flame of my candle
scare away those sleepy nightmares of my bright days
of dreams I've lost
of joyful smiles and grins covered with frost
(oh, I long for privacy)
(for my lonesome ink-filled secrecy)
(for strokes of silent solitudes)
make it all fly away and hide
under my feet
make it all disappear
and subside
like a long forgotten
fear
oh my curtain,
can you see through your velvet tapestry
those empty faces of masked crowds
and our silver moon
consumed
by wings of emerald crows?
(I long for silence)
(for my dreamy acts of violence)
(for bla
She dances with fire, a dragon in tow.
Twirling with flames; graceful and slow
She dances tonight, in a city of ash.
Her feet leaving footprints, where the sand will splash.
Quietly mourning, as time goes by;
Where once she beheld a home in her eyes...
Yet naught but the barest of bones remain,
And so she dances, to soothe the pain.
At The Other End of the Bullet by WordOfChen, literature
Literature
At The Other End of the Bullet
They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die. Well, that didn't really happen to me. I remember it hurting; a searing pain in the back of my mind, and then it was all over...
I found myself floating, drifting high above the battlefield. My feet touched something that felt like an invisible glass floor, and soon I found that I was able to stand on it. It took awhile to get over my fear of heights, but once I did; I opened my eyes and just, watched, as the entire world carried on.
Funnily enough, I didn't feel much of anything at the time. I guess they tend to play it up in the movies. They always show that people remain angry, th
music of abandoned places by UrbanExploration, journal
music of abandoned places
I enjoy urban exploration, and I enjoy music. So here are the photos that show these things together - abandoned places, ruins, etc. in which something is connected with music. Sometimes musical instruments were left there. Sometimes we can found dusty radio, old cassettes, broken record, CD-s... Or just books with sheet music or lyrics. Finally, it could be also the place where music was played, or created... or where the soundtrack was recorded. Or something different.
Pianos:
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I've got ink throbbing through fissured veins,
poisoning every atom of my soul.
"Bite your tongue," they say.
How I'd love to chew the damn thing off
and suck down every filthy syllable
just like the rotten bone marrow it is.
They'd all watch as my body spontaneously combusts
and becomes nothing but convoluted karma.
And so I wrote,
"Dear poetry,
Teach me the ways of ripping out a human heart,
and stitching it onto ink-stained parchment."
The answer that came was rasped from a cauterized throat:
"Read your future in the collapsed palm of the stars;
find the abandoned pulse of your lionhearted muse;
steal their conformed scalpel and mak
Therapists, I don't like their taste. by DearPoetry, literature
Literature
Therapists, I don't like their taste.
i.
in 7th grade
i didn’t know depression
until she told me her name,
carving forever scratches
along my limbs like
little love notes on the bark
of a tree.
she stole my rings
and left me hollow.
ii.
i had only ever met anxiety
in passing, until one day
he handed me power and told me
to hurt someone else with it.
iii.
inexperienced,
with an uncontrollable
quivering in my fingers,
he whispered, “ to survive,
you must learn quickly.”
as i shoved the bevel of a needle
into a strangers arm.
iv.
so, if a therapist
could talk away my scars
like iodine disinfects,
guide the ships
through
at the station
one exhausted passenger
the train on the track whistles
you have to obey
get on it
and ride away
one exhausted passenger
the trip ended where it began