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And play on she mustI am a little sister.
Im also a big sister.
Sister had been playing doll the hole time . . .
And she’s still is playing.
Because she’s alone, so play on she must
But who to play?
The young sweet sister?
or the over protective older sister?
But play on she must.
For she cannot stop
Not if she wants the pretty porcelain doll become broken, fake-plastic pieces.
For to break the doll is to break hers self
For she is the doll . . .
. . .
Because . . . I . . . am the doll . . .
. . .
And play on I must.
If not for me or others,
Then for my dear brothers.
I am - I do - I know1. I am afraid . . . but of what?
2. I am silently hated, but there not good at hiding it.
3. I am alone, even though there’s always people with me.
4. I do force laughter . . . every day.
5. I do have “friends” , but only a few that understand.
6. I do wear a mask, on the front is written in big red letters “fake”
7. I do fake smiles . . . I perfected it at the age of 5 . . .
8. I know im broken . . . no, . . . shattered.
9. I know im quiet . . . but im also loud.
10. I know I can sing well . . . but its only another way to send hints on who I
really am, but no one picks up on them.
11. I know people think im weak.
12. . . . I am strong.
My story of being bulliedMy story of being bullied
Well . . . I decided at yes 3:01 in the morning that I would kind-a vent.
So im going to tell you one of the moments I think affected me.
What started my “mask”
The making of my first layer if you will.
I was in kinder garden: I didn’t have any friends . . . not one.
I remember one of the boy’s in particular didn’t like me very much -or at all for that fact-
. . .
Well, in the middle of the school year I remember he started to be mean to me.
This was a little surprising to me; he didn’t like me -not that anyone did-But he just sent me glares from afar and hated me from distens.
He first started too verbally salt me, then it turned into throwing thing at me. Like sticks or little rocks.
But . . . one day I remember very clearly . . .
He punched me in the stomach . . . and he was a year and a half older then me.
He did this every day till the end of the year.
I remember when he used to come at me, I would keep walking awa
The Art BirdSome people don't think the arts are important . . . i will NEVER understand them.
If i could imagine the arts as a physical figure . . . it would be a bird, The bird who inspires poetry, books, the bird who sings for you, who inspires you to dance!
When people take away the arts . . . they've taken the bird, clipped it's wings and tossed it in a locked cage.
The artist mourn for the bird, knowing their unable to set it free . . . to let it inspire them . . .
All people . . . every person has an art bird, if you're in a place that never lets you see your art bird, the bird will be forever trapped in a dark part of you.
But, some people never put there bird in a cage . . . but wore them proudly on there sholder, carried it around for everyone to see,
those are the people who try to unlock the other art birds . . . to set them free.
so that they can walk in stride, . . . with their beautiful . . . art bird.
Love illusionsometimes, when I close my eyes, I think your just an illusion my mind made to fill the empty hole in my heart that is love.
But . . . when I open my eyes to you tenderly kissing away my tears . . . I can't help wonder why, why you love me so much.
and why . . . when I close my eyes my mind fluids with images of your smile, of you gently holding me . . . as if I was a flower, and you were scared that if you held me to titley . . . I would break.
And as you whisper sweet words of love to me while i fall asleep, my only fear is that when i wake up . . . i wont have somebody to love me as endlessly as i love them.
Blood Thorn roseI . . . I am a red bud.
Young, fragile, tainted in the blood of thee innocent.
I have caged my self in thorns.
Protecting . . . from those who could hurt this old soul.
I cage myself for fear of being hurt . . . I don't want her to be afraid.
When she cries . . . It pains me.
But no matter how much I want to protect her . . . I know I have to open the blood thorn cage to bloom.
But by opening the cage, I could crack . . . Break
But I don't want to burden her with something so hard to fix.
Because . . . I am only her HEART . . . In a cage.
I am a MouseI am a mouse.
I am quiet, I am nothing.
I am a book that nobody has read.
I am an eclipsed sun and a cloaked moon.
I am irrelevant and unwanted, a broken toy in an attic.
I am the dust in your rear-view mirror that you leave behind.
I am the air that you breathe in and spit out as something different.
I am the palest white. I am the darkest black. I am the dullest, emptiest grey.
I am the old man with forgotten memories and the baby who has yet to make them.
I am a forgotten word, dangling on the tip of your tongue, hanging on the noose of your lips.
I am a dried up stream. I am a felled forest. I am an abandoned cornucopia of resolute nothingness.
And there is Hell burning in my eyes.
