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ObsessionI've been waiting for you to call, you know.
(And I have been avoiding you. You've been weirding me out lately.)
I don't understand why you won't talk to me anymore. Did I say something that offended you?
(It was more the fact that the lies and true opinions you have told me and everyone else have unraveled too much for us to pretend they are not there any more.)
Whatever it was, I'm sorry.
(Whatever it was? You don't know? Well, here is a clue. How about you called me and Elisa bitches, and you verbally attacked the man I love?)
I miss hanging out with you. No one has been able to hang out with me lately. They say that they're all busy.
(How do you manage to be so oblivious to the fact you creep us all out?)
We need to hang out again. I could pick you up, and if you need me to, I'll buy.
( I am sorry, not to sound cynical, but I've gotten that line before...and then full expectation of me giving him sex and anything else he wanted. I think not. In fact,
67 Percent67 percent.
I have poured that much out trying to drown those cockroaches that slither their way from your throat.
Those damn cockroaches.
Don't they know I have had enough of their radioactive resistant grins,
Their cocky smiles and big walks.
I've given so much.
67 67 67 67 67 percent.
It would appear I am stuck here, and they still aren't dead.
But I cannot pour out any more.
AgainI'm left again with words.
Glorious, intangible, forgettable words.
Words and bruises and scrapes.
That seems to be all you ever leave me with.
And, damn, how I love it.
Nothing in the air
But the buzz of lights
The protective phalanx of words
A piece of sculpture or architecture commemorating a specific person or event.
I have no palaces for you.
Only intangible words,
Perhaps someday I might print them,
Engrave them permanently onto burnable paper,
And build houses that will waft up like phoenix light
Before falling into dust.
No one knows what sort of monument to make to the living,
So that is why I have no idea of the next step.
Finally you are alive,
But I haven't a clue on how to celebrate you.
Playing the MelodyI love the clash of cymbals and the death rattle of snare drums
Something about bass lines stirs my soul
Makes me feel electric
Pushed into wakeful life
But I never know those beyond a passing acquaintance.
She laughed and shook her head at him.
The freckles from her cute button nose whirled about him,
A net of sunlight and simplicity.
And he was caught.
The innocence of her words contrasted with her scarlet lust laden lips.
The glistening ripples of flame in her ebony eyes
Promised sensual surrender.
And he was caught.
Her steel backbone always attracted him.
Straight and sure as engineered marvels,
But it bowed in sorrow.
And he was caught.
And I was caught.
HorrorThe play unfolding before my eyes was familiar. All too familiar.
It was the veteran going to see a war based action flick.
The reformed crack addict watching kids shooting up for the first time.
I've seen it over and over again.
No respect, no dignity.
The blind pawing of children who never knew anything beyond shy playground kisses.
And I had to sit there, as she poured out her soul, how she wanted 'to be a good little girl', a woman of twenty three.
As she baked pies and made herself pretty for her husband.
Seventy years ago, and we still are in the same place.
Choirs still sing, priests still comfort the sorrowful, and assholes are still assholes.
No theatre magic can hide that.
Especially when they can't even dress the heroine in the right clothes.
Leaving Southampton She was in the kitchen when he stumbled in noisily, tripping as he went past the shelves and catching the edge of the table to keep himself from falling.
Pretending not to hear the stream of curses that followed, she kept her eyes fixed on the dishes, letting her hand trail in the soapy water. There was a loud scraping of wood against grimy concrete as he drew a chair and collapsed into it. At this she looked up, and after a moment's hesitation, she said, unnecessarily, "You've been drinking."
He clutched his head and said nothing. He hadn't shaved in weeks and stank of sweat and alcohol; he looked much older than his eighteen years.
They sat in silence for a while. Then he announced, loudly, "Fuck."
She didn't bother to tell him off. She just waited. And jumped when he suddenly brought his fist down, hard, onto the table.
"Our lives here are s
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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