[x]

Look at the girl
Crying
Head down, knees up
Before the terrace of marshmallow houses
Chalk colours,
                      Pink
                             Blue
                                     Yello

The Doppelganger 2The book still sings to me, and that's when I pull it from under my bed and stroke the cover. But I never open it, because I know what happens if I do it wrong. It's still blank; but only of ink. I know the secret, you see. It's how I understand the songs, and know the melodies it echoes up to me, through time. There are impressions hidden in the pages- spilled mead and raucous laughter, summer sunshine and frost on dead leaves. The last time I tried feeling them from start to finish, I passed out from the sheer weight of knowledge, and it left my brain scrambled for ages.

I found out things about my past and my family's past. I have Irish o

Paint the DreamsEvery night, on the insides of my eyelids,
I paint the Universe with the ink set of imagination
And the charcoal sticks of memory,
Then flip it upside down and the wrong way round
And let it snag into focus-
On my sleeping synapses, the branches of the Inspiration Tree .

In my ivory skull-box of random echoes,
Every melody, every voice, is re-written and rescored,
For a symphony of electricity, crisscrossing nerves ,
And running down, like liquid lightning
Into the ears of the dormant soul.

Here, this is that part of my chaotic desk
Where I re-write physics to suit myself,
Redesign monsters and angels to my own speci

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

A Series of Love-Made Mistakesi. I decided I wouldn't fall in love with you,
Not as soon as I saw you in the flesh.
We were over before we began.
It's true you had (have) that quality
Which makes men's jaws grow tight
And their knuckles whiten.
You were handsome enough, at least,
To make every other woman sigh,
Seemingly, when you blinked.
I watched you as you prowled through them
Hunting for the one that was me,
Without even knowing who I was.
And as you did so, I felt the most uncontrollable urge
To claim you as my birth right.
So I did. That was my first mistake.

ii. My second came, a year-and-a-half later,
When I wished I was in love with you from the

We Who Make WorldsEvery author has a gift. It's a very obvious gift, but oh my word, when you really understand it, it hits you like a ton of rectangular building things.

We Make Worlds.

Huge, rolling worlds, of mountains and rivers and forests and cityscapes and deserts. And when we've done that, we give them people and animals and stars and light and shadows and good, the bad and the ugly. We make histories and sciences and whole religions from nothing but the sight of a feather in the breeze. Empires rise and fall in the space of a few letters, heroes are born, fall in love, die. And then we obliterate the Universes, and there's a one word oxymoron for yo

Je Suis La NuitThe night belongs to me, in all its whispering shadows.
I am the watcher, the seer, the stand-in-the-dark-and-knower
The darkness is the cloak around me, the rough ground my dance floor.
I am the silence and the sudden laughter,
And the melancholy melody of the party you weren't invited to.

I wear the dusk-in-fields like a scarf, and the shadow-in-city like heels,
Soft and romantic, sharp and knowing.
This is my kingdom, my house of evening adventures,
Full of the clink of wine glasses and the shouting of revellers.
My manor, with its well of sorrow and alcohol.

I see how the light slides from graffiti and love it,
I smell the sm

The DoppelgangerThe first time I saw the other girl, I was standing on one side of the high street. Because it was the end of September, and we were in Britain, it was raining, but the main bulk of water had passed before lunch, so all that was left was the kind of rain that's annoying in its intermittency.

I watched her look in both directions and then cross the road, stepping carefully through the pool of mingled rainwater and rainbow engine oil in the bus bay. She was unusual, not just because she wasn't carrying a handbag, or wearing a coat, but because she was dressed in a chain mail and leather dress, and leggings. The second strange thing was that no

The Calling DrumsYou drum on my clavicles,
Like they are hollow bird-bones
And I feel the thud of forever
Reverberating through my throat.
This is the tangible pulse of love.
Down my breastbone and ribs,
The rhythm calls,
Setting my feet twitching,
Itching to dance.
Your fingers tattoo my spine
With whispered suggestions
And silk threads on my skin.
Pulling un-seeable angel wings
From my shoulder blades
And sending me spinning into open sky.

WordsmithHave you ever noticed how long words sound like they fit together whilst making absolutely no sense whatsoever?

Like: Technically, synonyms in ridiculing conjunction rotate directionally.

Or: Labyrinthine doctoring combined with revelations mutates into conumdrumaic, Cassandraic meanderings.

(Rather like this page of words)

Words like that are like ropes, coily, twisting strings to tie us to each other or set us free.

Some words are hard, shielding. Opaque. Protect. Hold. The rings in a sheet of chain mail, the over lapping scales of armour.

Others are clean, sharp, cutting, the knives and bullets and arrowheads of literature.

Liar

Memr'y MereI look into the memr'y mere,
Set below the boughs of the old willow tree,
And once again I'm running through
The twilight meadow, laced with purple dusk
Where each flower and wild grass blade
Is gilded by the light of the falling sun.
The world silhouettes itself
Against the backdrop of the evening sky,
Bruise-and-rose, and painted with
The burning clouds in gold and jewel tones.
The soil was always rich here,
As though the shadows had been made earth,
And I could listen to the crickets singing softly
On the stems of dancing poppies,
Like the upturned silken skirts of fine ladies.
Before the stars turned their bright faces downwards,
I wou

The 4 Steps of Getting Over HimWhen you walk away from
Someone you love,
You feel a thousand, tiny, iron hooks,
Attached to the spool of memory,
Dig into your heart
And pull it out through your back,
Cracking every rib and spine-bone
As you go.

