PhotographyI don't write often anymore. i don't know why yet.
Newest Deviations
In my bourgeois way.Popular heroes sing the songs people sing when they're alone And your angelic voice leaves me no choice Be loved by me in my bourgeois wayIn my bourgeois way.
Receive me on a misfit's holiday I'll read you poetry I'm going to always send you my poetry, my poem to you, this play You could direct me
to the heart of my convictions Take hold my tired lover
in seclusion, in the moon time: Visitations, debts of passion; apparitions As substantial as a Brave or soil or buffalo.
Meeting with the redcoats, they Brought visions to this shaman. Soon y
by ~A-R-Glasgow
We Drink WellbutrinPoetry is our beloved language. A literal compulsive regurgitation.We Drink Wellbutrin
A mindful irritating interpretation.
A lifelong education wrote in turn.
This interview with the dirty mirror can do naught but bleed the truth
through the eyes of the exquisites whose souls with poesy do burn.
Fanciful dreams and liquid streams
brought forth and grown languid
in the subtle imagined conscious
of those damaged souls oft spurned.
Can you burn in the bleak night,
frightened by the milky dawn?
Forget the day and come to play with me in forests o
by ~A-R-Glasgow
CandyI watched you through the dirty window And listened to what you had to say I loved you then my darling And I felt no need to prayCandy
And when I just kissed your lips I felt the world stop its turn I love you always darling My heart will always burn
And when I last held your hand firm And lay in your precious arms I am loving you my darling A prisoner of your charms
My lover I miss your eyes And the sheen on your skin I am in love with you my darling Let my life with you begin
My lover I miss your smile And the warmth
by ~A-R-Glasgow
Random Favourites
ButterflyA butterfly sheds its wings Leaving them torn on the ground beneath the rose bush Freshly adorned in the garb of a moth Drifting and spluttering over hedgerows The music has silenced But the rain screams on in torrents around me It could be reviving to stand there But flesh is so easily frozenButterfly
Like drums, the memories find me And flutter on in their insignificant way It hurts me, like a blow to the head That I don’t remember our last words
by ~vermillion-magpie
Agony by IndecisionWhat if you held me in your arms,Agony by Indecision
Your lips close to mine, as always I would whisper "I love you" and my breathing would ease and my heart would stop right there in your arms Would you say what I hope you will? Will you say it over and over again? Will you scream it? Would it be enough to make the dead awake? But I am not human, and soon it will all stop...
by ~exxenta
Axe the ClicheI could tell you thatAxe the Cliche
your love sends me to the moon you make my world go round that we are meant to be
but that's pointless like an invisible rhino in this room and trying to prove it's there
Too many times these clichés have been said we've run out of ticker tape now
Instead I'll use a little originality and tell you that my love for you is like a simply red and green florescent cruise of zealous melody.
But you haven't heard that before,
so you don't know what that means.
Now there's an invisible rhino i
by ~Effamay
deviantID
Devious Info
- Favourite poet or writer: Sir John Betjeman, W.B.Yeats, Byron
- Favourite photographer: http://larafairie.deviantart.com
- Operating System: Vista Ultimate
- Personal Quote: Notoriety is not for me, except in literary leakage and flat peepage on electronic page
- Tools of the Trade: Canon EOS 400d & a Pen
- Website: http://www.poetbay.com/arg
- Email: toptecky@gmail.com
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Thus does the necessary angel of the poetic, arrive to save the angel of history, from dying of melancholy in a suffocating world of ruins.
Are you ok?
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Thus does the necessary angel of the poetic, arrive to save the angel of history, from dying of melancholy in a suffocating world of ruins.
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Anybody who is any good, is different from everybody else!
great to hear from you .
x
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Thus does the necessary angel of the poetic, arrive to save the angel of history, from dying of melancholy in a suffocating world of ruins.
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My critiques are honest. If you can't handle that, you shouldn't be on this website.
Make a cake, win a sub! Check my journal for details: [link]
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Thus does the necessary angel of the poetic, arrive to save the angel of history, from dying of melancholy in a suffocating world of ruins.
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In this Chaos and burning I find a way to release, these are my words, these words set me free, This is my breath of life, this is me, in my free colored and spirited world of poetry.
Jeannie
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