PainParalized by the suffering
A shiver down my spine
Images of my past haunt me
No one can save me from this hell
to me you are perfect
I do not know the reasons
for all those scars burning
against your bright skin
you've been soaking
a pain reminiscing from past
we both cannot recollect
yet you are so beautiful..
when night gets darker
and I am the one...
who's hungered to undress
the spirit of you
slowly revealing the layers
coming off from shadows
disguised in desires
craving to be fulfilled
I will caress every corner
of your silhouette
until I figure the true shape
of your heart
I will rub those blisters
softly until every nerve
of you gushes into a river
and you moan into a life
I had promised you
years ago when we began
to breathe into each other
for all the truths
I must swallow
and lessons I must learn
you are the one
I am destined to discover
what it means
to love in perfection
A void within meAlone on this inhospitable night, once again
I let my memories guide my lost steps,
Wandering amid the ghosts of my past.
As I walk along the quay,
I stare at the feeble Seine flowing:
She's dying by the street lamps' hands
While the whole city asphyxiates.
Reflecting my own lack of humanity
Over the river's lighted surface,
Griefs come and go at the water's rhythm.
Once again, on this breathtaking night,
My feelings are sealed and my chest hollow.
Purple rain, chills of cold.... Or regret? I crave
My musical drug, my remaining salvation,
Spreading a sweet poison within me and
Eroding the remaining happiness I still have.
I plug my headphones...
A grin of relief appears on my weary face,
I flee to lenient lands, where a familiar Angel tucks me in.
These notes of violin split the immutable silence,
Fill the hole in, lit a bonfire to my soul.
This mermaid sings my dreams to me,
i can't keep walking on these dry-rot bonesoh, i am not a poet;
like the ink scratches
of plath, i am
specter boy: decay,
dispose, & disappoint
because this is the way
that writers wane -
(this hangman head is no
survivor story, & gods
do not burn out
you talk like a travestyoh, mercury boy, you can't
write your way out of this
body or out of this mind;
you can pray like it's high-fashion,
insist you're only burning yourself out
(but tell me - do you feel like a god yet?)
if only for murky mirrors &
silver cicadas caught
in your ribcage, you've
got a knack for decaying
The PointIt’s the taste of cake mix on the spoon, that first time you ‘help’ bake a cake.
It’s seeing the bright world afresh after a dark nightmare, when you first wake.
It’s when you make them laugh and, in that moment, everyone loves a clown.
It’s when your heart stops before the roller coaster plummets down, down.
It’s when the lights go out before your favourite band plays and you scream.
It’s that moment you look around and everything’s perfect enough to be a dream.
It’s the anticipation of waiting for a new episode of your favourite television show.
It’s the first time you listen to your favourite record and you just sort of know.
It’s reading a book cover-to-cover and a million times more and still crying at the ending.
It’s the stiff, tight, real feeling of a smiling scab as you watch the wound mending.
It’s when you first meet your best friend and you hate each other (but in a good way).
california wintersthe tears
I rationed have all
run out. Tuesday comes
up behind me and steals
my breath; my cat snores.
she can’t sleep soundly
since she lost her seventh
life. I’m like that, I’m always
worried someone will try to steal
what I’ve already given away.
I miss color. newsprint sobs
washed me out. I am a
blank canvas, I am a faceless,
I am one
of you. I wake up sweating
and it’s winter and I can’t
sleep because my memories
follow me between my sheets;
jake still won’t listen.
we never knew we were the
lucky ones, we scarred, too. don’t
touch me. don’t want
me, don’t bare my bones
when you think I’m not
watching. I’m afraid of
myself. breathing loud
enough that others know
I exist; you follow me,
needing, laughing, it’s
a game. who has lost
the most, we all want
to win; I’m so tired, so scared,
there’s no one in the world
who sees me. I can’t cry.
we’re in a drought.
it makes me laugh
knowing that if you even LOOKED at the path of PAIN i've gone down
you would berst crying at the site.
whispers and lies behind me . . .
say it to my face . . .
try, i dare you
scared of lil ol me?
. . . pathetic
you think you could even TRY to hurt me ?
nothing you say could even reach me
throwing your words of hate ?
even if you threw them as hard as you can
they won't come close.
. . .
" i pity you "
. . .
how would you react to thes word of mine ?
. . . dosen't mater,
what you tell me hasns't matterd in a long time.
i actually want to thank you
your the reason i'm ME
. . .
to have to try to climb up by knocking others down?
well, like i said
pathetic . . . and pity
i thank you.
. . .
but, i promise you
try to knock me down again?
and i WILL FIGHT.
because i AM stronger than you.
. . .
and i always have been.
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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