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Literature
Epilogue
They will say that I was always there, like an image on their shoulders, always present, always constant. They will say that I was a rock, strong, steady, sturdy, nothing more but material to lean on. They will say that, with the amounts of cigarettes wasted on my lungs, cancers casted away with merely my thoughts and the ill-humour pessimist that is my character, I was engulfed in fire and smoke and therefore so damned mysterious. Perhaps they will even say that I was the light, the end of the tunnel, bright and vivid, luminance, the ethereal guiding hand on your spine.
Do not be fooled. I simply liked the touch of your vertebrae against the bones of my fingers.
But the ghost that I was, illuminated and transparent, always there but never really in today, stuck in the afterlife and tomorrow. They were wrong. I was not the rock, not the rock for you to lean on, I was the sea, the ocean and the water. I could have been the rain to drown you, or the hurricane to swallow you whole. I was
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Literature
Run, heart. Run.
some time ago
feeble legs grew out the heart
and as it ruminated about
inside my thoracic cavity
it caught the smell of something
different.
and so the heart
made a tiny hole
inside my chest and
squeezed
its way out.
it was only little;
therefore there was
no need
for an abyss.
tumbling down -
ignorant of the rules of
gravity -
the heart got dinged
on its way down.
it needed time
for patching up
and stitches
repairing itself with
adhesive tape and staples
i tore off the broken leg
and replaced it with
another.
weak and stumbling
broken and hurt
away from its complexity,
the heart was still fast enough
to run away –
and to disappear
over the horizon.
there is an heartless
echo
from between my ribs
as the heart is calling
come on over
come on home.
weak and stumbling
broken and hurt,
still right in the middle
of complexity
here is the plea to ode,
here’s to the heart
that is home
and the skeleton that is
me
floundering,
always on the way home
but never finding.
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Literature
Dreaming lions
you were clothed
in a blanket of
silence,
soundless words
pouring
from your lips.
i have tried
to keep them from falling
but they fell,
in the end,
anyway.
i am not
just another pile
of
disorganised bones,
and these sounds
that you make
on the pillars of
my rib cage
are more than
a demonstration
of what else i wanted.
i ached
as i traced the lines
that ran
over your clenched
jaws.
i ached
as i counted
the times that i contained
your breath.
possessed and with
such sweet despair
your hands were
everything,
and everywhere.
and as you kissed
the shape of my hip bones
you wished
i was
never
someone else.
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Literature
Dovetail.
Every morning,
the postman brings me a package
in the early morning dew
before the birds wear their temporary red coat
and the wolves found shelter in hidden shadows.
he greets me kindly,
as I wait for him barefoot
on a porch made of twigs and snow.
softly caressing the brown paper
I take a few seconds to inhale
your imaginary scent.  
Every morning,
I create new paper cuts
when ripping off the obstacle
that got in between you and me.  
Every morning,
I read a chapter on your life.
your thoughts, your view
your words, parties, adventures at work
and misbehaving on the street.  
I receive your yesterday in paper
as you unwillingly,
and unknowingly,
write to me in the same ink  
that shares our skin.  
And every morning,
I flip the pages of your life,
devouring every detail with lust and despair
so utterly terrified
that one morning I will reach a chapter on a girl
you call the love of your (bookmarked) life
and I must come to terms  
with the fact
that that
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Literature
Letters to myself, part VI - Smoke pollution.
you smile as if you'll never be lonely.
as if you will never know life without the living, what it's not like to be embraced without arms folded around your pillow-shaped chest. you are frozen into position, stuck behind the optic nerve. i have trapped you as an image on my brain and i refuse to let you go. regretfully, you've looked at me. scarcely. vaguely. he's just the image on my brain, i ordered.
but darling,
we're a carousel train wreck. accidental overdose. abandon the suicide mission, let's just die as estranged lovers and perhaps, this will all be over soon.
and as you lie down your arguments, of why you shouldn't be loved
i can only keep my head pressed to your chest
to absorb the fact that you're still alive.
i can tell you that i fell to the ground and prayed to a god that doesn't exist. that it waited until the floorboards peeled the skin off my kneecaps, the blood escaping through the cracks that i showed. this is not love, you say, there is no love, you say. i look up,
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Literature
Other side of the road, please.
nine.
one.
one.
what is your
emergency?
