls is a historical fiction novel based on the story of Marie van Goethem, the young model for Edgar Degas’ statuette entitled, “Little Dancer Aged Fourteen.” Set in late 19th century Paris, the setting depicted in this novel is reminiscent of Victor Hugo’s masterpiece, Les Miserables, with its bluntly honest descriptions of the poor and destitute people living at the lowest rung of Parisian society.
Marie and her family are residents of the poorest district in Paris, constantly fighting to stave off both starvation and eviction from their tiny one-room apartment. The daughters of a widowed, absinthe-addict mother, Marie
Little CalvinI remember feeling as though my heart had flinched in my chest. Flinched, paused for a moment, and then raced away at the speed of thought, throbbing painfully as if it was trying to “pinch” me awake from the horror of a nightmare. The ominous words my father had just spoken still hung in the air like an aweful smell that had yet to dissipate:
“Kids, baby Calvin has Down syndrome.”
It didn’t help me or my traumatized heart to then watch as my father began to weep. He told me later that my mother didn’t cry with him at the time because she had already cried away all her tears in the hospital.
It may sound dramatic to those who have never had a relative diagnosed with a disability such as Down syndrome, but the news felt like the end of the world to my 13-year-old self. The ironic thing is that – in many ways – it was the end to life as I knew it.
Kids born with Down syndrome almost always go through various m
||I go for walks
when I realize that the world
will only make sense
if I stop
and take a moment
Fighting to Fit InThe tea that had spilled across the front of her shirt was cold against her skin, and she could feel the frantic pounding of her pulse as it beat in double time with the massive dose of caffeine racing through her system. She couldn’t think past the violent tremors that wracked her body, and her breath came in ragged, hysterical gasps that left her unable to speak. But as the room around her swam with the same chaotic swirls that made her head ache, the contrast of the dark tea stain on her white shirt lit a sudden spark in her memory, and a series of hysterical giggles somehow managed to escape past the gasping, shuddering breaths. She thought she heard one of her friends say something about “hyperventilating” as they made her lie down on the bed and pulled a blanket over her shaking shoulders.
But as her friends worried around her, Brooke only saw scenes from her childhood as they played like a movie before her vision. Scenes of growing up in Texas, stuck in a c
restless sufferingthere are times
when all you can do is curl up in a ball
and tremble (quake),
longing for the courage
to tear away your own skin
and seize your sporadic heart,
feeling its annoying pulse
in your rough hand
(if only it would stop
and bother you no more…)
times when the flames well up within you,
searing away every comforting, soothing thought
as they let the sorrow and pain
burn and b u r n,
leaving not a trace of humanity left~
the raw, wild emotion
you wish you could let it
expend its fury for as long as it could,
until it ran out of its own fuel
and forced the cloak of flesh
back in place –
smile painted on,
trembling forced to cease.
you’re trapped, able to do nothing but weep
and wish for sharper fingernails
to the girl teaching herself to flyShe is trapped by a moonlit mind,
come silent in the night.
Surrounded by clouds, she is blind
to barren worlds; their light.
Searching for a sign, she survives,
although she knows she cannot thrive.
Searching for a sign.
Searching for a sign.
Anything to remain alive.
Her voice calls out, though no one hears,
screaming for redemption.
A shadow comes to kindle fear,
adding to the tension.
Someone please help me, she shouts, cries,
though on her cheeks, her tears, they dry.
Someone please help me.
Someone please help me.
But her screams turn to desperate sighs.
Weeks pass, and she remains divine,
still searching for escape.
Vines corkscrew themselves on her spine,
leaves curling up her shape.
Borrowing wisdom from her brow,
she learns to
A Freshwater Soulyou didn't dream he'd tear blank walls, whip
furled fists, let partly tattered tales slip
early echoes, and allow
the lonely ships to sink, baring bows.
sail sea. river, remove
yourself far forth. prepare to prove
that you can keep a gruelling grip.
For Love of the StarsMoon Mother sighs, somber,
beneath a laughing Sun--
his world is ending,
hers has only begun.
She Is HumanBlood-bathed warrior,
priestess and healer,
she was the fury
the calm and pity.
Heartbeat to deafen thunder,
yet drown beneath whispers,
she swept across worlds
tripped upon the same rock
hurtled through lifetimes
never wanted to die,
scrambled for maturity
defied to grow up.
Saw all on her axis,
chose blindness to the past.
Threw shields before enemies,
opened her heart,
refused to begrudge
forgot not her pride.
The Tangled Webs We Weave...
"Oh what a tangled web we weave,
when first we practice to deceive..."
Bob never really liked his job,
a clerk, in a room full of clerks.
Many a time he'd call off sick,
his unwitting boss- a jerk!
The sun was up, the air was fresh,
those eighteen links were calling.
Bob called in sick (a fevered chill),
his bold-faced lie - appalling!
But as it was his boss had plans,
clients that needed wooing.
So they hit the links at eight-o-five,
"Is that Bob? Who's he fooling?!"
Sad to say, Bob lost his job (sigh),
still unemployed, though he tries.
If only he had told the truth...
he wouldn't have been ensnared by his web of lies!
2. The Affair
It seemed to Joe she worked too much,
overtime almost every night.
He missed their quiet times at home,
he wondered, did she see his plight?
His best friend Ed had tipped him off,
Every little bitNo one noticed the empty chair
They were all busy
Telling each other what had happened over the weekend
People didn’t really notice the chair anyways
Even when it was full
But today is different
The teacher walks in
With a strange look on her face
And she tells them
The girl that filled that chair, is dead
It happened Saturday night
She was driving home
She fell asleep at the wheel
The semi didn’t even get a chance
They pronounced her dead at the scene
The shock comes first
She was such a quiet girl
Always at the back, out of the way, you know?
