| female/teenaged/insane i like music, books, writing, candy, organization, and cooking. |
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At This MomentWind crawls like hands through the air,At This Moment
your eyes as glassy tiger-eye marbles.
We travel like the interstate through the rivers of our dreams-
falling
apart. Falling back together. Sometimes just...
falling.
We are witnesses to the winter, and the trees.
Concrete grows like dark grass through it.
Concrete whispers like the criminal cold,
around this. Here.
Wind crawls like hands through the air.
Our breath is a vapor that sits on this moment, an
by ~Julian-Delphiki
InsomniaThe buzz of night hangs from theInsomnia
arms of trees: here, where the scuttles of squirrels are halted, here, where all is calm. Here, where the air is chill, and lights are a blow to the eyes.
The world waits: frozen, but at home.
Wait.
There is something Else here. It is quiet,
but It is alive. We do not speak Its name. While the rest of the world
slumbers in the deep sea of night, It is apart from its skin. It is unpeeled and unbelonging.
Sleep only falls when the clock numbers wax full.
Stone cold sleep muffles
by ~Julian-Delphiki
sojourneryour secrets give an impersonation of grace: we do not move on.sojourner
by ~Julian-Delphiki
In This MomentThe clarity of the things we think we know -In This Moment
a blinding, deafening light and vaulting cold room, with a person that breathes the nascent truth of morning.
In the unsure, electric air I gouge my palms with bitten nails and hope I'm visible enough.
Enough to be lovely and artful, glinting and scatterbrained. But also mysterious. And also worth it.
Enough to deserve the hum of shivers crawling
up my arms and ribs and scalp, and the things I wish you would say.
The smile, and the silence that clears away with your laughter: the time that should
by ~Julian-Delphiki
Favourites
love poem.she is sick into a poem, she on desert elbows, the tracks of her bones swearing gashes in wool blanketslove poem.
she bruises fingers on string butterflies, fashions mirrors of their twisted wire torsos
she is streets, foggy or hell-sacred and almost ready to be left, she some butchered queen
she is a sometimes mechanism,
she an eight-minute record, excessive and muddy with feelings
she violates the chrysalis,
she a cream-skinned queen yet child, she waits and waits.
by ~iLISI
deviantID
Devious Info
- Current Residence: far outside reality
- Favourite genre of music: indie-alternative, e.g. radiohead, coldplay, sigur ros, bright eyes, and many many more
- Favourite poet or writer: too many
- Operating System: tablet pc
- Favourite game: minesweeper!
- Personal Quote: "the cure for anything is saltwater - sweat, tears, or the sea." --Isak Dinesen
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Be you own hero.
Be your own saviour.
--
If there is any secret to this life I live, this is it: the sound of what cannot be seen sings within everything that can. & there is nothing more to it than that.
~ Brian Andreas
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am living on INK ... (
" Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity, and iam not sure about the universe! "
--
An Irishman has an abiding sense of tragedy that sustains him through temporary bouts of joy.
--
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
J. Keats
--
Be you own hero.
Be your own saviour.
--
i'm not afraid to die. but i'm afraid to dry./
"Je ne suis pas d’accord avec ce que vous dites, mais je me
battrai jusqu’? la mort pour que vous ayez le droit de le dire"
--
“So many people treat you like you’re a kid so you might as well act like one and throw your television out of the hotel window.”
- Gerard Way
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