Give Me the NightThe garish day belongs to them Give Me the Night by FurEmberLily
flaunting their belonging in life,
their mocking laughter accepted,
shallow comments embraced,
fashion and flirting hailed
where dreams and love should prevail.
Let them rule, then, in that blinding light
but the night belongs to me.
Give me the night
the shadows that fade imperfections from sight.
Give me the night
where wonder is shared,
where the line is blurred between dreams and reality,
where words are spoken from the heart
and souls connect.
Give me the night
where differences are darkened,
where you don't need to be
a piece of the puzzle placed
because the night welcomes all beneath her wings.
There is room enough.
The light, they say, illuminates,
but all I see showing
is what they want seen.
In the darkness, defenses are dropped;
those seeking the truth will search and find.
It is in the night where you see the ones
who truly shine.
Give me the night.
The SketchHe loses his first kiss in autumn. He's twelve, she's just turned thirteen, and at the time he isn't sure what all the fuss is about but knows how special it is anyway.The Sketch by Treo-LeGigeo
She's gorgeous, pale-skin, brown hair, dark eyes always filled with happiness and joy the way he wishes he could be. She doesn't want to be there any more than he does, and they grouse to each other about how they don't need a 'special school.' It's the first time he's worked up the courage to say it.
She carries a book too, just like his sketchbook, but she says it's a diary. It's hung with a little lock on the front and he jokes about it being the key to her heart, a little boy's poor attempt at flirting but she laughs anyway. He wants to hear that laugh again, and he does, when he shyly asks if he can draw her.
It's half-way through his sketch that she leans in and presses her soft lips to his. It's a little clumsy and awkward, given how she's standing up and he's cross-legged on the ground, and nowhere as romantic l
GraveyardIn sunlit hoursGraveyard by NSkye
the glade is quiet.
Everything is still,
no signs of riot.
Far in the distance,
wind chimes are ringing.
they seem to be singing.
Within this heath,
grave stones sit, content.
They seems to forgive
events past and present.
But as soon as the sun
slips beneath the trees,
All forms of silence
and of peace are ceased.
Suddenly, there is smoke
drifting through the eerie air.
Burrows sit menacingly:
they dangerously glare.
Growls, whistles, creaks,
resound through the night.
Shadows lurk rapidly,
waiting just out of sight.
The vines that entwined
the trunks of the trees,
now appear to constrict
without chance to get free.
However, the glow
of dawn approaching
the violence encroaching.
The darkness and shadows
are easily banished.
Another bright day,
the evil has vanished.
i saw god leaving the shoreLast night I dreamed of blue-grey shoresi saw god leaving the shore by IyraEMM
Of miserable black rocks
that pushed back a tide that crawled with the dull wind
And how I moved so quickly,
Towards the salty edge of the earth;
She told me to run,
To kick back the sand as hard as I could
until something appeared.
And I suddenly saw haunting, stone walls
Gleaming in their symmetry
Made of pale, sturdy nostalgia
with deja vu dripping down
Slipping like liquid mercury
I ran towards it eagerly, and chased my own reflection -
But whenever I caught a glimpse of myself
The drops would dribble and scatter away.
She told me to run further
And my heart ached and my spine arched
against the stinging, salty wind
Yet before I knew it, the ocean floor moved
And I ran down shores
at every turn-
each perpendicular to the previous one.
Everywhere, identical blackened stone barriers
They are all the same, she said
Their crashing waves make the
SensesWatch as the HeavensSenses by WildFangWolf
Releasing vast torrents
Listen as the drops,
One by one in great symphony,
Explode on contact,
Drenching their targets.
Taste the pure water,
Driven fresh from the skies.
The clean, cooling liquid
Streaming across your skin.
Smell the pungent oder
Of a newly born storm.
The distinctive scent
Billowing up your nose.
Feel the cool sting
Of the rushing, raging drops,
Torpedoing straight down
Towards their first and final impact.
The world around us
Is filled with pleasentries.
We just need to slow down...
And let our senses take control.
RecitationHis blessing: may your affection waver limbicallyRecitation by archelyxs
above the quiet water to not become love. May your
loving voice be the death that begins to spill out
twenty years before it's completed in pebbles.
He lets them sprout before he gets attachy,
and from the inside of the soil the meek flicker
collects its heartpieces of seed, and shoots
into lascivious greens on the sill. A little
like the swarthy flowers that cover over the structure
of my fingers: mossy and flightless. Supraffective
sighing is the only song this lyric makes,
pining for the emery and empathy
of lighthouse scatter, a getting of lavender,
a gathering of metaphor, the amalgamation of
starting over by the river. The letter ks
finding hearthsound between a and the. For me
the standard's always losing, a giving
to the molar swish, the words contained
in word, a holy shelter: the regression
bending fractals ever for the ends
begin at within, not at the heroic withering
of love's voice down into pragmatic wind.
The King's GardenA king took a stroll in his garden one day and noticed that something was amiss. Everything in his garden, from the spreading oak to the climbing trumpet-vines to the proud rose bushes to the sweet willow tree, had faded and fallen and looked to be on the point of death. The king was shocked, and deeply concerned. He dashed to the spreading oak and asked it, "Oh, spreading oak, what ails you, my friend?"The King's Garden by ApplauseJunkie
The sad tree looked down at his king and sighed miserably, "Oh king, I can no longer live. I have determined to die for I am not at all like the climbing trumpet-vines in their supple sweetness and many blooms. The children of the court love to run to the trumpet-vine and watch the hummingbirds as they drink. I am nothing like the trumpet-vine, so I wish to be no more."
The king, greatly disturbed by this, turned to the dying trumpet-vine and asked it, "Dear trumpet-vine, what has brought you to this sorry state?"
The withering vine looked up at the king and wailed, "Oh king, I refuse
Her Musethese words are not poetryHer Muse by DearPoetry
swimming liquid fire through ashes
of dead phoenix veins.
no, they are rough and callused
with over use, their own faithless artists
spewing black tar from their lungs
in the hopes to one day breathe again.
nothing moves her.
she would rather scribble her heart out
on physical manifestations of her own reality-
on skin and bones she worships like a temple.
"Write of me," he says, "right here."-
planting sun-stricken kisses
along the hollow of her burning throat.
"I want to be where your heart sleeps."
Hashtag #youHashtag #youHashtag #you by ApplauseJunkie
We tweet our love, since we cannot scream from rooftops
for fear that people would hear us
But they can't take away your fingers
or the lines of experience on your shoulders
the engine revs
that I hate so much.
Blink at me
Because one eye sees better in the dark.
Set me on your left side
So you can see the folds of my skirt
and the way my fingers
scribble foreign blessings across your knees.
Sometimes wings don't have to fly
When the tree branch is steady and comfortable
Not clipped, just folded
I've never heard a more beautiful plea
than "stay with me."