---
emerge is to not be something before
it is.
sudden
like sticking things into the fog and creating ghosts
like a magician's act, the rabbit out of the tall hat – poof.
it is not there, it is there.
we'll contemplate about existence, about being, about
development and evolvement, later.
-ency.
forget about the fact that it sounds as stupid as it looks
know that it means consistency as well as dependency
and then realise that emerge-ency
does in fact
sounds as stupid as it looks.
call nine-one-one.
yes
that, in fact, sounds as stupid as it looks.
because
unless they are screaming hell and murder
or dying from leaking arteries
(perhaps
an articulate collision of cookie jars)
we can not call nine-one-one
and tell them that the problem
remains unidentified.
---
imagine this.
help
i went to sleep last night and woke up,
holding a retired soul ready to be put down
placed to rest by its dreams and their failure to commit
the type of dreams that r
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Literature
Silent touches for you, dear.
you stood across the side line
your hair dyed in a colour
that is still not to your
liking
because it is not
like theirs.
search for redemption
await purgatory
follow the trail towards
condemnation.
patiently
you stop at corners and
let them cross before you
patiently,
so selflessly
you imprint their faces
and compare it to your own.
late at night
when darkness crawls out of
curves and promises
you re-do the shape of
your jawline
with a black marker
on the bathroom mirror.
you joke about not eating
in order to be noticed
and with the tip of your hipbones
you humourlessly
apply your character
in contrast of your favourite colour.
stop trying to express yourself
in words that nobody else
understands.
when hours pass
those a waking eye should not witness
you wonder about
the fragmentation of the bones
if they were to show through skin
and you hope that
one day you will be able
to break ribcages and
claim them as your own.
every element of a disheartened life
is just a cordless excuse
for
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Literature
Tree-man.
i have roots
like strong legs that divide sand particles
i have roots that
devour earth and swallow water
i have roots
i have roots,
i am.
my years are incorporated
into the circles that go
round and round
the core of my being
as i breathe through leaves
and involve an oxygen rush
i bathe in sunlight
or get washed in rain,
i am.
at night
i solemnly count the
stardust and wave goodbye
to the falling star
and as i inhale the darkness
i am the weather forecaster
and predict the coming flood,
i am.
i am more
than just silence
and i am more
than just wood,
homing birds and,
i talk and i listen
to those building houses
resting right atop,
i am.
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Literature
The coffin boy.
that boy that build the coffins, he lives over there, right there, all alone on Hummingbird road.
i miss the scent of your smell and the way your hair brushed against my finger bones. i miss the way your eyes seemed to intertwine with my sight and i miss that everything i used to see was you.
i miss how you caught me every time i fell and how you build an arc, just to cross the river.
you used to count my eyelashes and made me make a wish for each i lost. you wrote me poetry and formed heart-shaped shells underneath a crescent moon and when the sun woke up you told me 'close your eyes, lover, we'll make it dark again'. we watched stars at sunrise and in between twilight, i slipped into your hold and folded behind your arms and into the protective custody of your heart.
and then you switched on the artificial light bulbs and made our world light. you showed me every crack in my skin line and pointed out all the wrong words i whispered in all the wrong ears. you kept a record of a
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Literature
I know silent patience.
i know i have
more memories
stored away
somewhere,
than just these
pictures
on my wall
and i know
this trail of kisses
along
my collarbone
is imaginary.
i know i have
once too,
believed the world
was small
until they said
there were other footsteps
across the globe
and people
loved
others down under
as well.
and yet
despite unknown
wisdom
i know there is
something
missing,
as if i miss
my own heart
beating
in the palm of
my hand.
in silent patience
we wait
for death
because He might
just come
tomorrow
and we are then
put to sleep
by these dreams
that never came true.
