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A pop-up book of flowers from grade 4 are driving her insane...

Postby Hope » 3/1/2006, 1:44 am

:love:
turn your head
come back again
to here knows when

last.fm
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Postby beautiful liar » 3/1/2006, 11:08 am

thanks guys :love:
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Postby beautiful liar » 3/6/2006, 4:01 pm

See the forest in the mirror:
thin bare branches spread like spidery veins.
I turn to the door and we're
naked,
only our fear remains.

Take out my music and shake it, notes
tumbling to the floor.
Take out my music and make it,
call out the unworthy score.

My mail always comes in
pink envelopes.
My glasses are never clean;
reading the letters
marking the lines
where the light shines
in between.

It's too late, I'm dying.
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Postby trentm32 » 3/6/2006, 4:08 pm

I like it! Has a good flow!
"When looking up there, I just felt whole, like I belonged. Like one day I too would shine my most brilliant. Sitting there also made me think about sitting through services at my little country church back home. About that never-changing congregation of the same sixty-seven people and everyone has known you since before you were born. Now, out here in the real world, everything just seemed more vivid than when I used to sit in that little pew. That pew that was now so, so far away from where I was. I feared I had somehow left God behind there, too. I feared he was somehow just sitting there, saving my seat on the fifth pew from the front row, just waiting on me to come back. I left so quickly, I worried that he may not have noticed I was gone. And, now, I’m just too far away to find. So he’s just sitting there, patiently waiting on me to come back. I closed my eyes and prayed a moment. I hoped more than anything that he could still hear me." -an excerpt from my novella, A Sea of Fallen Leaves.

<a href="http://www.soundthesirens.com">SoundTheSirens.com</a>
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Postby beautiful liar » 3/6/2006, 4:17 pm

One day as the poison leaves my memories, I will be home again.

Until then
break my heart a hundred times,
I just sit here waiting
to feel it break a thousand times more.

Cursing half-heartedly,
insincerely,
I give myself over to grief,
marching in a hundred funeral parades
for my dreams of me and you.

Curled in a shroud of alcohol
to try and destroy them before they
can be born,
to try and quench the passion
and fill the void,
to try and numb myself
to anymore of your misplaced unintentional sweetness,
like fetid honey cultured in the womb of a corpse.

You give me enough
to keep me hoping;
You withold enough
to drive me mad.

And all of my days
and all of my nights
are wasted with
tears in my eyes.

I can't stay here with you. I can't move on without you.

You make me hate myself,
(yes, I'll put the blame on you)
my weak romanticism
that is so undeniably a part of me
and so firmly attached to you.

Please snuff out this string you dangle,
reject me outright.
The knowledge you care is killing me
because I know my cause is lost
but you confuse my heart
into believing
in you.
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Postby beautiful liar » 3/8/2006, 12:09 am

NERD ART!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

ImageImage

ImageImage

i just finished painting it :GASP:
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Postby Hope » 3/8/2006, 2:33 am

:GASP: :GASP: :GASP:
turn your head
come back again
to here knows when

last.fm
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Postby beautiful liar » 3/8/2006, 12:09 pm

I need to compile a portfolio of ten poems for my application to creative writing course next year.

i'm scared !!@!
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Postby beautiful liar » 3/9/2006, 4:36 pm

alright, here are the poems i'm including in my portfolio (feedback & criticism SVP :puppyeyes:):

Networked

We exchange song lyrics
like postcards
received encoded with words like
"love"
and "faith"
that we can no longer decipher;

and we sit connected by
silver wire and thought,
throwing strings of music
at each other
in hopes of being heard,
and knowledge that somehow
we are not.

The days turn into miles
and the light scarring my eyes
is like a drug
using me,
saving me
from self-destruction,
to deliver me into
a cold bed and
a snakeskin existence
praying that this
tangle of wires
and loose ends
still somehow
connects to you.

_________

Vertigo

Cumulative pressure
like
clouds squeezed over mountaintops,
squished between beyond
and stone.

Birds,
following the message of time,
one gets dizzy
and falls.

The ebb and flow of
people through
a bright late night hallway,
their drunken crashing
like waves
curl forward
and tipple back.

