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The Rent Is DueThe rent is due and I don't have the money.
I walk through the lobby, past the doorman who gives me a scowl, out the revolving door.
My father calls. He only ever talks about the bad things.
It's cloudy and gray outside. It's always like that this time of year.
My hands are shaking and I desperately need a smoke.
I see a man and ask if I can bum one off him. He tells me to get away from him.
He calls me a 'hobo'.
Am I? I'm going to be. Soon.
The rent is due and I don't have the money.
I have a mid term that I haven't even started yet.
I should go back inside, but why?
I lost my wallet last week. Someone maxed out all of my cards.
I have a headache.
Cars pass. People speak.
The rent is due and I don't have the money.
When I go home I'm sure someone will be there.
Someone will have called.
Someone will be there.
My furniture will be gone, and my things will be packed.
I have such a headache.
I smell awful.
I look awful.
I'm a 'hobo'.
I have a headache.
I smell bad.
I need a smoke.
Permission to ExistFor her to live without me?
It would take desperate measures. Measures that I don't think others would appreciate.
I, for one, act automatically. I do not think about my actions.
The world is made up of actions. Actions, and consequences.
I don't make choices. I don't change my path. And why?
Because the world is actions and consequences.
Intentions are lost.
Thought is lost.
Blame is lost.
Only consequences have staying power.
And the consequences of me, a vital part of her personality and mind and being, leaving her?
Well, they would be devastating.
And frankly, I don't want to leave.
As much as she'd like to think I can just pull away, pretend as though nothing has ever happened...
Life does not work that way.
Avoiding the problems you have will not make them go away.
And if you try, it will all turn out for the worse.
She thinks she can escape me, but she has never been able to in the past.
And well, to be frank, I don't want her running off.
I don't need permission t
Wrong side of the mirrorI can see a woman, watching me through the glass. She is young, in her early twenties, with a haunted look about her. There is nothing especially spectacular about her, but something something quietly remarkable draws you in; captures your attention; fixes you to the spot.
Her eyes are a slate grey, intense and piercing; a dark energy smouldering in their depths. You notice that they glow a deep blue, like the ocean, when caught by the morning light, sometimes even the shade of a pale winter sky. A subtle ring of gold accents the border between her pupils and irises, which hold a faint sparkle of mischief against their black voids.
A shock of tight, red curls, messy yet somehow precise, frames her face. The sides of her hairstyle are trimmed short, not quite a mohawk; showing her natural gold-tinted brown. You could almost imagine her as one of the blond, adorable, cherub children, if not for the shadows of experience marking her features.
Beautiful is not a word that suits her, and de
Ugly.As a young child, new to the world, pure of it's intoxicating fumes, I remember a tree.
Such an ugly tree I remembered it to be.
It stood tall, creeping a good ways above any of the others, but it was disfigured in many ways.
Its branches were thin and fragile, like the bones of a sickly human, they twisted in retched ways that anyone would think should snap them clean off.
It was pale and grey, standing out among its fellow familiars, never to show the beautiful colors that it must have held within.
Its bark was edgy and course, as if it had survived through one of to many harsh winters, never falling from its place.
And I remember, as the others land succumbed to failling, giving themselves up, withering away, that tree never did.
It continued to stand tall, proud and majestic as that ugly tree could possibly seem.
It fought its way through whatever was thrown its way, fought until it could no more, never failing whatever duty it believed it needed to fulfill.
When Home Becomes a Prison (Strength)When your pillow is no longer the fresh place to lay your emaciated spirit
But is now the chain on the ball that is your bed.
When a door is no longer the entrance to a retreat from the world
But a metaphorical lock keeping you ensconced, never stepping foot out into it.
When windows suddenly become looking glasses that never break,
Just heckle you with what you're missing in their transparent prisons.
A token of what you used to be in the faces of the people walking passed.
The people who pay no note to you;
Who have no inclination of what they are; the symbols of your long-ago life.
The sharp splinters of nostalgia that just glimpsing upon their face sends into your heart.
Every time they walk their dog,
You grimace because you cannot walk long enough to do the same for yours.
Constant reminders in everything everyone does in everywhere you go
of the things you are losing without control.
