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of broken hearts and magic.tonight, the stars look less like stars and more like the giant balls of gas people have been telling me they are.

tonight, i cannot find the constellations that i used to call my friends.

tonight, the ocean is a little less mysterious and a little more salty.

tonight i am wishing i knew nothing of magic because this would hurt a little less. i could chalk it up to chemicals and scoff at the idea of a broken heart.

i could leave it at let's be friends [or casual acquaintances] and never worry about what will happen if i run into you at the park.

but i know everything of magic and i felt it in my soul when i was with you and that i cannot
Hidden GeniusI am a genius.

I have an IQ of 169
(Mensa-tested).
I moved up two years in primary school
(just for English and Maths).
I won a scholarship
(and a bursary)
to the top private school in the country.
I could do complicated maths in my head
(like a human calculator),
better than the top students years above me;
I have the certificates
(and the trophies)
to prove it.

I studied ancient languages
(Latin and Greek),
so I know the meaning of my name
(bright, shining light).
I used to think I was well-named
(with a pun thrown in),
but now the light is dulled
(and dusty),
clouded over by pain.

I still shine
(weakly)
through the brain fog,
in isolate
BalanceSunlight evanesces,
Leaving heaviness,
A sort of thrumming between
The heavens and my mind.
A post-war chill freezes time.
Everything looks grey,
A sepia moment captured.
Laughter in the distance
From a family barbecue
Transforms itself into
The maniac cackle of a kookaburra,
High up in the sky somewhere.

The horizon glows pink,
Turns brown and then blue
As it stretches overhead.
Dreams of love and peace
Are forgotten, lost; they flutter away.
While a muffled radio plays on,
Cobwebs and dust cling to each other,
Million-year-old lovers
Dance to the music,
The wind swaying them.
The light gradually creeps away,
In its et
dead wordsthe poets and novelists are dead.
dead poem analysis
dead novel deconstruction
multitasking:
dead words
on a dead tree sheaf
stained with dead food
and possibly being contemplated
by a dead mind.

who is to remember the words
of the now-unfunctioning,
only for those who have breath?
“you love literature
because of what it is,
not what it does.”
oh for the love of intrinsic value.

the poets and novelists are dead.
but we are alive to connect
to their worthiness of writing.
seasons' changesi. last fall

i had my heart torn apart
(by you)
by a boy- one who replaced
his ripped bluish-gray jeans
(that i loved on you)
for brown corduroy pants to keep him safe
from the coming harshness of winter;
even through its irrational number
of hail and rainstorms,
i don't believe i felt
or recalled a thing about that fall;
for it was during that fall that not even the howling of the winds
could help shatter my dangling,
crystallizing heart
and our growing, cathartic distance.
i, too, had to adjust as i was forced
to learn
how to make due
without the heat of your arms
over and around my nape
and waist.
i'm not sure if it w
Sijo for the Snake I Am and the Mouse I Will BeBy noon, I’ve forgotten how to breathe; so to learn again I glide,
bend but do not break grass blade backs to watch him work, feel my girlhood
sloughed like a snakeskin in the reeds, see my womanhood like a mouse.
hyperdontiasometimes it feels as if
I have too many milk teeth,
too many parts of me that belong
to a time when I climbed trees to touch the sky
and I swam in sunflowers
and fireflies -
to a time I have long since
painted in sepia tones,
long since pushed
to the back of my mind
with hands so tired
of being filled with splinters
- too many seeds
and not enough light.

there are too many parts of me
that I have placed underneath pillows,
that I have kept behind closed lashes,
that I have slept upon, waiting
for the morning to arrive and them
to be g o n e ,
replaced with coins that I could place
underneath the tongues of the dreams
that I could not fer
Moonbeam MayhemMidnight on bare skin--
a subtle kiss of stardust
on a lonesome heart.
maybe.if we fell in love with our eyes closed

maybe i could be what you wanted

i always knew there was a hint of a cannibal in you, dear -

sparkling eyes hungry for bones

collar-hip-neck-ribs

if you were blind as love

would you love me?