I get dizzy
and fall.
____________

Prairie Dusk
Happiness moves on the breeze in wisps
like white pollen on a blue spring day;
an open-winged hawk
looks always forwards and
never down.

Down is the direction
of folded brown grass,
prairie style romance
ever old fashioned on the flatlands.

In the hills
short skirt, long boots,
paved paths and
park benches preface the dawn.
You lose the sense of
long dresses and sunbonnets
forever on the flatlands,

where young girls linger
with beaming hair
the colour of sun-stroked grain;
Golden gift
granted to mortal beauty
a heirloom of generations on the flatlands.

And in the hills
the houses grow up
and out, and over,
and a hawk flies into a window,
falling down,
escaped from cement hell
that has encased the foothills
and slinks
ever outwards
threatening,
implying,
that one day it will reach and rejoin
a solid expanse of grey humanity
and a sky charcoal black,
from mountains
to shield
through flatlands.
___________

The Boy Who Can’t Sleep

Awake, she subsists
on moonlight
and shallow dreams
of the boy who can't sleep.

Saturated with luminary
anticipation
the creeping
wake of lies catches up
and carries her along.

Taken to a place where she
is swept up in the
chaos of rolling,
churning,
gulping oceanic
tumult
distant from the
conventions of land.

And she never fights the tide;
awaiting liquid death
still consumed by
thoughts of
unbridled fatigue.

Boy who can't sleep,
meet the girl who can't swim.
____________

Glance again.
You tell me:
face the world.
Can you not see
that by facing the ground
no one will see me falling down?

I hear:
this is the year we lose hope.
Broken down and dreary
I have not the strength to
question that convention.

Outside,
pristine and crisp
sparkling white
contrasts the flat dull
white walls
in here.

Everywhere I look
colour evades us.
Vision fading,
soften the edges for me,
darling,
don't tell me why
I wake up squeaking
instead of screaming
these days.
________

TranscenDance

God squirms on stage
and without saying I can see
he Says
All I Know is Pain

The incoherent light
and sound
fail to form
more than a tangible barrage.
I spend all my time
wishing I could have
been there,
known Him,
done that.

They ebb and flow
with the Shaman’s magic
the sound of spell
an enticing power,
a hedonistic, heathen power.

With him we chant:
death death death death death death death!

Singing, he screams
in the clutches of agony
overload, overload
please stop this.

I am naked.
I am nothing.

Enthralled He keeps conjuring
communing with
only He knows,
and I reach out,
senseless,
struck dumb by His presence.

Integrated with
the freaks, the strangers,
trapped in a mass
of sensuality,
as God seeks death
knowing nothing else.
Beauty in the rich red
and still brown
caked upon His face,
bodily writhing
snakelike, poisonous.
Enraptured, the fangs sink in
and we scream.

Floating above transcendence,
His motives unquestioned,
detachedly I wonder
Is it my requiem He sings,
or a lullaby?
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Postby beautiful liar » 3/14/2006, 5:14 pm

I GOT INTO THE CLASS!!@!!!@!!@!!!!!!!

:dance: :dance: :dance: :mrgreen: :mrgreen: :dance: :dance: :sugar:
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Postby Kathy » 3/14/2006, 5:33 pm

congratulations!! :D :nana:
<I><B>"I know this sounds corny, and I might be a little bit drunk, but honest to god, thank you everybody"</B></I>
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Postby pit_girl1 » 3/14/2006, 7:58 pm

Congrats!!!!!!!!!!!
~Hannah

Let the bare feet be the last sounds that they hear...

Image
(yes, I have succumbed to the addiction that is last.fm)
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Postby beautiful liar » 3/14/2006, 8:30 pm

thanks :mrgreen:
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Postby beautiful liar » 3/22/2006, 11:53 am

You want the honest truth? There is none. I've created everything here - the blood, the pain, the heartbreak. It's all constructed. You couldn't guess? You thought it was real? Well fuck you. Stop blaming me. You're the one who read too much into everything. Life is a social experiment; expect deviant results once in a while. You have a problem with me wallowing in physical pain - what about your life inflicting emotional trauma upon yourself? At least I'm above that.