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Literature
Elephant shoes.
you're a heatstroke in my lap.
you burn, you're a fire
and you nestle yourself comfortably
atop my femurs
(shifting patellas)
and the warmth of your satisfied
grin
crawls up my central nervous system
and tickles the heart.
you're a heatstroke under my skin.
solar radiation that i can't wear down
i would love to put you out
leave you behind in this bed
of rocking waves
and tender toes,
but you're like the sun
without a kill switch to erupt.
there's a scar at the right side
of your face
(the one that God
had moulded so carefully)
and just like i won't tell you
about skin pigmentation
and the difference between black
and white,
you won't tell me
about fog-created ghosts
and the darkness that clouds your head.
therefore,
at night we lay
folded into each other,
hearts shaped out of seashells
and meet equally at the setting of the sun
we counted the stars of our minds
as your fire consumed my eyes.
in the morning
death is just another excuse
for us not to let go,
and sunlight peeled away at
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Literature
Welcome to the imprinted road
with severed porcelain skin
she rubbed the newspaper ink from her
half broken fingers
contemplating
about stars and deep dark skies.
as she recollected dust particles
and put them back safely in her
tin box
(the one with the saluting sailor)
and invaded her mind again in this moment
of critical condemnation,
she blew her breath
to break the dandelion
and watched the heroes
fly back into her head whispering to her
their fairy tales
filling her mind with
picture perfect remedies.  
she knew that imaginary stills stood
for broken mirror shards and
distant tugging at the heart
for dreamt dreams and
possible longings that
aged in the scratches of the wood.
it was
in the end
all uncertainty.
her fingers laid still intertwined
forming the letters printed on
pocket-sized hope
and sculptured sea-blue marbles
absorbed her thoughts as she realised
she would never be sure without the
billboard directions
(that never really
sent you the right way
anyway).
P.S. 'your life'. 'this way'. 'we
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Literature
The Western traveller.
there are things
the human mind
can't describe
and i tried to tell you
about silence
and homesickness.
---
people don't care
what the curse of words
can do to a soul
that is wreckless and
wrinkled.
oh dear.
yes, indeed
a wrinkled soul.
pretend not to understand
and push i into the corner
of 'property return
in case of malfunction'.
we're a castle
we're a fortress
you can't shut us down
you won't shut me down.
---
and every morning
the sun kisses your battered lips
with their cracks and butter-sense
(salty) fault lines
that shiver
at the touch of air.
this is not a love song, dear
this is mortality.
and punishment comes for the good
and the bad fly like heroes.
oh, how damned wonderful you are.
not.
---
and i got my storylines
all mixed up and
read the papers upside
down and now it's all
scrambled and unsorted.
---
i've been stalking silence
and painting the stones
in the creek
as we pretend to be brave
and just you and me.
oh dear. just you and me
because you understand
what loyalty me
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Literature
Secret toothbrush.
I secretly use my mother's electric toothbrush when she's away. And then, staring into the mirror with white paint on my lips and shirt, I wonder what will happen when, one day, she never comes home and I will never use her electric toothbrush again.
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Literature
Dead black cat.
We used to have a cat. He was black with a white chin and kind eyes. He meowed funny. His name was Neo, named after the main character of the movie the Matrix. We liked to call him King Neo because hee was a big cat, like a bear, and he liked being outside. Neo used to be my cat, but then he became my mum's cat. She cried when one day, Neo didn't come home. I guess he liked being outside too much.
Neo had a son, Adam. He was red and white and funny and his sister, older by just a few minutes, was oxygen depraved for a few minutes when born and thus a little nuts. She's still alive. Adam, one day, didn't come home. I can't remember anyone crying.
I guess he looked too much like his dad.
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Literature
The naked truth. act one, scene two.
knees buckle and
ankles shift underneath
the weight of the world
and hips pop in and out
of control.
in a deep abyss
twinned by two large sponges
there is this device that goes
thud. thud-thud. thud.
in its odd shape
it pushes and pulls like
shorelines pull and push
electric waves.
(is this the future, perhaps?)
a structure of bone moulded
as protective fences and
skin pigmentation
create a treasure chest.
there are these dodgy long things
on either side.
long and slender arms fall
down beside lungs and kidneys
until they erupt into something called
the sick hands.
bended and crooked
(oh dear oh dear, there goes
another ligament)
falsely attempting to grasp air
but fail halfway through
the process.
then there are the legs,
with femurs and tibias
and switching patellas.
oh the joy
of gravity.
i am barefooted
and leaving pieces of myself behind
as i manage to
swing myself around
tight corners and
prudently jostle my elbows
through space.
brains are mushrooms.
my brains are mushrooms.
the
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Favourites

Literature
Mollusca
1.
