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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.
eight ways you've made me small1. I wish
this was for you.
2. my journal pages - the
brown one with all our monologues -
were jarred with hollow vows of
last poems of
letting you slip into a coma
of bad memories, watching you
fall to your death off
a cascading cliff of disease
and dis ease.
it was never
easy for me
3. there's a reason I ask
whether you're grey
(dark white, elusively black, in between)
or blue (behind the clouds, under wave-foam,
whateverthefuck runs through the back of my
palms); I'd rather have
than the arms
that once held you half-
heartedly. you had always been
my harmony and I
would have killed
to have been yours.
4. it could never have been just me, the way
it could never have been just
5. disasters are not beautiful,
but how is it that you
managed to make my inner linings
converge into bows
and explode into wings the very
night you decided to rebuild your walls
to a lower height?
6. I wish
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
Change this lifeHiding in the shadows
Resisting in secrecy
Trying to find a way
To change this life of misery
The future is unknown
The past is to forget
The present is dull and boring
Is this what life has to offer?
I want to change
And I keep trying
Only to fail miserabily
Every single time
Whenever I hurt myselfI have a feeling
Someone is watching
So I look around
But there's no one to be found
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
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.
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
on bradbury and table dancingYou are not a wordsmith
whatever you might like to think. ('Smith'
indicates precision and coldness and fire:
words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.)
It's a difficult road to follow, and not many
make it past the fork. Choose a path,
Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders:
I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming
rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery.
Notebooks scattered across the landscape
of a child's room, to be stumbled across,
read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night.
When the bough breaks
a hanged man laughs. He carries typewriters
in his pockets, and cigarettes in the soles of his shoes.
I will never be a word mistress,
whoring myself to the speech of people I do not know and will never know me.
The oven is set to Fahrenheit 452, but the words were already aflame
before they ever took shape under your tongue.
You love everything they've ever written, and carry
unabashed loathing for every syllabl
Self-Aware of TortureSelf-Awareness is overrated,
Often massively debated.
We tend to look on the surface,
Which in reality serves no purpose.
We tease and we torture,
Going away from the cure.
To clothe yourself is to hide,
Leaving yourself physically denied.
To apply makeup is to masquerade,
As if you are the madman on parade.
At birth there is not one inhibition,
But as we grow it comes to fruition.
The wold is simply in a competition,
To fulfill the lonely superstition.
Our DutyWe swallowed the path home
Because we were hungry,
Though starving is an ongoing
Story, an empty bag
Dancing in the streets,
Full of an unfastened voice
Walking through the house,
Wind unchained, heart admonished.
Heaven fills its eyes, crawls away,
That sleeping boat content to follow
The vacant waves, intervals
Of dying that we dare not interrupt,
And we watch the kind ear shrinking
From our charcoal docks; heaven
With a full stomach crawls away.
This is what we were put here for.
Keep in Touch!
^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