|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
BolideIf the world ends tomorrow--
My dad will sit out in a lawn chair
the freezing Minnesota air,
chainsmoking and smirking.
And you, maybe if you wanted,
we'd stand at the top of the Indian mounds
like we did on the Fourth of July years ago
and watch meteors firework across the sky.
There will be no mini doughnut stand this time,
no children laughing at the bright flashes,
but also no repentance.
If the world ends tomorrow,
you don't need to apologize for anything.
Hearts are fragile things
and it's not like this world
hasn't been struck by a meteor before.
OuvertYou were the one who showed me how to breathe
How to open my mind and my eyes;
to the emptiness and vast
beauty (see also: suffering)
of the world around us; to touch
(and feel the sunshine on our backs)
and when my eyes opened
and with it came the slam of a door
you were afraid of what you saw
(left naked in the streets)
the abstract ebbs and flows of your
I was jealous at how miraculous it was
(without the necessity to go with gears and symmetrical lines)
you exiled yourself
closed the world away and turned to a darker corner where you could be alone with your thoughts
(Oh how I know those corners as well)
with the idea that you were not exiling yourself
you were banished (mais la verité te libérera)
you almost turned around completely
your back facing my front,
and I saw in your eyes:
The watery image of an old person,
weary with age
and in your irises (deeper to your retinas)
The Universe and YouHalfway to infinity and nowhere near the end
you find yourself torn between your macrocosmic existence
and the endless tangles of your hair
caught in the universe’s mechanisms
that turn and turn and turn and turn and turn
until the words spin and make no sense
a jumble of ideas never finding expression
on anthropic tongues
but trust in faith
they fall through space.
The land is parched as the sea licks its lips
saltatory undercurrents keep the world feeling
but never knowing
Butterfly EyesShe touched my butterfly eyes
with dark hands in the heart
of an empty apartment.
The walls concaved in,
the ceiling dripped down,
the floor captured us;
We were molded into
the fine lines, the insides
of this place.
It was sheltering us
from the divine storm
that only she could see.
We kept our fingers interlocked
until we drifted to sleep.
It was night for days;
The rain fell like the sky
was in as much pain as us.
The wings of my butterfly eyes
shuttered under the finger tips,
soft from weeping.
I desperately wanted to fly
off the face I was attached to,
cut away the burden of my body
and release the little part inside of me
that grew the butterfly eyes
in the first place.
I left her sleeping on the floor
of our empty bedroom,
and crossed the hall into the bathroom
where I locked the door
and switched on the broken light.
Where eyes were supposed to be
wide lilac wings fanned out
across my face, with white lace
fringing their edges. Grey freckled
my cheeks, and eternity
All of nothingMaybe it's true -
I am all
Of the nothing
You protest loudly
Back of this line
On hands and knees
Heart on tongue
Lapping words once
Upon his time
Not a time because
His was the only
You wished upon
Holding feet up
As you passed along
The tracks and blew
Kisses to the god of
Traffic lights and
Sipping your tea
Drinking your fortune
You were finally fortunate
Enough to see
Every word that you
Somehow missed in
Your fairy tale
Riddled with inaccuracies
Of the prince saving
board shortsto be the Jesus doppelganger
on a skateboard
in orange Hawaiian board shorts
high-fiving Pittsburgh businessmen.
i know you've seen him.
because i've seen
your face watch subway doors open.
you count the trench coats,
the interns running late.
you can tell how
late they are by
how fast their arms are moving.
to have my arms
be an oasis in a city.
to have my hands
make handshakes full of summer.
to have my fingers
be forever giving because
we're always receiving.
we're always making house calls.
we're always adding creases
to our skin so we can fit
inside of suitcases.
but who am i kidding?
in ten years i'll be another
pair of dress shoes adding
cracks to the city sidewalks.
i want to have a garden.
i want my weeds to talk
louder than any
computer glowing in a cubicle and
when i walk i want
arms moving slower than any
steamboat on the river.
my best friend wants to be a housewife.
i said writing is my lover.
our dreams may be different cities
but neither could ever be a
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung words
Together on row upon row again
Of blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.
‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;
Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?
Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,
To point with honesty failed verse of thine.
No real poet discards upper case words;
Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.
You seek to free verse of those stern letters,
Sever away bleak capital fetters,
But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,
Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.
Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;
It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,
To make our dull words sound great all the time,
Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,
Heralding a poet’s summer prime.
Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;
Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,
The subject not gilded in raiment fine;
Your bold ink font, crystal waters divine
Tastes bitter to the ton
Keep in Touch!
Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More