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I'm SorryI’m sorry for my people.
I’m sorry that greed and industry
have forced your hands
into an embrace, no longer of love
but of death.
I’m sorry that we could not
coexist together neither above
We put you under the gun.
Fed you to the fire.
Recanted our most recent lies
though wretched, you were crying.
And in our haste to use you,
abuse you, absolve ourselves of blame,
We began to burn together in the heat
Of our own flames.
You deserved more
Than the smoke induced stupor
that we bore from your heart
and burned to fund our own bones
once we were long gone.
But soon we will be,
fed to our own flames
and for that,
I’m not sorry.
CryingYou can ask yourself why,
your ambition sought glory in all the places
we could not live without.
But the answer is something
that you can't find at the end.
Of a pipeline.
Moral doors don't close
for those who only Think,
And your unintelligible rhetoric
is not the same thing,
as an answer.
You can't breathe in
You can't breathe out
You're closer every day
to finding out.
That the reason that we're crying,
the reason that we're dying
We Can't Eat MoneyI cannot understand the fall air
in your radio show.
And I don't see the leaves
that fall from your concrete trees.
You awake each morning,
to the sound of the el train
rumbling through the tunnel
of your dreams.
Wondering why you smiled
in the face of the proof,
Painted on your dying face.
Each brushstroke a jackhammer.
A single-minded tooth
eating you alive, one chip
at a time.
The Eyes of Our ChildrenBecause sometimes I forget
that the sun can shine from my heart.
Because the speech-born webs
that connect my mouth at its corners
were conceived from the alphabet soup I was fed.
Our hearts walk twenty miles barefoot,
to the rhyming toll of the prison bells
we forgot to hear.
Yet here their Olympian din is hollow,
Drowned out by its fading significance.
I know not why my eyes open black as night,
nor why the rhythmic spasms that once meant life have stopped.
But I see clearly the smoke rising from our future
and I wonder,
Why have we been wrong?
No Sympathy For The Broken-HeartedOnce the flame burned,
a smoldering conflagration of our courage
captured in the self subsisting light
of a beating heart.
The human condition at it's core,
heroic and strong, but inevitable is
the losing. The floundering in the forests
of past civilizations, fallen from faith.
The fragrance of a rose,
it was my fault I picked it.
But I picked it for you.
It strived, struggled
to stay perfumed,
Yet petals fell to the ground, anyway.
I tried to fix them,
to return them with the acrid paste
of my misguided dreams
to the withered stem, to save them
in the flower-press of my wounded heart.
But of the roses, only thorns
You were my moon,
My crescented light,
There to guide my way.
A pale light brightening the dark sky
You shined as beautiful as an elegant swan
Surrounded by a million little stars which were
equivalent to my feelings,
Twinkling in its moonlight
I rewound the time I lost with you
around the spool of my misguided ambition.
Floundering to hold the gaze
of your memory, w
SearchingI saw you there in corners
of what we may become.
Sequestered in your heart, like me,
confused in the shadow of the promises,
that the truth broke.
I understand though
I don't know who you are,
not really, but my heart
longs to feel yours.
To kiss your lips
and as one soul,
understand our pain,
DaydreamingIf I could for a time,
deign to forget the muted window of reality
revolving around my daily life.
And create relief from that endlessness
in something more concrete, and imaginary,
so that perhaps the days lived will become more
than just two boots on the ground, trudging in reverse,
toward an uncertain future.
Yeah I don't like schedules very much...I don’t empathize with time.
That is on a schedule oriented basis
I tend to forget, as many do, the oblong
shapes of the grains passing through
some microscopic hole in our universe.
And so becoming lost. Forever.
Forever being an extraordinarily welcome word….
The opposite of time is the eternity.
The rather malicious metaphor of the soul’s journey
through an imaginary hourglass that we
in our self righteous anti-wisdom attempt to control.
Forked RoadsLet yourself breathe the fumes
of the mis-cultured outside, forgotten
by the futility of our attempts
to build a transparent box of secrecy
around our souls
And in a effort to shut-out the truth
you forget to see that these,
self inflicted lies have sliced through
the connecting tissue of our palpatating hearts
and laid bare the mis-truthed monster
for which they beat.
Stop putting words in my mouthYou shove your fingers
down my throat,
and insert words
I never spoke,
in desperate hopes
to make me choke
my pearly gates
that feeds me
swallow the universedecay remembers you --
fever breath and ocean-eyed ghosts,
secrets that smoke with poison desire.
we wake only to drink, to devour
the naked voices of dismantled stars.
glass kisses turn into granite lips
and pillars of salt; a haunted embrace
melts into the cracks of the universe.
Love is not blindLove is not blind. It can see clearly.
It looks past the boundaries.
It defies the judging stares of society.
It is a force to be reckoned with.
eight.sometimes i feel
life's been played like a puppet
on a tangled
[yet still i'm lifeless without you .]
eidolon longingbreath salts open rooms
that entomb my idle hants.
in gloomy aberrance.
when the pulse was flaunted
remain the pursuit
of lanterns haunted.
questions flung like
furtive surface glances
ghost through iris eyelines
with an epiphany;
this search sparked
full body shudderings.
shuttering every window
and portal alike,
a light threatened by
the tending toward pulsatory spikes.
aorta, i spied you
spidering open your eyes
sliding the pursuit of dawn
through your dim sight.
with the sun, beat,
you forge forward for
warded window panes,
a rhythmic wonder repeat.
but eyelids live locked,
a careless cage holding
in this socket shock.
tock and tick that slick swindle options;
your image a lit blossom in a bottomless pit.
i’m reaching, but god, this
isn’t possible when
you’re this obstinate;
i am a fossil you’ve discarded
with hardly a sniff.
snuff me out, i’ll sputter devout and wish
my cardiac espousal had been more
seven.my nights for the last weeks have
consisted of liquid
poison, smoke in
and the chilled sound of
wake up with my
head half off the sidewalk,
surrounded by shards of
and a faint touch of
[ill pick myself back up on my own two
feet.. and stumble back;
she had come seeking a riotshe found religion in silence.
there wasn't a prophet's bone
in her body, not a holy cell of skin, but
somehow she was something
to believe in. she called herself a woman, not an angel nor
madonna, and the crucifix on her tongue could
not make her hold her words.
they called her witch and called her
goddess, made of something
such as marble, but she said she wasn't one
to be revered -
icons made of glass were
made to break, she claimed she was not
born to die;
(silence is found in the loudest of tongues, for speaking is an art
not all have learned-)
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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