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The PoetFor the work of a Poet to be truly appreciated
he must write it with his own blood and tears for ink
his soul the sharpened quill to nail the words
like so many specimen of unwilling insects upon the paper.
And once he has bled out
becoming the cause of his own demise
the reader is left behind to digest his soul
so plainly trapped within a cage of words
his requiem written as a love song to his Muse.
the greenhouseand when it all would become too much and everything would feel like weight on my shoulders, I'd just sit there and listen to the raindrops silently dripping onto the roof.
It was mildly warm inside and the grass was always dry. After a while, the walls would become steamy and no one could see the inside, nor could I watch the outside.
Everything would be peaceful in there. In here. Like a space separated from this world. I always felt so weird about this place. How it was so unlikely to be special. How it would be so normal and unspectacular. But I felt safe. I felt as if nowhere but in this place, I'd find the freedom I was looking for. No one to pressure me. No feeling of not belonging somewhere. No feeling of not being understood, not being taken serious. And no one would ever wonder, because I wouldn't tell. It was the place where things were supposed to grow, separated from the outside world. Just the one to open the door could change what was inside. But for it's sake, close the
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More