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Ode to a TutorTo write a paper,
You must do it later.
To complete an essay,
You must have nothing to say.
For it is the way of a student,
Of bullshit to be fluent.
We always know just what to do,
To fool the teacher, too.
While we do things late,
We do things great.
It is the easiest way,
To simply write and pray.
As Poseidon on his way about,
The professor brings down the trident.
Because as much as you tried to woo,
The bullshit was not enough to pull you through.
As you feel your grades waver,
A helping hand is lent,
The tutor steps in the way,
Getting paid for the hour, just for you.
Ode to a ProfessorYou are monotone,
Set simply to drone.
In this world we live,
Useless information is what you give.
You speak of art,
But you lack the heart.
Bring up architecture,
All you do is conjecture.
It seems you are content,
With your oral dissent.
Just give it up,
So I don't spill my cup.
I don't think this desk,
Would like turning into a flask.
To call yourself a teacher,
Is like calling Satan a Preacher.
Give it up McKeon,
We've had enough of you this eon.
I BleedI bleed,
We all bleed.
Tonight we shall scream,
Although silent it may seem.
There is evil in this world,
Waiting as a flower to be unfurled.
The new dawn splashes upon its leaves,
Giving new life to that which breathes.
The drop of a hat,
We all bleed.
King of BullI am the king of bull,
Of hot air I am full.
I am the deceiver,
The easy reliever.
Hang on each word,
That you have never heard.
Give me your ear,
I'll give you a tear.
I love how you listen,
As it allows my lips to glisten.
Oh! You've caught on!
Too bad, I'm already gone!
The WasteAs you sit and stare
At the problem in your face,
Trying to see through the distant sun's glare,
Breaking through the walls of fate at your own pace,
You often find a question lying somewhere,
Somewhere in your mind that takes up space.
The question lying within
An empty casket,
Earthbound and driven,
A shell of what was once a full set.
As the wings of despair
Descend upon your face,
There is a revelation.
Empty the waste basket.
Care to Try?Care to try?
Care to die?
Oh how I wonder why.
Testing this theory,
Makes me weary,
In a world so dreary.
We piss and we moan,
But we never alleviate our tone,
Trying to play king in our throne.
Your throne is simply a toilet,
In which you empty your wallet,
A waste of money as we would call it.
As the dollar bills wash away,
You still stay,
And it's going to get better is all you can say.
The better never comes,
Only the beating of the militant drums,
And the mourning hums.
The dawn of the new day has arrived,
But the chaos for which we strove,
Is lost in our idea of purity in a dove.
Sadly, this dove has dived.
As the world falls to pieces,
Through mortgages and leases,
Lives set to monetary increases,
We become the extinct species.
We tear ourselves apart,
And blame anyone we can from the start.
We know how to practice the art,
But not how to accept the fill of our cart.
Entering the checkout line,
You feel an ache in your spine.
You feel it bowing over,
Cracking like the cliffs of
Prince SaiterPrince Saiter,
Strolled down to the water,
His robes in a slight tatter.
He looked out to sea,
Wondering what he could be.
He sat down upon the cliff,
And caught a stench upon one small whiff.
As he began to stand,
He felt on his shoulder a hand,
That seemed to be covered in sand.
It belonged to a man of haggard appearance,
Who seemed to be longing for deliverance.
Saiter pushed the man down,
And watched as he began to drown,
All the while casting down his crown.
A life of evil is what he desired,
Something to keep his soul fired.
He set off to his parents' castle,
Thinking the trip home was a hastle.
A haunting figure stood in the path before him,
Loosely slouched under a tree limb.
A nondescript face and stony appearance,
Showed a life of grievance.
Saiter kept walking down the path,
While in his head trying to do the math.
Had he been caught?
It was as he had been taught,
Do not do without thought.
A consequence of his psychological trial,
He floats down the mental river of denial.
Shame's My NameShame's my name,
Welcome to my game,
Where all of the players are just the same,
Afraid of where to put the blame.
Your lack of responsibility,
Continues to disrupt the illusion of tranquility.
The game is simple to play,
But everyone complicates it in their own way.
They try and see through new eyes,
Up until the point wherein someone dies.
They feel that this death can be justified,
Through topics of which they have lied.
Blame's the game,
Where the power players are tame.
Point the figure at me,
When I am just a mirror of what I see.
What you do and say,
Comes back to haunt you one day.
Blame's the game,
Where did you hide your shame?
Simply YouAs you walk on by,
People stare and wonder why,
There is a hope that makes you try.
Living through day to day,
Continues to make people walk away.
You stop and cry,
Not knowing why,
But the time is nigh,
For you to stop what you try.
It is time to slip to the back,
And let all of their poor souls fade to black.
You find yourself all alone,
But it has always been in this state that you have grown.
A realization of your worst nightmare,
The thought of which you do not dare,
Try to make anyone care.
It is now that you realize,
That your personality you must finalize.
It's the time to stop thinking them through,
And to start being simply you.
diaryi thinned recall,
strangled memory until she screamed black
or blue, strung her source of voice along
the willowed incline of vein to wrist and down
let the curl thirstily imply
just how cut it is to pain in numbers:
one scar for extravagant wine dates, three
for the number of times we fucked crying,
eight for forgotten promises of ever after
i heard a sordid song in your tallied matchstick
bones, victorian in beauty & proper repression
of the bloody details like a bruise we push beneath
our hollow skin with dirty fingernails
see, the past is not a headless infant with knives for
playful fingers, though it is not to say
that cribs or birdcages hold anything more than
what we leave them to engulf
i swallowed you whole, ocean— basked by the enchantments
of soft-spoken life, bathed by neurotic erosion.
they taught me that the cleansing of your body now
fades the transient you of yesteryear, speak in familiar tongue:
bathroom stall mirages of rounds, clocks, convey
Song of First SnowfallI fell in love
with the boy at the bus stop this morning
who dropped his gloves
on the sidewalk
to freeze his fists into side-of-the-road snow
and throw snowballs into the wind
just to watch them float away
as if he wants to contribute to the storm.
