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A Girl, In Three Pieces [30 Jul 2006|10:45am]

yourghosts
1.

I swore there was a map on your hands,
streets on your palms, north and south
touching your fingertips, your scarred
wrists. I wanted to shuffle through life
reading your map, but you clenched your
fists tightly: part fear, the other
foolish bravery. To fight through
everything blindfolded and smiling.

2.

He was your oxygen, and he gave you
the infection. Everynight you would
spit on his photograph and then
apologize with hot salty tears. There
really was no consoling you. Sometimes
I dug my fingers into my wrists to see
what it feels like to always be aware
of a sharp dull pain, keeping your eyes
open, keeping your mouth trembling.

3.

It was a never ending loop. Your death, and
my armour I wore to close up the outside
world. I had no maps, you weren't even scattered
among the stars, like you promised. Your
lips were cracking, but you had sworn it.
And now there was dust on my fingertips,
the very last memory of you.
paint my heart

sans titre [16 Jan 2006|09:36pm]

dannigrl212
Emo attacks
I'm reduced to being
a deer caught in
the headlights of a semi
.... & escape is useless

downward spiraling
darkness consumes
no choice but

solitude

& it is
pervading the universe

Mine is gone.
My universe disappeared
...along side my unedited aspirations

perceptions assailed
voices ignored

screams fill my sleep..

"Silence is violence in women and poor people if more people were sreamin' then I could relax, but a good brain ain't diddly if you don't have the...

facts...

and we live in a breakable takable world, an ever available, possible world, and we can make music like we can make... due, jesus is in a back seat, back beat to nothing....

unless you're dancing...

especially something stupid like IQ

For every lie I unlearn, I learn something new I sing sometimes

for the war

That I FIGHT...

... cause every tool is a weapon, if you hold it right.*"

Tools
manifest
mystically
mysteriously
miraculously

nonetheless


*IQ, Ani DiFranco
paint my heart

to be reclusive [14 Nov 2005|07:33pm]

erhothwen
[ mood | disappointed ]



II.
I am entombed in a shell
Wallpapered in with sheets of music
It is a cluttered utopia of
‘Pas Redoublé’ and ‘The Firebird Suite’
By the likes of Camille Saint-Saëns
And Igor Stravinsky, who is a swell person by the way

For in this womb of music notes—
Fair-weathered staccatos
Pianissimo whispers
—they are my only friends
And they will be held dear
Until my breath cannot sustain

To live in crescendo
This is my own majesty
But even crescendos do not go on forever
I encased myself in my own salvation
Let this music replace
The empty space dusted in aloneness

The only conversations I hold begin with
Treble clefs and end in double bars
One could go insane even
This is what I have
To do to not be
So lonely
paint my heart

[08 Nov 2005|04:52pm]

stuck_on_go
me.
5 paint my heart

[08 Nov 2005|07:44pm]

_____spritz
A single light could be seen inside the powerful cathedral. Dusk had set itself on the streets of London. The light in the room was the only light visible on the whole street. Luxury cars were parked in front of each townhouse. Nobody was wandering around in such a chilled air; it was vacant. Concrete steps led to the large entrance of the cathedral. Once inside you were taken back to something medieval. The dark stained pews encased not one person. Dozens of white pillar candles were lit, sitting on the inside arm of the pews leading to the altar, which also had several lit candles on it. The aura behind the altar was haunting. The lit candles cast the orange glow that grasped the bottom of the cross on the wall and reached, without success, to the top. Candles sat in front of the portrait of Mary. It was awry. One could only stand in this cathedral for a few minutes before getting entranced by the sacredness. Looking up you would see the arches, dressed in frescos, pointing to the large glass ceiling at the very top.

A door far behind the altar and tucked against the wall was closed but a slice of light shone through the bottom. Inside was a room smaller than a bedroom, maybe twice as large as a broom closet. Bookshelves stood floor to ceiling with texts concerning everything from geography to graphic design. More importantly there were two large cardboard boxes on the floors with several copies of bibles inside. Thick, leather covered Bibles, all exactly the same. The priest sat in the swivel chair, packing Bibles into the box. Shredded paper covered the floor and everything else but the wastebasket. Thin paper, translucent, holy letters forming sinful words. Crumpled and left to be forgotten on the floor of a dying cathedral.