Are you? You think you're so cold and closed, you think you're feelingless? You close yourself up to convince yourself you control it all, but you don't. You don't. You can't control life anymore than you can control death. You've got nothing. You're a scared little girl helpless against a world of chaos.

No, I am the chaos.

You'd like to think so wouldn't you? It fits so nicely with your facade of strength and strangeness.

You want so bad for me to be real that you're grasping at human explanations for my actions. You cannot comprehend anything outside of your experience that you pull and push everything until you can categorize it nicely into something you're familiar with. Does it make you feel comfortable? Less afraid?

I'm not afraid.

Your trembling betrays you. Am I too close?

What are you doing?

Does it hurt?

...stop it.

This is what you asked for.

Please...

I know what you want,

no...

because you created me.

...out of love...

No. To hurt yourself.
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Postby beautiful liar » 3/25/2006, 10:13 pm

I painted some more! (and i changed my colour scheme :O)

ImageImage
ImageImage

teeehehehehehehehehe
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Postby beautiful liar » 4/6/2006, 6:17 pm

I bought the wrong milk. I could have died right there for shame. Three hours until he gets home - do I risk going out again? Do I try to exchange this carton for the right one? Can I throw this one away without him noticing? Without him reacting? Three hours, and minutes grow slower. The difference one percent makes...

Try to busy myself with little chores. There's always plenty of them. Straighten, tidy, replace everything to it's spot. Everything has its place. Bustle, there's never enough to fill the little spaces in the day. Spaces where thoughts entrench themselves to worry away at me, rivers of them gouging at my shores.

Scrub the counter harder, it's not spotless yet. Work at it, feel the chemical soap stinging small gaps in the skin. Is it clean enough?

Look into the refridgerator. The milk is still there. Move along to remove the dust. It gets into everything. Stir it up and feel it choking. Look back at the counter, and shudder at the red stains still marring the white. Remember the wrong milk in the fridge, and feel the vise tighten inside of my head.

The clock echoes through the emptiness, like a cliche; tick, tick, tick, tick...check the milk, and it's still the pale blue carton of mistaken identity.

Forget that he's not here. Don't think about where he is. Put the oven on, make amends through all the little things. That's why he comes back. That's why this is his home. Stop thinking, and scrub the counter again.

No time to wash the floor properly, so get out the broom. It's so much more invigorating than a vacuum. Feel the bristles, the sound of the sweep as they scuffle across the floor. Put some muscle behind it, and watch the dirt pile up in straight little lines before its eradication. There's something tanagble, some kind of vindication with a broom.

Reach the end, breathless and disoriented. What now? My eyes scan the room, and fall back to the counter. It shines dimly under the kitchen light, and I go to get the scrub brush again.

Maybe he won't come home tonight. Maybe I still have time to switch the milk...

The key turns in the lock, and I hear the door open on the other side of the house.
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Postby Hope » 4/8/2006, 4:15 pm

woahh. i really liked that. :clap:
turn your head
come back again
to here knows when

last.fm
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Hope
 
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Postby beautiful liar » 4/10/2006, 11:10 am

thanks!
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Postby beautiful liar » 5/20/2006, 12:26 pm

Moving forwards; not backwards, not sideways. Looking ahead for the first time. Purposeful - no more games. No more games; no more lies. The story has ended and reality has surfaced. No more voices; no more little deaths that rampaged through me over and over and over and no more. Blood and choking and suffocating and falling and crashing and smashing and drowning and sinking. No more. One more cut to cut me loose of all the old things. The old faces, the old places, the old colours, the old doubts, the old me is gone and gone again. Moving forwards, step by step. Looking up, and seeing something other than fear. My mind has opened, and I have overcome life. No more turmoil; no more angst; no more violent thoughts of utter devistation. Cleansed and calm, I move forwards. I didn't give in; I grew up.
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Postby beautiful liar » 10/18/2006, 1:14 pm

I had a poem published in my school newspaper. I am stupidly excited :lol:

Word Stains

With love always,
. . .

The pen shivers
above the good-bye page
that has become convention,
itching to sign that last declaration
of identity,
but the alphabet is already gone
and the pen clatters down—

word stains
splattered all over
the floor.
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