Find whatever it is that is your treasure.
Bury it alive.

2.
I wrestled the guardian angel for my birthstone,
just a pearl like some full moon risen from a mollusk's growing pain.
I counted the sheets of nacre like birthday candles,
peeled away each one until I at last remembered
that what I treasure is an infection.
3.
It was a gentle kind of wrestling,
not Biblical, not even assertive,
more like the way two sprite wolf cubs play,
a light lunge, a jovial snarl,
a fight over nothing in particular.
The guardian angel renounced itself
as a guardian angel, said
I am a siren.
I lie in the tunnels of nautilus shells
and sing until I collapse with the echoes.
Then it hurts, like a shard of the wrong song
embedded in my skin.
4.
It never healed the ache of adolescence,
just buried it under a fall wound's nacre.
Said one day, it'd show up in my smile.
5.
On the day of the dewinging:
bury me alive.
I want to see what I can agitate the earth into.
:iconSolaces:Solaces
:iconsolaces:Solaces 134 36
Literature
flatsound thinking.
i remember that once i was about to have a panic attack
and i could feel it building up like storm clouds or a rising tide
and i thought of you, and i imagined the way you smiled
when we woke up next to each other on some guys floor in october of 08
and it just went away. like it faded to the point where i could breathe normally.
i tried it again the other day.
and i swear i almost died from suffocation.
:iconohsparrowsong:ohsparrowsong
:iconohsparrowsong:ohsparrowsong 15 10
Literature
give it up.
- how to guarantee a panic attack in the next 24 hrs -
admit out loud how you think you're doing okay, you haven't had a panic attack in at
least three days, and it feels really nice to be calm and in control for once.
- how to sob violently in the cab -
drive through that one street, because yes its shorter, and yes you can
just not look out the window. but come on, did you really think that would work?
- how to sob violently at home -
kid yourself into thinking that you can handle that song/albun/movie/book.
you cant; and you shouldnt. besides, didnt you already tell yourself to toss that out?
:iconohsparrowsong:ohsparrowsong
:iconohsparrowsong:ohsparrowsong 21 0
Literature
shrinking
please, don't tell me how beautiful it is that i've parted my thighs like the sea. 
because there is nothing pretty about the tears in last nights dinner, or the way my hands shake around silverware. i am not poetry, but a language lost --in the spaces where flesh used to occupy lies everything i needed to say, kept as the only thing i could ever bear to swallow. if you try to write sonnets about the scars on my knuckles or the arch of my ribs, i will tell you in nine syllables less that this is more than abstinence and foggy reflections. i will tell you how my little sister can carry me in her arms like a child, and how my father can hardly navigate my bedroom floor without touching the brown vomit stains that makes his brow heavy. i will tell you how it feels to hold your own heart in your hands, to feel it break and skip like an old, worn cd. i will tell you how i am nineteen and fishing through musty boxes of clothes from my childhood, only to find that not a single pair of sh
:iconAlloenDreams:AlloenDreams
:iconalloendreams:AlloenDreams 286 116
Literature
no, no one's home
i have decided
that our bodies are just vessels, 
houses rather than homes
and i am a one story, 
white-washed wonder
with every light left on
underneath my skin
:iconAlloenDreams:AlloenDreams
:iconalloendreams:AlloenDreams 17 6
Literature
(the good kind of) purging
dear mom, 
i know i've written you dozens of letters in my life and none of them have made their way to your hands, but just maybe this one will. 
because this year, i will take this paper and plunge it into the earth where not a bit of your bones rest, but roses in your memory grow. on christmas, when the rest of the world is opening presents, i will drive too fast to the ocean where you sleep. i will run barefoot on the jetties you warned me never to step on until my feet string with salt and split open from shells. and this time, i will not be a self-fulfilling prophecy. i will not tumble myself heart-first into the sea where we laid you to rest, but stand at the edge and scream above the tumult of waves and your voice carrying in the wind. i will tell you i'm sorry, sorry for every time my hands misplaced themselves down my throat and found their ways inside my skin. sorry for lining myself with morse code, and never showing you a single message. sorry for swallowing sorr
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:iconalloendreams:AlloenDreams 41 20
Blue Film Camera Light Leak by kizistock Blue Film Camera Light Leak :iconkizistock:kizistock 206 6 Rainbow Wall Texture by FantasyStock Rainbow Wall Texture :iconfantasystock:FantasyStock 94 0 Darkroom IV Texture Pack by cloaks Darkroom IV Texture Pack :iconcloaks:cloaks 537 44 Film Scratch Texture by struckdumb Film Scratch Texture :iconstruckdumb:struckdumb 370 82 dusty textures by depairfactor dusty textures :icondepairfactor:depairfactor 258 31
Literature
reminders i carry in my hand:
dear me,
you do not have a terrible heart. you do not
have sad eyes and love is not a war you need
to win. sometimes i feel like disappearing, but
remember:
we are never really alone.
