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The Tale of Rambunctious RitaThe Tale of Rambunctious Rita
Goddesses Nine! I call thy attention
To my woe. I possess a tale which lingers in my mind,
Winding and suffering, trapped. Yet, I alone cannot
Speak, for no mortal has words to tackle or tell this
Terrific tale. So I beseech Calliope of the pen
To grant me the eloquence to express the story I hold.
Acrid and tangy smoke dissipated in the cavernous hall,
Leaving clear vision in its wake to spy
Shrunken human figures of clay littering the unclean floor.
Youth, shocked and perplexed, stood to find themselves as an audience
For one bold girl, the harbinger of this of this mayhem,
Upon a table with stained steel-strike in hand to address
Those in stupor. She raised this metal-master and cried,
I free you all! The girl, Rambunctious Rita by name,
Then threw her final flame.
Before Ritas righteous revolution, she, like many others,
Lived the harsh imprisonment within the bleak walls
Of secondary education.
However, the so-called Rambunctious Rit
I Fell AsleepI fell asleep
In the arms of the enemy.
My worst mistake,
As I let his words get to me.
I left my life
In the hands of a killer.
I trusted my blood
To a man who's a murderer.
I closed my eyes
As he lulled me away.
I loosened my grip
As he began to sway.
I fell asleep
In the arms of the enemy.
I lost my life,
but I lost my life willingly.
wishing wells and pumpkin shells
coffee with mint cream
wedding bells and magic spells
life is but a dream
mother says it's rain today
drought's been sixteen years
pigs will fly and cats will stray
seventeen brings tears
hooting owls and leopard prowls
burn the midnight sun
men with jowls eat fattened cows
never had such fun
father says it's time to go
new year's 'round the bend
can't be late for nature's show
fish-face now the trend
dreamer's dream and lover's love
wishing time would fly
blue moonbeam on heaven's dove
hope I never die
Needle of the PineYou're a needle of the pine, my dear -
a poking of the spine, a narrow rod
to gently prod my heart in waters brine.
And when I fall, you pull me tall
to bask in heaven's shrine, for what you are
'tis not sub-par, my needle of the pine.
Without MythologiesWithout Mythologies
If I could, I would make you a raging river,
With angry rapids supplied with rain
So you could always meander, and forever be able to run away
Without contending with myths wrongly interpreted - with pain.
- John K. Samson
We’re watching the sun drown in a lake,
your eyes are far away and you say you wish
you were the wind.
You stretch out your arms like tired old wings,
and say you hope one day the sky
will just swallow you up. In that last sliver
of light, I tell you that you have it all wrong.
You could never be something so invisible as wind,
(It’s cool breathe makes us shiver,)
If I could, I would make you a raging river.
I’d turn your fingertips to salty spray,
your bones to smooth
Your lips would kiss the ocean each day,
your gut would fill with fish and frogs.
Your fidgeting toes never forced still again.
I’d turn your heart into a waterfall,
And last of all I’d make
those rushing waters from your brain,
LoveThis torturous feeling that engulfs my heart
And sends me spiraling into the dark
This chide that repeats itself within my mind
And berates me with remarks of what I sought to find
Dead and asleep, I have walked this earth
This waltz of sorrow I’ve repeated since birth
But the steps started to change, as I grew
And as I felt my hand being grabbed, I knew
That something unknown to me would soon grow
A feeling within me, that’s both friend and foe
The empty space has been filled
And open the door to that once sealed
Cupid’s arrow hit its mark
And sent me spiraling into the dark.
Backwards HateAnd that is the truth.
I don't love you.
it is simply senseless to say
you are a positive and critical thinker.
an inept, naive person,
you're most definitely not
very smart and clever.
instead, you are
ignorant and foolish,
mindful and attentive.
you make people
hateful of you,
trying to be a positive influence.
forever shall I find you
achieve only little in life,
never striving to
be unique and creative.
that's why it's not hard to believe that you aim to
"only be mediocre, untalented and uninteresting."
backwards thinking to ever tell you
"you are worthy of love."
(now read in reverse)
SanityThe walls of this place were white,
Sanitation and cleanliness were no doubt at play.
Walking through them I search for the light,
Lost forever in this building, searching for the day,
The one where I would no longer be lost.
The rooms were empty,
Not a soul but for the ones at rest.
I wouldn’t say I felt guilty,
But what I had done, I would address,
And realize my action’s cost.
Continuing through these halls,
I can’t help but look at the paint.
I remember the red smears on the walls,
The copper scent lingering still and faint,
Yet luckily those memories I tossed.
I pass on, leaving behind this phenomenon.
I see a shred of the sun’s rays,
And quickly I leave my role of false surgeon.
Behind me the blood of my past lays,
Leaving it to the cold and frost.
The Fruit of LoveIn each passing year
another leaf falls
not unlike a tear
at each heart's call
And this sacred tree
of my barren heart
needs a caring bee
with pollen, to impart
To end this gloom
And this despair
To bring my flowers to bloom
And my fruit to bear.
The Ink Flows Swift
The ink flows swiftly: it cannot be stayed;
The words of my pen are as liquidly made:
They dance, they twirl, from every side they spring
And beautiful still is the story they sing.
This paper, it waits for me, empty and white;
It eagerly whispers: “Fill me tonight!”
I write a word, then ten, then more
And higher and higher, the story will soar.
It leaps from my fingers, it heavenward flies—
Soon, as I watch, it is lost to my eyes;
May it fly as free as the wand’ring birds—
I’ve given you life, my fluttering words.
L’encre coule, elle ne peut être haltée :
Les mots de ma plume sont aussi lisses qu’elle ;
Ils dansent, ils tournent et jaillissent de tous côtés
Et l’histoire qu’ils me chantent est belle, si belle.
Le papier blanc m’attend, patient,
Il me chuchote: « Emplisse-moi ! »
J’y mets un mot,
Trigonometry PoemHere Follow Some Verses Upon The Receiving of Our Trig Grades
Heavens align and stars shatter;
Grades plummet with a deafening clatter.
Whether you fell to hell or rose to heaven,
The value of such is fifty-seven.
And on this challenge of tangent and sine,
I, myself, received a forty-nine.
But fear not, child, for there be hope for you yet,
For on Monday we take a retest.
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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