But not today
The chair is staring at them, with unseen eyes
And that’s when people remember
How polite she was
The small smile she wore
The soft voice
The tired eyes
The boy in front of her,
She used to let him borrow her pencils
Because no one else would
He didn’t even say thank you
Or always give them back
She would help clean out the locker of the girl beside her
Without being asked
Even with the moldy lunches at the
A Well Meaning LieSomeday I will lie
To everyone alive,
And they will never see
That the liar was always me,
Because my words of sin
Will only bring a grin,
To their faces
Which were always so very grim.
I guess I'll be ready
When the wolf comes slow and steady,
But I will not cry out with fears so heavy,
Because this is what a liar gets in the end of the story.
So even if I made you smile,
Just for a little while,
Try to hold onto it when you find out the truth,
That there's no joy in youth,
When it's all you can look back upon
While you lie forgotten and long gone.
You'll always wish to change,
Maybe then things won't be the same,
But isn't it strange,
That you would think that way?
I guess the good memories did nothing for your soul,
Just cause you all this pain while you're growing old.
You pretend it never happened
While you're looking at it,
And you complain that you want that feeling once again,
You want to feel that grin,
But you forgot about the lie
Told by none but I.
So when you're screaming
Linguistic HonestyLinguistic Honesty
No vivid imagery necessary for this kind of poetry,
Just stream-of-consciousness, this is simply linguistic honesty.
I have so damn far to go and I know my mind can get the best of me,
That these worries of failure can sometimes drudge up worn insecurities,
Frightened that society’s norms will keep me from where I really want to be,
But I know that if I continue fighting I’ll surely reach whatever life has destined for me.
So even if I love and hate the obstacles in my path, I know I will eventually pass all of these things.
Sometimes though, I just need a little help and she’s the only one I want with me on this wild journey.
And more than anything else, I just really want to be able to say, “Six generations, my little lovely lady.”
Life Of A ConscienceRain slides down the window pane
As I slowly go insane
Falling with tears, down my face
Slowly making an empty space
Fall out the window, float up high
Deeper and deeper into the sky
Dance in sunshine, bathe in clouds
Away from people and looming clouds
Fall into a lake, see into the water
Cut nets and save, fish from slaughter
Spiral up and down, with the waves
Follow the paths that have been paved
Follow the turning twisting bends
Never giving up until the end
Jump over barriers, crawl round mistakes
Sleep and take a decent break
People laugh and people frown
Taking turns to wear the crown
When it’s hard, together we try
We don’t want to say goodbye
We stand together, you’re not alone
The same down to our very bone
We light the day, comfort the night
And together we will make things right
The StreetUnder lamps as tall as trees
And loud or laughing conversations buzzing like bees,
There lies an old grey street.
Many a car and pedestrian
Has its cracked sidewalks and faded line-paint seen,
And policemen, gazes keen.
Small children playing ball
As mothers yell warnings, using full names and all,
Summer sun, bright and hot.
But not just as a playground
Has its purpose served, but also drug-dealer spots
And beds for bums, minus cots.
The people wear old eyes,
Jaded, faded, and worn with time's desperate cries,
Aged beyond rightful age.
Slow steps walk the street,
Shuffling and dragging like nowhere is worth going,
Dull sky and lifeless world;
Even the yellow paint is cheerless, even if it's curled
In its sharp, winding turns.
Hope is scarce, love more so
And kindness is a thing forgotten in the distant past,
Hiding from people harassed.
These are the grey streets
That crisscross our cities, rain coming down in sheets,
Poverty reigning just as heavy.
PetalsThe grass tickled between her toes as her father toiled away with the roses by the letterbox. She watched his fingers weave between the thorns to pat the soil around each bush, humming to some John Lennon song she couldn't put a name to. Despite the sun just tipping the horizon, she saw sweat prickling his brow and his eyes squinting against the light. The fine lines on his face were suddenly accentuated by shadow, and for a moment, she swelled with wonder.
'Maria, come here,' he said, waving her over. 'You're not going to learn anything sitting all the way over there.'
Excitement sparked her limbs into motion, and she crawled over to sit next to him, careful to tuck her skirt beneath her thighs to avoid the dirt.
He picked up a pair of clippers from beside him. 'Now, you need to snipe back these diseased parts here and there from the base of the plant. It helps it grow better.'
Snipping off two pieces of wood with ease, he deposited them in Maria's outstretched hand. Their rough textu
Dreams of realityA pair of eyes;
Open and stare through the lights,
Into the darkness of doom.
And yet they smile,
Yet they smile.
A drop of tear;
Seeps through the garden of death;
Falls to the mortal soil.
Dreams and desires will blend again,
To render the roses alive.
I am floating through a vision.
Like ripples, floating through the pond of life.
Can reality be so real?
Let me drown again,
Into the silence of familiar noise.
As I wander through the lanes of reason and passion.
The flame of hope burns bright,
Drenched in the colors of freedom.
So let my dreams unravel my soul,
As darkness fades away;
And let mortality draw me closer to destiny.
As these pair of eyes,
Open to stare through the lights again.
Is this reality?
Can reality be so real?
Time passes by, as the eyes keep staring;
Staring at the distant lights;
Staring beyond the distant skies.
What do they see?
What do they long?
What do they desire?
Then the skies will break down;
White lightning striking the dreamy clouds.
Moments will tur
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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