dear me,
every now and then, you can close your eyes
and still find your way. remember to breathe
because you did not sink a paper boat and you
are not floating underwater. you already know
the answer to the question you are looking for.
dear me,
remember the small things, like the writing in
the borders of pages. see the things that
everyone else misses. listen to your thoughts
and then lose yourself.
dear me,
laugh until it makes you cry. see things you've
never seen in people before. stop worrying about
your hair and call him just to say i miss you.
dear me,
do something different and you will be surprised.
let yourself enjoy the sunrise. try and say toy-
boats ten times in a row without tangling it up.
have silly conversations about cows eating grass
off your bed in your room.
dear me,
you are never r
:iconvampire-zombie:vampire-zombie
:iconvampire-zombie:vampire-zombie 537 117
Literature
undressing
i wish i could peel myself
out of this skin,
the way you do my body
from dresses
unzip me at the side
slowly, and let my flesh pool
around my feet like snow
drifts, pale and streaked
with purples, pinks,
and etchings aged
bloodless white
let me stay
warm beneath you,
until seasons pass
and all that's left
of these old stories
are small, snow-kissed
mountain tops
and unravel me,
so i can forget
the boundaries of this body,
so i mustn't shrink or slice
to feel sunlight on my bones
:iconAlloenDreams:AlloenDreams
:iconalloendreams:AlloenDreams 21 9

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PassionsInsanity
Tess
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
Netherlands
Every story deserves to be told.
Interests
  • Listening to: play that
  • Reading: funky music
  • Watching: white boy
  • Playing: lay down the
  • Eating: boogie
  • Drinking: and play that funky music till you die
i just found out that i have almost 500 watches... Insane!!!!!!!!!!!

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:iconpagan-poetess:
pagan-poetess Featured By Owner Jan 30, 2013  Professional Writer
thank you for favouriting my work :)
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:iconohsparrowsong:
ohsparrowsong Featured By Owner Nov 28, 2012
instant watch back sweet thing (:
:heart:
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:iconpassionsinsanity:
PassionsInsanity Featured By Owner Nov 28, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Haha, thanks a lot babe!
I went through your page (saw you're profile pic, excuse me for saying, but you have such a cute face! :D) and noticed you're from Australia. Therefore I'm sorry to tell you, but I hate you already. When I've got time to go through (more of) your work, I'll be hating you even more, but because you're from down under, yeah, sorry mate, but you're going up the hate-bar rapidly! ;)
Reply
:iconohsparrowsong:
ohsparrowsong Featured By Owner Nov 28, 2012
why hate on the Aussies?
Reply
:iconpassionsinsanity:
PassionsInsanity Featured By Owner Nov 29, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Because Aussie are Aussie and I'm not! I'd die to be able to live in Australia, or even just go there on holiday or whatever. It's not actual 'hate', more 'insane jealousy' (= LOOOOOOVE!!!!!). ;) I'm sorry (!), I thought that, through the words, it was apparent that I was only 'joking' and didn't actually mean it!
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(1 Reply)
:iconmatheusschwan:
matheusschwan Featured By Owner Sep 26, 2012
u have a Beautiful Editions
+ WATCH
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:iconpassionsinsanity:
PassionsInsanity Featured By Owner Oct 12, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you so much! :)
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:iconitsmydrug:
itsmydrug Featured By Owner Sep 5, 2012
I love your editions
+ WATCH ♥
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:iconpassionsinsanity:
PassionsInsanity Featured By Owner Sep 6, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you!!!! :)
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