i could be more than words on paper

more than just this decaying body

if all you saw was emptiness

could i fill the void?

i could offer you my world of swirling words and stardust

i'd whisper prose along your skin

and kiss poems into your lips

and maybe you'd find me along the way

but you've got 20/20 vision

hawk-eyes piercing your talons into my heart

so close your eyes and count to 10-

think of h
seekerI wander much through such old country,
a ghost who's thinking of other ghosts,
missing them and their effects,
an exile from the present, and from past.
I took offMy day off.
I stand in sunlight
without asking.
I can watch it being day.

The mud is soft and cool at home.
I'd bury well without a casket,
I’ll be a naked pill for earth.

I build a garden box from wood,
smash my thumb.
Red bell
peppers;
too late for lettuce.

I had a premonition
I would live like this.
No one will remember me.
I’ll forget by Tuesday.
Lost in the Marketplace of an Alien WorldThey're all ears and nose,
pouring the colours of their feet
around me.

I can't count their stars
or verbs until

suddenly my mother's hand
pulls me back
into my own solar system

and my heart is falling in love with oxygen.
We Are Only Made of DustThe world is not ours,
                 (but that doesn't stop us from wanting it)
Our bodies are not limitless; they do not last forever, though in this moment
                                                            ­                                              I swear, I almost feel infinite

There was a time when I thought words were immeasurable
Those being said, those already spoken, and those yet to be spoken
They are, were and would forever be endless

Some are exchanged lightly without thought, and others are as thunder, destructive and forceful,
but somehow it doesn't matter how they are said, and to whom;
As long as th
you need to have a plan...so here's to
conventional wisdom.
1. relocate
to some forgotten shore.
2. fall desperately in love with
     i. the ocean
     ii. the sky
     iii. the honey sunrise and
     iv. the steelgray winter dawn.
3. sink
soul-deep into the water and
breathe.
4a. search out the requisite words
     i. from behind white and blue curtains
     ii. and underneath clam shells
     iii. and in the wakes of fishing boats, and
4b. pluck them from the ceaseless
scrawls of sunlight
against the slopes of waves.
5. make time for
     i. poetry
     ii. and other
        selfish
        pursuits.
Humanityi. Creator

Flicking through yellowed pages,
The crinkles smelling of dust and tears.

A human-induced God complex - authorial authority.

ii. Photographer

At parties, she hides behind her camera, just so
Someone gives her a smile once in a while.

Too bad she only sneaks candid photos.

iii. Conspirator

Vindictive whispers cloy behind closed
Hands and hardened hearts. They vent.

An immunity to gossip; a cathartic release.

iv. Voyeur

Peeping toms on laptop screens and
DVDs - it's only natural, apparently.

What is normal anyway?
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More from ~FaeFallen

Boy with the Soul-EyesToo many Cinderella midnights ago for me to remember, I fell in love with you, boy with the soul-eyes, boy who sees me. Too many broken dreams later, I still love you, still think of you every hour and create whole scenes of conversation with you. I remember when I first saw you (that doesn't fade). Our eyes didn't meet across a crowded room; my eyes merely rested on you for longer than was good for my heart. And after that, I compared every beautiful boy I saw to you, and all failed the test; too rugged, too feminine, too tall, too short, not strong enough, too muscled.

Soul-boy, you who see me true, look at me. I know you look at me. I fee
MineThe first thing I noticed
Was his eyes.

Dark, wolf eyes
Deep brown, with hints of green.

Then him, his self
Shadowed and looking
Like trouble.

Then his mouth
Mocking but also
Soul-searingly tender
Deep down.

And his stance
Fight, not flight.

Wolf-like but
My wolf.

