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Sick and tiredi'm sick and tired
of words that turn to dust in your mouth
and still you spit them out
i'm sick and tired
of holding your hand, and your heart, and your demons off
all along with mine
i'm sick and tired
of being so cold
and colder because of you
i'm sick and tired
of fading faster
in the onslaught of your artificial sunlight
i'm sick and tired
of biting my tongue
after I've failed to keep it silent
To the parents of my generationSometime we need it a little louder so we can here the noise
Sometimes we need them drawn onto our skin before we can understand what the words mean
Sometimes we need to carry color in our hair so that we remember who we are when we are stripped of our childhood
Sometimes we need to decorate our bodies so that we throw off a light of our own
Sometimes we need to rebel in order to feel wanted/ valued/ remembered
Sometimes we need to scream at the only people we trust to love us when we're done
I will admitI
to waking before the sun rises and hiking into the hills, laying on my stomach in the dusty trail and sticking out my tongue to taste the early morning dew from the sweet grasses
to running and vaulting myself onto my bed at night in order to avoid the monsters under the bed-frame
to touching myself out of curiosity rather than in search of pleasure
to putting glitter in my bath
to running barefoot through mud of questionable origins without a thought
to eating strange things in strange combinations in strange places
to staying up reading and sleeping late
to chasing after birds and lizards
to believing in true love and mythical critters
to being an empath
to holding a grudge
to being afraid to dance
to singing in the shower
to giving in to distractions
to reading ahead
to putting on airs
to writing in books
to avoiding pain that needs to be faced
to playing the devil's advocate
to dyeing my hair because it makes me feel like a rainbow
to acting younger than I am
to not ta
Dont Call This NumberI am a self-admitted chronic eavesdropper.
because really, maybe the world DOES need more female truckers.
589-9320, you say? Sure, I'll call you back. Monday, right?
God, I KNOW! My last dog was picked up by a hawk too! That's living in LA for you.
No, babe, I didn't cheat on you, and her name was Sonya, not Sarah.
I wonder if these people realize they're not in a cone of silence on wheels.
I shake my head at you fools.
Scarywhen did I stop being nice
and became "scary"
was it when I started correcting others' grammar, other than just my friends?
or was it when I found my voice, am I talking too loud?
is my pushing people away too forceful, too pronounced?
instead of the weakness I am trying to hide, do they see cruelty that isn't there?
I never thought people would believe the front I put up so thoroughly
maybe I am too forward, too present.
I think it is time I sat back
and stayed quiet.
Poem In Progressmy daughter drowned in a pond impregnated with duckweed
less than knee - deep and cold, like a body just vacated
beneath the greenery little fish dark about
like a cross between your generic goldfish and a common minnow
they lie in wait
they flutter around the feet and legs of curiosity
they open their jaws, exposing rows upon rows of tiny needle-like teeth
and before you know it they've latched onto the skin
but they're not why my daughter drowned
the stoneturtles that lie for years undisturbed
their shells buttered by algae
bite (when stepped on)
but it wasn't the stoneturtles that killed her
teabirds dive-bomb wanderers
tearing out lost-ones' hair
raking skin with their claws
I'm dreamingI flew in my dreams for the first time
and quite honestly, its not all its cracked up to be
yes, there is a sense of freedom
but its not that amazing
I still felt lost
and no one told me I'd be running from something
something I know is not there
so my first flight was powdered with feelings of supreme stupidity
and weighed down by disappointment
even in my dreams
jeromeJerome where have you wandered
around which river and bend
upon which tree have you climbed and looked onward
which bird did you follow back home?
kidsmake no mistake, she is wind-kept
wild hair and blank eyes
she'll dance through your lungs
leaving you breathless
and colder (than before)
he is a child of mournings
skin a soft gray and the coo of a dove
as if a touch would push him
and he'd scatter like dandelion seeds
they are a pair of river rocks
twins - without gender or feeling
if ever there were hearts made of stone
I've found them
my children of earth and stone
my children of flesh and bone
when you find yourself
in a crowd of familiar faces,
the struggle for breath
You Will PayI can taste the fear upon you:
The cold sweat in your palms,
The eyes that dart at shadows,
And the lips that are forced into a tightened smile.
You wait beneath the blankets,
Shivering each night as the anxiety rises.
You gasp at the slightest sounds and quiver...
For you are afraid of the curse that comes.
In your mind you see what you have done to me.
You watched as you ripped my tongue
And stole the very voice from my soul!
But even if I am without a body,
Even if I can no longer hold a knife to your throat.
Fear alone is enough for me to silence you,
And I will NEVER allow you to be heard!
Inner DemonI harbour a monster,
It lingers deep within.
It wants to escape me,
To tear free from my skin.
It gnaws at my insides,
And hopes that I'll give in.
It works hard to tempt me,
To lead me into sin.
It wants me to suffer
To feel its wretched sting.
But I stand true and strong,
I will not let it win.
The nights are the hardest,
In bed I pray and sing
To the Lord God above
To rid me of this thing.
But instead it remains,
My monster still within.
MazeLost within myself
Looking for a way out
This cannot end like this
Trapped in my own mind
A maze with no exit
I keep running and running
But I always end up
In the same place where I began
RustThe dwelling rust
swells this hollow garden
and somewhere in the yard
a tire swing goes flat
against the skyline.
It chokes the autumn light
in the silo,
the crush of
mums and ragged berries
It bubbles in the percolator
steeping still life
in the caul
of early morning -
the red-brown crumbs
of breakfast toast and jam
growing ghosts upon
And deep inside
I still hear you waking up
the soft salute
of morning voices
stirring the wind
outside my window.
Slaves of the deadSlaves of the dead
to find another land,
but they couldn't stand the desert and the frost.
Some died, some returned.
For those who returned
the masters had prepared a special punishment.
Their memory was wiped off.
They became thieves,
without ever understanding why.
They just felt it was the right thing to do.
Effluviawith a laugh like her's, like rain pattering on windowsills
i comment, watching arms the color of cream flail and reach for something not there
you'd think she'd sound better drowning
all i get is a shrug in response
bodies say more when they're silent
tongues and hands lie
eyes, not so much
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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