He carried the box to his truck. His warm breath hit the air, transforming into condensation and then carried off into the abyss. The green scarf tucked into his long coat, worn down gloves enclosing his hands tightly. Keeping what’s inside in, leaving what’s outside out. He climbed up into the rusty truck and started it.

The brick road was uncomfortable, and the old truck let him feel every bump and turn. Down these quiet streets. He drove for only a few minutes before he pulled over and jumped out of the truck, leaving it running, and carried a Bible to the stoop of a house.
He sat it there, with no note attached, and climbed back into the truck and carried on down the street. He did this a few more times, stopping at other town houses and leaving Bibles. There was a solemn expression on his face throughout all of this, which made it very hard to detect if he actions were relating to demand or love for his cathedral. The last place he stopped was at a house on the far corner of the city. He quietly picked a Bible out of the cardboard box, set it on the doorstep, and climbed back into his truck, all in one swift movement. Dawn was vicariously approaching.

The next morning was hectic. Television stations were roaming the streets talking to anyone and everyone about the previous night. The usual questions of suspicious noises or lights were asked. The priest looked out of the cathedral window with the same solemn expression on his face, and the closed the curtain. He hurriedly started cleaning up the torn paper off of the floor, he hid the pocket knife that he left on the desk, and he opened up a trash bag to throw away the test tubes and other miscellaneous items that were lying about. Everything was done precisely, with intense care to make sure that everything was gone from his office.

The television stations had not quit knocking at the cathedral door, which he locked just incase they caught on too quickly.

“Several houses were demolished last night after explosives went off outside of the homes.”

It was just too easy to kill what you did not want around anymore.
2 paint my heart

Kill Cupid [04 Nov 2005|07:43pm]

erry85
[ mood | happy ]

You think that Cupid brings you love,
but you couldn’t be more wrong,
Because when Cupid has passed you by,
The love in fact is gone.

He loves to be sarcastic and he got me really pissed,
So I will tell you the truth today about how Cupid really is,
Whenever he sees happiness his bow and arrow come into play,
He aims and shoots and soon after that one of the lovers turns away,

He makes you fall in love with a person you can’t reach,
He makes two people love the same one,
And after love has failed he is satisfied,
For him the failing is big fun,

One time there was this girl and boy, and they looked good together,
They could talk for days and nights and not only about the weather.
So Cupid thought “Hey, I’ll help a hand” and he shot an arrow straight,
Into the heart of that guy who started feeling faint (because of the love),

And then he fired his second, but, sadistic as he is,
The arrow point was blunt this time, and the arrow missed.
So Cupid laughed his ass off as he saw the guy getting the blues,
“Yeah, scratch one love today, that’s really good news”

But when he looked at that guy again
it scared the hell outta him because he looked straight,
At the nose cone of a fully armed rocket propelled grenade,

He was totally blown to smithereens,
a few feathers was all there was left to see.
He probably didn’t know who he was dealing with, hehe, that guy, was me,

Because of his instant fear he dropped his bow and also an arrow,
So I picked it up and shot it right into that girls soul
(into hear heart of course, but that didn’t rhyme)
She came running over to me and her lips kissed my lips,
I could feel the love rushing from my toes to my fingertips.

So all of you happy couples in the world to day,
You should thank me because I moved Cupid out of your way ^_^

paint my heart

[14 Sep 2005|05:57pm]

ohcarnival

She was always saying,
"There ain't no way honey I'll let you inside,"
She was always saying to the molasses
colored men and they grinned
their mouth of pearls
and licked their lips as she
rocked her hips
  and I starred at my bare dwarf feet

She was always whispering,
"There ain't no way honey I'm letting them in,"
Whispering this into my throat
as they pushed inside their thighs
(I held her hand, she grasped back
                                    tight)

And she was always crying,
crying when they left
tearing at her braids, clawing at her
thighs, saying, "There ain't no way you'd ever
understand, honey, there ain't no way you'd
ever get this sugar."

But I did, everytime.


---



(i would love critique / comments)
2 paint my heart

mise en place [05 Sep 2005|03:42pm]

objectsubject
Perfect Compromise
but if you can, make me beautiful now;
make me sweeter to taste
and I'll commemorate your mouth--

the sanctuary of mutual consent
in which I'll confess all of my sins
if you will confer on me your secrets

make me softer to touch
and I will consectrate your hands
or is it asking too much?

you musn't conquer when
it is so clearly better to wait
I can choose for myself to give in

be calm, be honest, be wise
because I believe there is
such a thing as perfect compromise.


