Lesbians Are PurpleSomeone once told me that love was tangerine,
Like a bottle of Fanta.
Fizzy, fizzy fanta.
Maybe that's the wrong simile,
But what does it matter?
It's not true, anyway.

Love between a man and a woman.
Between two straight, accepted people,
Without thoughts that may be labeled as
'queer' or 'strange',
May be tangerine.

But our love isn't.

The two boys who live in the apartment next door?
The ones who study hard,
Earn high grades in uni,
And create the most beautiful art you've ever seen?
Their love isn't tangerine.

Those two girls you see talking in the store,
The one with the innocent, girly-girl style,
And the cutting-edge

life.Life.
It's a beautiful thing, really. It's everywhere we go, yet we pay little to no thought to it whatsoever. It's unique to every single one of us, yet we are always comparing ourselves to one another and trying to be like each other. It's so fragile, yet we carelessly toss it around on a daily basis.

Just think about it for a second.
Your life could be taken,
Right here, right now,
Without any warning whatsoever.
You might just blink, a split second thing you do everyday, but your eyes might not open again. You might just walk outside, an early morning yawn just escaping your lips, then suddenly collapse and never get to your feet again.

age / im running out of excusesI'm running out of excuses

For my laziness.
I can't say it's because I'm uncomfortable
Because I just got a new bed.
I can't say it's because of fear
Because the night monsters stopped years ago.
So I'll just sit there while you yell at me
(I can't tell you it's because I stay up all night either
Because you won't understand that the Internet is a better home
You'll just laugh and say that's my age talking)

For my moodiness.
I can't say it's because of school
Because no one tries to bully me
I can't say it's because I'm hurt
Because I stopped going outside.
I can't say it's because I'm angry
Because what is there to be angry about? We (you)

Five Points on a StarI dread sleep because it's
when I start to think about
how sad it is that Pluto isn't
a planet anymore and I question
the symmetry of moonbeams and
why good is associated with the dawn.

WallpaperShe leaves the window to let the rain in. She watches the lazy river form and fall, seeping into the designer wallpaper and staining it. She watched the rain tug at the seams of the walls and imagined the room coming undone around her. She imagined the ceiling caving in and crushing her. She lay still and watched the rain fall. She lay still and tried not to breathe, to burn, to break.

HatredYou are a hemorrhage. You are the violent implosion of my blood under my skin that makes it itch like I am morphine-high. You are my blood seeping from arteries into artillery and shooting holes through my over-ripened heart. You are the snarl on my lip and scars across my forearms that burst open when I over reach my capabilities. You are the writhing groaning dying beast in my ribbed cage that aches for a kill. If I released you, you would snap my neck and watch me spurt out the only truth between us; my blood. You are venom and sap, holding my structure together from otherwise limp apathy but nonetheless you are poison, and how I hate you,

she reminds me of myselfI'm sorry, Alice, the looking glass lies.
Flowers don't sing
and hares don't keep time.
Your world of wonder
is all make believe -
Why else would your reflection
giggle and wink?

You aren't a child any longer, my dear.
Have a matchstick for your dreams
and a hammer for that mirror.
Our hands may be calloused
as we coddle our pasts
but delusions are enemies
and wistful muses pass.

I will wait for you, darling,
I will write for you, lass.
I will capture life's beauty
and contain it in glass.
Though, the singing that lingers
is the voice of my own.
The fragrant flowers are dying
even while their seed is sown.

the trans-, the pan- and the asexual. i.

They said
He couldn't feel like a boy
And a girl
At the same time.
So he grew his hair long
With colorful dreadlocks
And wore eyeliner
But kept his name.

ii.

They told her that
She could either love boys
Or girls
Or both.
Not everyone.
So she fell in love
With the boy who
Was born as a girl.

iii.

He didn't feel love
For the girl with the large chest.
Or the boy with the sparkling eyes.
But that didn't mean
He didn't love them
In his own way.

If that boy's way of loving is
Invisible,
And the boy with the long hair and eyeliner's way of loving is
Invisible,
And the girl who had a taste for personality, not ge

Divination as a Means of Finding a Way Back              1.  I say nothing I am thinking.

For twelve years I have wanted
to do exactly this, but suddenly
pronouncing my own name calls up
the question of who it belongs to
in the same breath Like
Solomon I was born a singer
but in the wrong key and my
chords will not carry me, will not
summon the wolves to me only
packs of hungry dogs
stupid with domestication
but nearly feral And like
a hungry ghost I have learned
not to speak against those
who will give me food

             2. A sketch of myself.

                                 He says I must have been born
in the wrong culture, he says. I got a taste of
the crack

sine-cosine-tangentsinecure sings enervated
songs to dull the bones
and lost luminaries drunk on clouds
mingle with the universe

soft the yellow knuckles come
sweeping by your face
fables finding ways to always reinvent our names

made into a blade the fragments
kill their only love
acrobatic serpents lurching
further from the truth

while beneath this moon we silver spoons
fashion odd cocoons
and sleep inside the earth

affirmation junkies
un-coat your godless tongues
your day has come to be amazed
by the failures you appraised

before you knew their worth

HatchingWhen I lie awake at night
I feel all of my cracks
I wonder what they mean to me
The connotation of these things--

Am I cracking like the ice
on a frozen winter's lake?
The snaps and pops as I tread
Above this icy frigid face;
To soon drop down unto my doom
And the arctic waters to overtake.

Or do I crack like a mirror?
I've lost my shine, for grime:
These splintered lines across my face
Foretell of a shattering across the floor.
Glass dust coated in the filth of lies.

