|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
Ignoring BlissI rested the tips of my fingers on joy and felt a sensation similar to betrayal.
And on pressing my palm through it I did not feel like falling, I felt thirsty.
My hand did not disappear in the microwave of happiness; it stayed elevated
Before my face, untouched and still, lingering like anything would after finding
Something like this.
So when I pulled my hand away, slowly, to the ends of each nail, my hand stung;
Pins and needles from the separation's anxiety. But what my mind suffered
Was far more indefinable.
I rested the lids of my eyes on the tops of my cheeks and felt something
Close to fatigue, but like a flight as well, of feathered wings that did not
Belong to me.
Without touching joy again, I left it in the air, like my plans to go to Paris.
I left the room I found it in and forgot instantly what pain there was in happiness.
Would something so soft follow me, carried in my wind and will?
Or will joy be kept at bay, with my betrayal and the fossil of my hand
Stuck in its cave
Am A DaughterSuch hazel eyes you have Or so I think you have.
What silk dark hair you have, had, will have.
Those sad eyes you blink with; sad in my sad eyes.
Such tired limbs you hold, or carry, or pull.
To know is to know, but to guess is to hope you know.
To hope is to painstakingly wonder.
Wonder, I do, what voice is yours. Wonder, I do, what hand is yours,
Yet I know your script. With which hand, though,
Do you cast words? Do you cast X's and O's.
What shade of green are your eyes in the light?
What philosophy would you explain
If I asked you how you died and how you will live.
Can I wait, I wonder, another year or more; is too much of my
Creation been performed to tell you about it?
Such hazel eyes I have. What dark hair I have now.
Such sad eyes I blink with. Such tired limbs I carry.
Writing to You from ComatoseI woke up one morning, one unimportant morning, with an unimportant 3 and a 2 and a 7 on a rather unremarkable clock.
The indifference of the occasion, waking before the alarm, was not at all unmentionable, however. And, looking back at it now, as it is twenty minutes later, I wake up again.
This time is different. I remember why I roused from sleep; an altogether trivial event.
And on realizing that everything was real, (my skin being unprotected, my hands empty, my core bent and in the unmistakable form of being cut in two) I shut my eyes and yelled.
It was an unimportantly quiet yell- it came from somewhere I had not been; that place I visited just three days ago and stayed; that coma of being completely broken.
But my eyes work; the eyes that are not looked into anymore, the eyes that are brown now, I am guessing, as they look at the 3 and the 4 and the 7 that snicker in a dim glow of red.
Like those chairs with skis, I rock forward and back; on my knees with a golden pillow in my
Petite FilleIf I could give you a name, I would call you Tristesse because you taste so much like sorrow.
If that would suffice then why am I still just like you? If you know a man's name, you can kill him.
Suicide is not what I had in mind. I would never say ("Kill me.")
If I could give you a name, I would call you Douleur because you feel so much like pain.
If that would be enough then why am I still here? If I get it right, do not I go free?
If freedom were something tangible, it would be his eyes, (the love of my soul.)
Something inside me; it is something irrevocable. I sometimes just give it my own name.
But if I could give it another, I would call it Aimer, because it grows so much like a seed.
If I could grow anything beautiful, it would be ('your love') that made it possible.
If you were even real, and maybe in some year far away you are, I would give you a name.
I would give you a name and change it every day because you look so much like a dream.
Yes, I dream of you, as if you were real
Do ImbueFor the meantime I am on a ship alone
With a mate that once declared me his own.
The men we hung are nearly dead.
I remember one time when a plague hit crew
I sewed all my ribs as a bed for you;
For your chambers left unfed.
Eight mice had made their homes in the row of shoes
On the starboard bow where the cold wind blew
Whenever he bathed me there.
He said "Antoinette, if there is anyting left
When we return to the place we've theft
I will grow roses in your hair."
But the sky was sick and that heat was fierce,
The kind not born of passion's tears,
And thoses roses faded black.
He said, "Hold our child, when you see her eyes,
As I held you in the ocean's tides..."
I cried, "You musn't look back!"
Untitled II am but a cold wind you say you love;
An ever changing weather that only stays true to caring for you, but nothing more.
I am but an obligation. I am without ease and without signs.
It is as if I were a witch, sometimes, in the center ring far from home.
I look at you and say nothing because I fear I might be lit up then and there,
Tied to a stake that resembles what I never said.
But what I have said is that I am sorry.
I said it through a wet mouth; through wet hands while I heard the
Worst sound I have ever heard in my entire life.
It was the sound of you crying. You've cried before, but this, this was torture to me.
Your sobs grew so loud and so pained and I sat but feet away, holding onto myself; how weak I am.
To think that I am a witch to you; a girl with eyes you adoringly look into,
But has tricks that hurt you so terribly.
I do not intend any of this! I want to kill myself so that you will no longer have to choose to stay or leave,
Because I will be lost
For I am
Keep in Touch!
A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More