detached and numb fingers
wired to a tongue
empty of words and stained with alcohol,
is this what i am?
my head lain on the arm rest,
quietly smiling to myself,
and telling you how pretty you look.
invention owns a cage,
rested within
it's particles sleep,
it seems as of recently,
ignorance is my pestilence
reckoning with deranged words
and sadistic compliance
books no longer read,
words no longer speak,
intelligence resents the wells
i have excavated into the depths of my head.
perhaps the artist can show you how i feel
or perhaps he has nothing to show
how much of my life have I buried under my salt stained skin,
and how much more until I begin to burst at the seams,
My insides will paint the world with the most beautiful colors,
and the adorable, innocent little constructions of my imagination will make you all smile...
I am disgusted by the repulsive fun of my generation.
The degrading level of human nature is at it's finest, and self respect is no longer accompanied by ladies and gentleman.
and my darling bridge walked by cane and top hat,
the corner of his eye sought for an instance of heart,
by a young girl in a yellow dress,
a young boy in overalls,
sitting on the bridge.
questioning love,
trying kisses,
and dangling their feet into the water below.
now a spectacle of void,
as the tears fall from the eye.
it is not his bridge to cry on.
it is not his bridge.
bridges aren't for old men.
western films, slippers, and the Mississippi River are for old men.
And We the gods Prayed..., p1 by room462, literature
Literature
And We the gods Prayed..., p1
One hand reaches up from behind the country horizon, pulling the evening sun down into the empty fields. The other reaches gently around the earth, pushing the night up past the clouds. Our faces reflect against the lateral ocean as the rocks beneath break into sand against a soft tide. This is our solace. And slowly we watch heaven turn from blue, to red, to black, and all the angels come out of hiding and remind us that they are still appraising our quality of life. From the calm night, perhaps they think we are worth keeping alive.
So for the evening,
We can forget,
And we can rest,
Even at
Fall-ing-Down-upside-DOWN-up by room462, literature
Literature
Fall-ing-Down-upside-DOWN-up
these letters
are
a
repetition of
gunfire,
-streaming from the keyboard!
and myself
the culprit, my finger prints
on the keys,
please police,
my words were meant more to be like a sewing machine
but the distance between
us two
has grown further
and a thread sewn through thread, simple
snapped.
and characters grouped together in such a fashion,
that the cops
think i had scissors in hand, when
the world fell
from
the
sky
due
to
lack
of
thread. maybe its just karma,
in my good
detached and numb fingers
wired to a tongue
empty of words and stained with alcohol,
is this what i am?
my head lain on the arm rest,
quietly smiling to myself,
and telling you how pretty you look.
invention owns a cage,
rested within
it's particles sleep,
it seems as of recently,
ignorance is my pestilence
reckoning with deranged words
and sadistic compliance
books no longer read,
words no longer speak,
intelligence resents the wells
i have excavated into the depths of my head.
perhaps the artist can show you how i feel
or perhaps he has nothing to show
how much of my life have I buried under my salt stained skin,
and how much more until I begin to burst at the seams,
My insides will paint the world with the most beautiful colors,
and the adorable, innocent little constructions of my imagination will make you all smile...
I am disgusted by the repulsive fun of my generation.
The degrading level of human nature is at it's finest, and self respect is no longer accompanied by ladies and gentleman.
and my darling bridge walked by cane and top hat,
the corner of his eye sought for an instance of heart,
by a young girl in a yellow dress,
a young boy in overalls,
sitting on the bridge.
questioning love,
trying kisses,
and dangling their feet into the water below.
now a spectacle of void,
as the tears fall from the eye.
it is not his bridge to cry on.
it is not his bridge.
bridges aren't for old men.
western films, slippers, and the Mississippi River are for old men.
And We the gods Prayed..., p1 by room462, literature
Literature
And We the gods Prayed..., p1
One hand reaches up from behind the country horizon, pulling the evening sun down into the empty fields. The other reaches gently around the earth, pushing the night up past the clouds. Our faces reflect against the lateral ocean as the rocks beneath break into sand against a soft tide. This is our solace. And slowly we watch heaven turn from blue, to red, to black, and all the angels come out of hiding and remind us that they are still appraising our quality of life. From the calm night, perhaps they think we are worth keeping alive.
So for the evening,
We can forget,
And we can rest,
Even at
Fall-ing-Down-upside-DOWN-up by room462, literature
Literature
Fall-ing-Down-upside-DOWN-up
these letters
are
a
repetition of
gunfire,
-streaming from the keyboard!
and myself
the culprit, my finger prints
on the keys,
please police,
my words were meant more to be like a sewing machine
but the distance between
us two
has grown further
and a thread sewn through thread, simple
snapped.
and characters grouped together in such a fashion,
that the cops
think i had scissors in hand, when
the world fell
from
the
sky
due
to
lack
of
thread. maybe its just karma,
in my good
Years of coffee
Soaked into this room
no longer smelling
like fresh roasted joy
but memories recurring
from a brick bound past
'cause foul stench
brings not sordid gloom
train whistles beloved
chalkboard up center
if remotely close,
a white dust cough provoked
as you stare into sunlight
and squint both eyes so tight
to peak a glimpse at the face
the face thats readily right
wisdom peers through
windows that let in not
sunlight, but love understood
from dark drink stained everything
those eyes knowledge implore
but these faces are strangers
the eyes are not bright
the windows are shut
the wall before me,
a clean, pure,
I used to know the good in life,
It was all wrapped up into one man,
I knew him for nearly seventeen years,
When I was scared he held my hand.
When I was little I'd ride around on his shoulders,
I was his baby girl,
We watched football and played cards,
He was the center of my world.
He used to wink at me,
Before I went to bed,
Half an hour later, he'd get me from my room,
And a banana split would be waiting for me in the kitchen.
That man saved lives,
He was in the military as long as I can remember,
I would salute him everyday,
And when he went under way, every day I sent him a letter.
I used to know the good in life,
But i
Favourite genre of music: indie Favourite photographer: benisa Favourite style of art: pop art Operating System: vista MP3 player of choice: ipod Wallpaper of choice: faded yellow and peeling, slightly stained Skin of choice: mine? Personal Quote: this is who i am. here i stand, now take me
Have you ever been touched by an experience?
and it effected you so much. you were just overwhelmed with emotions,
but you never really quite knew how to write it down.
and you never really knew what to do with yourself.
It's been a while since I've been in deviantart. You're still active? I noticed you're favourite movie at once! Coraline! I just watched it yesterday AGAIN! It's a great film