But maybe I crack like an egg--
A smooth round surface marred:
Hair-thin lines spread across this globe
And smash my shield so hard.

I am afraid of hatching.
Will you still

gravitonwe embraced the intangible
and built our cities in the burning sky
danced from time immemorial
in harmony in the sun

but we could have lived without these
spinal cords persisting
every day against the tempered fear
that when we die we might meet the persons
we almost could have been

the deflective weight of natural
forces apparent
only after the rubicon crossed

BrothersWith your coquette eyes drawn to the fire,
you suck in quiet breaths,
remembering the exodus.

Effigies of walls raised in your mind,
waiting to be torn down,
bisecting our hands.
There was a splitting,
a severance,
that lacked reverence.

It's all north and south,
it's all east and west,
you'll have to excuse us,
we're not at our best.
we're fighting for freedom,
We're fighting for death,
call them our brothers
and we'll give them our breath.

7:WaterladyWe're all just dripping until we fade,
and all I want is to feel something
instead of feeling nothing at all.
I gave up the ghost last night,
expunged it from my lungs,
I dove into the well and dredged up
things that meant nothing (everything) to me.
We're all just water,
making us sound like swamps in the night,
or lake monsters.
We're deep,
and secretive.
Wet and Cold and waiting.
Just waiting.

digestifthe time has come
for exotic matter to be absorbed by our tongues
while hard light shields our
trail of crumbs

beasts trained to kill and then quickly
::caged forever::

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The Company: #22.

She couldn't really remember her first three days at the institute.
It was kind of just a blur, really. She wasn't sure whether that was due to the blow to her head she received as she tried to kick and scratch her way away from the men that dragged her by both arms, or the drugs she presumed they had stuck into her. Probably both.
All she knew was that for at least sixty-something hours, she lay passed out in the corner of her room. Which, by the way, wasn't in the least bit exciting. A bed, some drawers put there in an attempt to make it seem more home-ish, but nothing else. Even the walls, which she presumed used to be white, were a

The CompanyThe Company

They all had problems.
There was the boy with the drug problem; a physical problem, a rare case in this institute. He was the wildest, too, transitioning from screaming and kicking and crying to curled up in a corner, sullen and completely unaware of the world around him.
He had a brother, too, but he stayed in the shadows. He was the one with the anxiety issues, something that would make him shake and grab at things and do anything to distract himself. He had cuts on his lips from biting down too hard, and nearly identical ones on his hands were he clenched his fists too hard.
There was another boy, the one that was always th

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Mindless Originality

by ~hey-there-blue-eyes, Feb 1, 2013, 1:25:08 AM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

_{Who are you?

Who are you, really?
Are you the boy with the head of fair hair,
Who may not be the tallest,
But he's a good height
With a good enough nature
And he plays football and
He's strong and the girls
Absolutely love him.
When he's not shooting back steroids
And heroin behind the bleachers
Of course.

Who are you, really?
Ae you the girl with the big hair
Back combed and dyed black so it looks like
A permanent black cloud above her head.
It's rather fitting, really
Because everyone's seen her arms
With the cuts and the scars and
She never talks or smiles
And everyone knows she's depressed.
So of course they don't listen when she tells them
That smoking and drinking
Until you can't stand up straight
Is wrong.

Who are you, really?

Are you the boy with the dark
Smoldering eyes
Rimmed with dark eyeliner and
Half covered with hair that everyone says
Is too long and should be cut.
He stands in the corner because
He's attractive enough to sit with the popular
Good and
Normal kids
But he doesn't want to because
He doesn't like them and they don't
Like who he is either.
So they ignore him even though
Had he changed
He would've been one of their group
A best friend
A boyfriend.
Oh, and they beat him up
Too.

Who are you, really?

Are you the girl with the bleached blonde hair
And the tanned skin
And the pretty appearance that
Constantly laughs about how ugly
And fat
And socially awkward she is
As her army of friends laugh
And agree around her
While sipping their low fat
Lattes.
Not to forget her endless list
Of boys just bordering on men
That she could have her choice of
Any day
Every day
As her one
True
Love.
They won't care that they're just one
Of a hundred others waiting in line
Because she's pretty
She's popular
And she doesn't let them see
Her slowly killing herself
With purges and cheap cigarettes.

Now listen to me
Me, a lonely old writer
Narrator of all my mind's nonsense
As I tell you
Truthfully
Honestly
Sincerely
That you will believe this piece
This poem
And you will like it
And relate to it.
Because stereotypes are
Just
That
Wonderful.

So with that in mind,
Who are you, really?}

123

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Mindless Originalityby ~hey-there-blue-eyes

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Stereotypes.

Aren't they a wonderful thing?

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~Oriole-of-Silver Feb 2, 2013 Hobbyist Photographer

This is very good! I agree with TerminallyAbashed

~hey-there-blue-eyes Feb 2, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

Thank you.

~Oriole-of-Silver Feb 3, 2013 Hobbyist Photographer

you're welcome!

~TerminallyAbashed Feb 1, 2013 Writer

You are very good at pointing out people's secret realities. I applaud you.

~hey-there-blue-eyes Feb 1, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

Thank you so much.

~Tarzok Feb 1, 2013

~hey-there-blue-eyes Feb 1, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

Thank you.

~Killio01 Feb 1, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

I've no idea who I really am

But I do like this.

~hey-there-blue-eyes Feb 1, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

I don't think anyone truly knows who they are. Everything's always changing, every minute of every day. Thanks.

~Killio01 Feb 1, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Very true. And you're most welcome ^w^

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