And the thought
Rose unbidden
You are Mine.
Faded Satin
Faded satin, once peach coloured, now grey
Hangs on the peeling back of the door to a world
Worn out by the pressure of hopeless eyes, ruined dreams

Surrogate feet, that carried their owner over famous boards
Fluttering and twisting before an audience,
Come to see the Sugar Plum Faery, tragic Giselle,
Beautiful, sweet, hapless Odette

They have heard the rains of applause from the velvet lined darkness
Been rubbed with sweet beeswax for luck on a first night
Brushed with the petals of roses, from the curtain calls,
Carelessly tossed over these slippers of finite immortality

In this room of agony, of a broken back and
A still eleg
Fire Girl
I'll be fire-dressed
Flame-wrapped
Darkness at my feet
I'll be in the dark
But not of it
I'll beat it down
Force it to bow
And swallow it whole

Because if I ever gave in
It would swallow me
2 Sentence StoryShe stares down at his corpse, at the pool, ocean of blood stretching from him to her boots, ejecting the empty cartridge as she does so and turns away, tucking the gun into her jacket. Her footprints are sticky, bloody shapes on the white surface of the corridor floor, as she walks through the open doorway at the far end and behind her, the lights go out.
Strange Music, Beautiful Music (edited)Strange.
Music, with all its undulations
Is merely vibrations in mid-air
And yet it makes me think of
Flying, crying, laughing, dying
Hope and pain and love and fear

"Beautiful."
And yet it brings a lump to my throat
And salt tears to my eyes
Remembering lost childhoods
And soft, sweet-sung lullabies

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September 25, 2012
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[x]

Just Say No

:iconfaefallen:

For some absurd reason,
I have a memory of you
Asking me to marry you.

We were sitting on the hill,
Like we normally did,
Looking towards the bay,
And I remember that the water
Was sparkling like liquid diamond.

It was high summer,
And there were those
Butterflies, the ones I love
Amongst the wildflowers

I was in a dress for once,
Pale pink silk gauze,
And you'd spread your jacket
Out for me to sit on.

I turned round,
And your eyes nearly
Swallowed me.
Like white light
Through green leaves.

You opened your hand,
And there was the most
Perfect ring, gold and one
Deep emerald, like
Looking into the soul of growth

It was a pretty proposal,
Out in the open,
In the sun,
From the most beautiful
Boy
In the world.

I remember.

I remember I said no.
:iconfaefallen:
yes, okay, i know it's dreaful, don't judge me...
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:iconnextavailablesoul:
~NextAvailableSoul Nov 26, 2012  Student General Artist
Totally creeping your gallery, don't mind me.
I know you think this isn't well written, but there's a beautiful story lurking underneath. There are endless reasons for why she could have said no and I love that you left it up to us to decide. :)
I'm going to leave now before you think I'm really creepy, aha.
Reply
:iconallofmyconfusion:
~allofmyconfusion Nov 12, 2012   Writer
I love this!
Reply
:icondailylitdeviations:
=DailyLitDeviations Nov 12, 2012
Your wonderful literary work has been chosen to be featured by DLD (Daily Literature Deviations) in a news article that can be found here [link]
Be sure to check out the other artists featured and show your support by :+fav:ing the News Article.

Keep writing and keep creating.
Reply
:iconkay-march:
~Kay-March Sep 25, 2012
what you mean dreadful? quite the opposite... just say no
Reply
:iconyumismiles:
~YumiSmiles Sep 25, 2012  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
why did she say no???!
Reply
:iconfaefallen:
~FaeFallen Sep 25, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
I don't know. Maybe she didn't like his dress sense. Or he was secretly a mass murderer. Or... she was engaged to someone else. Or didn't want to love him. I DON'T KNOW!!
Reply
:iconyumismiles:
~YumiSmiles Sep 27, 2012  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
some characters eh? x'D
Reply
:iconfaefallen:
~FaeFallen Sep 27, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
?
Reply
:iconyumismiles:
~YumiSmiles Sep 28, 2012  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
like characters in your head... they can't be controlled :P
Reply
:iconfaefallen:
~FaeFallen Sep 28, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Yes, it's my split personality coming into play again. obviously. What did you think of London Clay characters + the doppelganger pieces?
Reply
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