Latest lyrics...to hear the song, click the banner.

[Deep Inner Voices]
paint my heart

domesticity [26 Aug 2005|10:17pm]

elspethdawitch
Image hosted by Photobucket.com
6 paint my heart

a little paint under the fingernails... [23 Aug 2005|01:07pm]

objectsubject
heart is an open door
Image hosted by Photobucket.com
plus oneCollapse )
1 paint my heart

Two Equals One [04 Aug 2005|12:58pm]

your_sedative
Two beating hearts
Protruding into the
Flesh of one body

Two radiant souls
Alive...pulsating. Throbbing.

Two beautiful minds;
the roadmaps of a plan
To take over the world
(You know we could do it)

I could write the lyrics,
You could sing the songs
We could become something significant
We could leave dust in our tracks

Don't forget your idenity.
I will never forget mine.

Our minds...our hearts. Our souls.
Are one.

For Filip
paint my heart

dedicated to the masculine sex [03 Aug 2005|03:08am]

objectsubject
do you remember
how I used to love it
when you'd come to touch me?

inside out
outside in

body and soul
heart and skin

how I used to lean
against the love of you
hard, as if to make you leave?

pull to push
to pull free

me touching you
touching me

these days I cannot
quite fall into that frame
of flesh and collision course

grabby hands
handed back

I'm not for resale
nor retail rack

no longer wallow
in the open embrace:
a physical love of force

pinned up
or down

against the wall
or on the ground

but immune now to
your hungercravingwant,
and declining to be caressed

reach out,
out of reach

two kinds of no
one dose of each

enough to keep the taste suppressed.
2 paint my heart

A Modern Tragedy [20 Jul 2005|11:56pm]

ohcarnival
At 12, she wasn't a virgin.
She didn't like to talk about it.
She was a wild lullaby, stifling
screams into her feathered pillows.

At 13, she wasn't a dreamer.
She cast glares at her peers,
wandering the halls digging
her long tiger-nails into her palms.

At 14, she wasn't a dizzy-romance
she hid herself in naked boys' chests
and let them swallow her sighs.
She wrote them hate letters after they came
inside her.

At 15, she wasn't a zombie
but she wasn't quite alive either.
She drew patterns in her limbs with
scissors, and waved away her parents concern.
Her best friend was a star in a film
made in 1969.

At 16, she was a pile of bones,
she took her last breath on a saturday
& she never closed her eyes.
paint my heart

I confess [18 Jul 2005|02:30am]

objectsubject
I've not been writing much lately. It takes a very complex and turbulent emotion to move me these days...and so here is the latest example of that.companionCollapse )

There is a long story behind this one...but the bottom line is that it brought about the necessary reconciliation; in this aspect, I am 100% satisfied with it. As ever, critique is always welcome.
paint my heart

[19 Jun 2005|03:31am]

thisfrozenlake_
so, i've had writer's block for quite a while. and then i found this, which i had written almost a year ago, and was suprised it was actually good. i thought so, at least - critiques are much appreciated though.

she fed the catsCollapse )
3 paint my heart

[10 Jun 2005|11:40am]
alternativeecho
Waiting for FateCollapse )
paint my heart

Cheap Dollar Love [05 Jun 2005|11:06am]

ohcarnival
Under the bridge was where he slept.

I found him on a tuesday, wind swept hair and loose jeans with the seams being eaten away. I offered him a dollar. I was black eyeliner girl that day, cheap rainbow love in my summer dress and tight striped stockings. He turned my dollar away.

I offered him my hand.

"We are going nowhere." I told him.

"I don't even know you." He told me.

"You will," I smiled, "Follow me to anywhere."

"I want to forget." He said.

But what I did was make him remember. All the beautiful things that come out of the dark. We held hands and I was a sad eyeliner girl that day, with boy kissed hair and a tragic mouth.
1 paint my heart

[03 Jun 2005|06:01pm]

elspethdawitch
Roma, part IICollapse )
paint my heart

[30 May 2005|10:49am]

elspethdawitch
città degli angeli?Collapse )
2 paint my heart

[29 May 2005|02:18pm]

ohcarnival
paint my heart

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