You clutch and grasp while slipping into sliding as you clasp onto what is left o
My HeartYou know you’re truly in love if hearing her name, even if it’s not being referred to her, fills you up with undefinable joy. You know you’re truly in love when you remember how your voice trembled when you called her and read her the letter, asking her to be your girlfriend. You know you’re truly in love if the pure thought of feeling her soft skin on yours makes you shudder with delight. You know you’re truly in love if, she’s not only the first and last thing on your mind every day, but also after every meal, every motion, every book, every song, every breath. You know you’re truly in love when 771 miles isn’t the distance you are away from each other, but rather the amount of roads, bridges, and rivers you’d cross to get to her. You know you’re truly in love if every song you hear you can connect to the overwhelming joy and the infinite sorrow she makes you feel. You know you’re truly in love when you write a story a
Dear JamesI placed a candle on the water for you today. It flickered and floated and gathered with candles of other losses; fathers, friends – whoever. It was as hard as letting you go; if that candle drifted away from me then would I lose you again? When they scooped the candle from the water and your flame went out who would remember that I honoured you? So I took your candle from the water and placed it into my bag. Not because I can’t let you go but because I want to remember. I will light that candle to remember you on special days.
James darling, I missed you more today than any other. I know I will miss you more again at Christmas, on your birthday and on the day you died. You are an angel but you are still with me – in the heart covered by the tattoo of your name. The ink came from within, seeping up through my skin and not down.
I am grateful for the two sonograms I have of you, yet part of me yearns to know what your face would have looked like. Would you have his thi
SaturdaysBrought into this world on a rainy Saturday morning
No memories of the years that follow
Until the pain
Eyes of a beast
Tears of a child
Walls subconsciously building to keep the child safe
But are the walls for safety or containment
Blood and bone breaking
Screaming into the night
True Love: Part one
Finding true love yourself, it is quite rare these days. But once you’ve met your special one, once you’ve looked into their eyes, you will know that something big is about to happen, if you realise it or not .. it will.
You will know deep inside, when your heart starts to skip a beat, when you want to simply grab her and kiss her until you both run out of breath.
True love is not about what you have to offer, is about how much are you willing to give, to share and sacrifice for her. It is about trying to make her happy at any given point, out of nowhere, cause you wanted so. It is about sharing your thoughts with her, telling her that you’re scared of losing her someday .. she will simply kiss your nose and tell you “silly, you’re never going to lose me”.True love is beyond physical attraction, if two souls get united, the reaction will be so powerful that absolutely no one can separate you, ever.
Hidden Language"Is he ok?"
Is he alive?
"Is he alright?"
Is he breathing?
"Is he sleeping?"
Is he dead...?
Stay or Leave?"Don't get mad. I don't like it."
"Don't cry. I don't like it."
"Don't be sad. I don't like it."
"Don't smile. I don't like it."
"Don't laugh. I don't like it"
"Don't be you. I don't like it"
Then what am I supposed to do?
Then who am I?
You're saying you don't like me.
But you stay with me.
To change me into someone else
So that I don't exist anymore
I'm tired of it
I'm tired of changing
But I don't stop
I'm able to but I don't
Because you are the only one left
If you're gone,
I'll be left behind
All over again
But if you stay
I won't exist
But it wouldn't matter anyways.
AwakeShe must be so peaceful when she sleeps.
The way she must look - so complacent and calm, no frown or grimace. Her eyes would be shut, her breathing so even and soft...not the harsh and ragged breath of anger that I am so used to hearing, even now. What a nice change it would be...curls fluttering down over her face, wavering back and forth in the wake of her breath...
Her chest would rise and fall, smoothly and sweetly, her clothes wrinkling a little with every inhalation. She would barely move, as well - a small twitch or shift here and there, maybe scratching her arm once or twice. It would be...almost cute, perhaps, to watch her. Perhaps her nose might wrinkle up upon the feelings of discomfort, as well...my favorite part would be to see the smile she holds in her sleep, to hear the things she mumbles softly.
But in this moment, she is awake. I see the beautiful brown eyes that sparkle with joy when I am not around. For, when I am, they glare at me. I dislike that. When she glares a
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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