To be a part of it all.
I fell in love with him,
and I don’t know why.
All I know
is that the air is filled with music
and that this boy is the bassline.
And then he’s saying hello.
I think it must be to me;
no one else is around
but for the street and the snow and the sky.
But he’s yelling at the top of his lungs,
at the street the snow the sky
and I know that to him,
I’m not even there.
It’s to be a part of it all:
the whispering of wind,
the crunching of footsteps
and grumbling of cars.
It’s to be standing in the eye of the storm
to be clinging to its teeth and to say,
I am here.
He looks at me,
and this time I know it’s to me that he says,
ExpirationWith you I always feel like I’m
to break in the wrong size of shoes.
Sometimes I sit and stew
over how you’re seventeen and
you think I’m a princess
the trapped-in-a-tower kind
and how you wear suits and talk about politics
and think you know the world.
My throat interrupts with an affronted gurgling sound
sometimes when I think about you,
you deal out advice where it just isn’t called for
you quote science-fiction to justify war
and you’re seventeen years old and you think I’m a princess
and you just have no blooming idea.
Darling, one of these days I will tell you my mind
But until then we’ll never fit
I’m afraid –
that even after that day
you’ll still be trimmed hedges and
Whenever I hurt myselfI have a feeling
Someone is watching
So I look around
But there's no one to be found
a cherry pit dog heart.she holds a cherry pit dog heart in her hand, arrhythmic
beats like children playing pots and pans in kitchens
mother builds from scratch, black bean soup prepared
for dinner by a creased artist; wisps of white
upon a grandfather's head remind his daughter's child
of winter as he talks of horses in cuba who scratch
their backs on wooden posts; the first time she eats
ox tail is at an uncle's funeral, sitting in the basement,
surrounded by her surname, wondering why everyone
seems so happy; her grandmother keeps having
that dream where she's cooking and pours hot oil
on the animal in the kitchen, singeing his skin—
she cries out at midnight, sobbing for her daughter;
black eyes watch as her child keeps growing,
inspecting her process for future improvements,
while she takes pride in getting her sleeve caught
on twigs as she runs through the forest; motherhood
enters her every so often, at times uninvited, but
never for her prince in white, the bundle curled up
on her bed, floating
Makers Of The Cage. Holders Of The Key.Our eyes are the closest thing we have to freedom.
We see endless blue sky, and the stars beyond.
We see the beauty of the world.
We see our reflection in the mirror;
the reality, and the fantasy.
Our eyes see far and great.
But the rest of us cannot follow.
Our hands probe the steel bars around us.
Fumbling in the dark.
Cut by the sharp edges.
The bleeding never stops.
Our feet shuffle around.
Trying to go places.
But we walk in circles.
Our emotions go from red to blue;
orange to green;
yellow to purple,
mixing in a haze.
Our mind goes to dark places,
and only wanders deeper.
Oblivious to the place right next door.
It knows the freedom,
it knows the pit.
There are endless paths to take.
There's a cage we need to break.
There is a key ourselves create.
In our hands, it's never too late.
on goodnessbe good.
be an angel.
be better than that, even.
be a demon.
do what you want, when
you want, how you want
to do it. because no one
can tell you what is good.
the same ones
telling you what is good
are the same ones
who left their
children crying in gutters
the same ones
who said that the war
the same ones
who said that
you don't deserve rights
if you don't use them the same
way that they do-
the same ones that, given
the opportunity, would hang you
up by the skin on your shoulders
in a museum to point at and say,
'see, children, this is
what happens when you aren't good.'
Quilt of LifePick it up, turn it
Analyze its weight, texture, color
Where does it fit?
Look for a space
Maybe find one
Sew into place
How much to invest?
Central or peripheral?
Perhaps to divest
Weave the tapestry, cohere the quilt
Pricked fingers, drawn blood
Fearless weaver, exacting selection
Self worth reflects in the thread
Awaiting a tardy un-required kiss
Solitude's a known companion
Its pain numbed by the flow of years
She holds out for quality
Let Me OutLocked inside this cage,
Sadness inside turns to rage.
The color of my soul the opposite of beige,
Seeming to cast spells of an emotional mage.
I cast off the robes of burden,
In a feeble attempt to become my own warden.
The pain withheld on the inside grows like a garden,
As the outside begins to dry and harden.
Pent up inside like volcanic lava,
While the added pressure churns the wild lava.
I sit and take a sip from the morning java,
Staring into the brown froth that seems so much like rocks in lava.
I feel my fuse shortening,
The shadows of Hell inside consuming.
Satan has come calling,
Showing the way for releasing.
As the volcano blows,
A bloody river flows.
A light appears to purify rivers in rows,
But the darkness is absorbed into the light's hose.
The call for help is lost,
As Hell begins to greatly cost.
The bridge to nowhere has been crossed,
And the time for revival is hard pressed.
Let out the temptation and Satan,
But try not to wash me away again.
a hospital bird with soot in her lungsshe slept through a car crash
that almost killed her,
through whitewhite walls
where her lover dies
nobody thought she'd make it
but she woke up a few months later
with flowers in her hair
and ash in her airway
trying to remember how to start all over
but forgetting to remember how to live.
fall slipped from her open eyes
and winter crawled in for a long hibernation
to her the clouds looked sick
and pale like they might
let everything inside them out,
but she opened up wide instead,
spilling blood where there was none to be spilled.
her heart slipped down the street
and with unsteady hands
she stitched in a bird and cut off its wings.
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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