And once you've got away,
You've got to clean the wound,
And plunge your heart into boiling water,
So it doesn't fester
And turn your head rotten.

After the kind of storm
That wails around the corners,
And up the stairs,
You can sit on your bed
And feel the hollowness
In your chest-cavity
Suck at your collarbones.

Once the salt rain has stopped
Stinging your eyes and echoing in your ears,
Go outside, and carry the emptiness
Unt

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

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

Reason 00001- KindnessThank you for the silent miracles. Thank you for the kindness that will cause a stranger to give food to a homeless person and for the man who will give his own organs to save his childhood sweetheart. Thank you for the people on the high street that you avoid because they’re trying to talk to you, when all they want is to cheer you up.

Thanks for the people who pay it forward and the mother who will give the heart of her dead child so that a little boy can live. Thank you for the people who don’t have to care but still do. Thank you for the Good Samaritans and the Flock.

There’s a tradition in Naples, Italy. If you order

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Sonder (noun)Sonder (noun)

The realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you'll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.

Discord's Daughter: A Wicked Lovely Fanfic (4)

The kitchen door banged against the work surface as Sinnoch burst through in a gust of cold air and dead leaves from the vines stretching over the garage. Cain glanced up from his phone screen and gestured at the aluminium briefcase she held in one hand.

"What's that?"

Rather than answer, Sinnoch flipped the case open and turned it so Cain could see what was in it. He whistled appreciatively under his breath and made to reach out for the gun nestled inside.

"Sweet toys, Sin."

She flashed her teeth at him and put the box on the table so she could fold her arms. "Custom."

His fingers ghosted over the surface, careful not to get too close.

Chiaroscuro "Chiaroscuro"
It's the distinctive word that painters use,
To delineate the not-quite lines between shade and shine,
Moonstone-glow and velvet-back black.
Those areas of thick, creamy paper or taut canvas
Overlaid by wet, inky darkness and ghostly light, made tactile.

But it's also the metaphor,
Bound and braided with words and lines,
To describe the way humans are a bit of both
Walking the not-line between good and bad, death and life
The two oldest, the first, in the world,
Somehow, somehow, woven into nothing more
Than black ink on white paper.

And still, there are the times,
When the darkness is a primal, living thing,
An

Break-My-HeartYou told me once,
That all the stars
Were holes straight through
The fabric of space
And, God help me, I believed you.

I decided, that only if
The world stopped spinning
I would cease my love of you
And, my God, I believed myself.

I thought we'd be running
Forever
Through green leaves and sand dunes
Through storm and calm and rain
And, oh Lord, we did. Almost

I blessed the raindrops
I blessed the flames
I blessed the children we would have
I saw your face in dreams
As you saw mine, and took the meaning
As everlasting peace.

And then I woke up
Looked at you, clear.
Saw for the first true time,
That I could not love you.

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[x]

They Say

by ~FaeFallen, Mar 11, 2012, 9:11:12 AM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

They say "You are stupid."
Not just to me, but to anyone
Anywhere, anywhen
Who has ever said "I will be free."

They say "You are powerless."
When we say "We will change the world."
They say, they say
Buckle down and make money
Belt up and be us

They say, "Give up"
They say "We are rich, you are poor
Give in already"
They say "Look up.
Don't you wish you were us?
Don't you know you never will be?"

And we look past them,
To the Universe, and think
That is mine
They say "You are tiny, in a big world
And we are large."
And I say:
"Yeah. And?"

They Sayby ~FaeFallen

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

People who think they are so superior when they aren't but pretend they are make me laugh, because sometimes it's so obvious. Other times, they just make me angry.

~Rapunzel13 Apr 14, 2012 Student General Artist

I totally agree!

~EmperorHadrian Mar 12, 2012 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

Brilliant! This is well-written, and it gets the message across wonderfully.

~FaeFallen Mar 13, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thanks

~EmperorHadrian Mar 13, 2012 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

You're welcome.

~Kay-March Mar 12, 2012

Yeah, And?
So, what?! Listen to Pink!!
I'm with you, "they" suck! A friend of mine says, instead they are a
stinking sock

~FaeFallen Mar 12, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

They really, really do. especially people who get rich out of dodgy deals and buyt loads of designer stuff and never realise how tacky they look and don't THINK! the not thinking part really gets me down.

~Kay-March Mar 12, 2012

I know a few, unfortunately!! They don't by art to appreciate, they by the price.

~YumiSmiles Mar 11, 2012 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

This is really good

I think, at school, you should rant in poems. That'd b cool

~FaeFallen Mar 11, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Hilarious, certainly

~YumiSmiles Mar 11, 2012 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

I'd seriously enjoy it

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They Say

They Sayby ~FaeFallen

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