| one of my favorites of mine :] |
~L-forever
memento mori.Newest
scavengers.the men stand there like wolves, impersonal as god, watching, watching watching you pick of the pieces of your life and slice yourself on the little slivers that tear chunks from your self-esteem, drunken, laughing like the jackals they are waiting to sneak up and steal another slab of you like the filthy scavengers they are.scavengers.
i'm tired of them hanging around like a flock of ravens only not, because they croak 'hey baby, wanna date?' instead of 'nevermore!' like they should so maybe they should just shut their beaks and go back to whence they
by ~L-forever
don't blink .collab.i do not know how anyone can wake up and be so fucking certain of their lives when all i can do is doubt everythingdon't blink .collab.
and do you know? the number of times i've wrung these eyelashes. what's the matter, what's the matter?
these things, they aren't even solid like numbers: just in-the-fridge-leftovers of maybe-sometime-memories.
and some days i wish that i could remember anything for once instead of searching blindly for something i'm not even sure is there.
it's all white-light. white-noise. an
by ~L-forever
a lost love is irreplacablei wish you and i would fall in love again because i just don't get how people expect me to walk around with this gaping hole in my chest where my heart's been ripped out by its ragged roots like some kind of unwanted, cancerous growth. [because it is. because i don't want it, and it's slowly killing me.]a lost love is irreplacable
and if you think i can breathe much longer well, honey, you'r
by ~L-forever
i am.i am a skeleton draped in your memories you're not even sure you wanted with fireflies floating inside my skull like a macabre paper lantern that is sitting in an attic somewhere collecting dust and spiderwebs and trains of thought. i am lost in this forest that you planted from old pop cans and headphones and there is no white rabbit to follow, only these melting clocks that are not telling me if i am late or not. i am porcelain temples with shellshock headaches that are rocking me to my tangled spinal cord that is mixing up my please-eat and do-not-cry signals so instead i am crying while trying to keep down my last meal of shards of glassi am.
by ~L-forever
| my new deviations. i try. |
Favourites
stone'When I was seven I was taken hostage. I was held at gunpoint... Apparently, I was lucky to live.' She spoke to the polished floorboards.stone
'That's something alright. Do you think about it a lot?'
'I guess,
but it doesn't really haunt me or anything. It's just always there.' She says as she looks through the frosted glass, sitting cross legged on the floor.
'I don't know what to say. Well,
you beat me of course. My story can't measure up to that.'
The girl meets his eye, lingering as she laughs.
'So, want somethin
by ~crashcoursewomb
Vulpes vulpesveins creep along the inner corner of your elbow, like ivy on fire or foxes flying from tree stumps, the ones i hear screaming outside my window-Vulpes vulpes
like lonely people crowded on a train and sitting in ugly silence while their hands call out to be held.
the foxes make me cry,
and i forget to breathe until we pigeon-step into the
vanishing points of the sky- it's like no one even knows it anymore; no one remembers to think it's beautiful to see the skyline melt; it's
everything and nothing- you and me, respectively.
by ~ohsostarryeyed
your toaster's sun burned meto me, burnt toast is when the bread is even just slightly brown. burnt toast is like paying for both my ice cream and your ice cream and watching mine fall on the pavement while you lick yours and smile. burnt toast is too crispy, me being too high, me being too ripped, me being too baked. it's smoke in my eyes from your toaster's lungs. burnt toast is jealousy when your toast comes out just fine.your toaster's sun burned me
burnt toast is spending hours on getting ready when you don’t even acknowledge me. it's standing on my tippy toes but still being too short. burnt toast is you being a boy, me being a girl, and the fact that we could have sex but
by *Awasteof-paint
...?Out of time and out of place These veins are here for razors to trace. We're living just to fall asleep And sleeping to dream of secrets we keep. We dream all night so we can wake So let another morning break. To break the skin, to break our hearts Another day we're kept apart....?
by ~Tsukiko1313
| some wonderful deviations by wonderful people :] |
i am not weightless but i am getting there.
Lazy
deviantID
| i'm a girl who knows what it feels like to fall in love. i'm a girl who had everything and then had it wrenched from her grasp. i'm a girl who killed the thing she loved most. i'm a girl who is too sad and smiles for all the wrong reasons. i'm a girl who writes what she feels in her heart but it comes out cliche. i'm a girl who understands how you feel. |
Devious Info
- Current Residence: Colorado
- Favourite movie: The Notebook
- Favourite band or musician: Jeff Buckley
- Favourite artist: Salvador Dali
- Favourite poet or writer: Anne Sexton
- Favourite style of art: Traditional.
- Personal Quote: "Each man kills the thing he loves." - Oscar Wilde
- Email: tay.rex77@yahoo.com
- MSN: tay.rex77@yahoo.com
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it's me.
wondering why you're not naked.
thankyouthankyouforthefave
lmaooo
me again,
still wondering why you're not naked.
notaproblemlovely :]
--
Civilization and Its Discontents.
"Each man kills the thing he loves." - Oscar Wilde
The hawk on fire hangs still. Dilly dilly, calls the loft hawk, come and be killed. Dilly dilly, come let us die.
i'm dangerous, like a fire in a nursing home.
OLD PEOPLE BURNING, OLD PEOPLE BURNING, PUT YOUR HANDS UP.
OLD PEOPLE BURNING, OLD PEOPLE BURNING, KINDA MISSED UP.
--
Civilization and Its Discontents.
"Each man kills the thing he loves." - Oscar Wilde
The hawk on fire hangs still. Dilly dilly, calls the loft hawk, come and be killed. Dilly dilly, come let us die.
--
saturday is just
another night where the tv is
the only living rainbow.
scream it out in words: rawEm0tion. <3
--
Civilization and Its Discontents.
"Each man kills the thing he loves." - Oscar Wilde
The hawk on fire hangs still. Dilly dilly, calls the loft hawk, come and be killed. Dilly dilly, come let us die.
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