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We Were Meant to FlySometimes, you have to set aside broken things and start fresh; break the chains and take flight. Words I speak more to myself than anyone else. They come not from the pipes that won't play or behind the dreamer's gaze, but from the heart; screamed so loudly, I think they'll burst from my chest. You spoke this language once, used words like fear and uncertainly, misery and suffocation, gut wrenching times to be sure, but we just weren't ready.
Now, my aim is true. My path is set, and so I step lighter these days, while you weep in dark corners; not for fear of heights or the irony of bad timing. Free spirits are meant to fly, but the ties that bind, really do bind. Like iron shackles anchoring you to the shore line; the tides roll in and slowly you drown, in a sea of misery. All I can say, is I'm sorry, as I soar overhead. Freedom is life's first happiness, enhanced only by love.
Save it for your PriestForget the fall
It's the landing that hurts
I should've started fresh at thirty
Put aside childhood love
And just lived a little
I guess I'm stubborn that way
Only now it seems
I can't run fast enough or far enough away
Distance is key
But some people don't want to be left
If she loved me
She'd let me go
How's that for a cliché'
Instead I have to push and pull
Tear myself away
I know what you're going to say
Save it for your priest
But I don't talk to God
And I don't read the horoscope either
I never trusted mine anyway
I write instead
And not unlike yourselves
I've learned a lot along the way
Lessons old and new don't feel the same
Because after you've been burned once
It just doesn't hurt as much after that
Setting your own fires becomes easier too
Trust me on that one
I bleed over collateral damage
And let fate sort out the rest
One of those NightsThe morning sun beams through the front windshield like an intruder: brash and unwelcome forcing you to wake. Whiskey eyed, smelling like an ashtray, parked at the back end of a ghetto ass neighborhood, wondering what the hell you did the night before. Like trying to remember words you haven’t written yet. One thing is for certain: a little bit of rope goes a long way, but a lot of rope will hang you.
Boulevard of Lost HopeNothing in these pockets
But a five dollar bill
And a pint of whiskey
In a crumpled up
Wife beater on
Carpenter style Dickies
And a ball cap
Sitting on a road side bench
Watching cars on the fast track
Doing eighty five
The boulevard of lost hope
Paved in broken glass
And ill repute
I grew up
Not far from here
I came to celebrate life changers
And wake up calls
Sold my dreams
Even in the worst of places
The world seems brighter
The Impatience of MotionI'm named after my father, the middle part anyway. I carry his name in a scrapbook, where the past continues to breathe. He tried to give me the world once; told me he never did it any good, but you never give to a dreamer, they end up drowning in the rain. So I let it fall just as he knew I would, same as all who came before me. Now he's a child who has grown old and I suffer the same fate.
It's funny how the clock winds faster, as the years increase. Some may see it differently, but I feel it with each passing day. It's the fatigue brought on by the impatience of motion, the ever-growing disinterest in the echoes of the world. It's the creaking sound as the machine begins to slow. It's the lines that crack the skin.
I know I'm growing older now; I saw angels flying over Montgomery the other day. I didn't fear for my own passing, but then it wasn't my ride to catch. I think one may have smiled down on me though, despite all of my sins. For this I can only hope, when my time comes to a
Old FlingsKyla used to say
I was wild
A free falling adventurist
To the extreme
I was on a crash course with life
And through me
She discovered a taste
For undiscovered landings
Together we took flight
Found new edges to leap from
And stayed at the hip
To the very end
So here's to old flings
Mirrors and swings
And all the wonderful messes
Here's to sex on rooftops
And changing cars in the fast lane
Just so we could explore
The back seat
Here's to all the good times
And experiences of old
That let us know
We actually lived
A Few ThingsIn the beginning we love everything; the mobile that hangs above our head, the rattle in our hand, that favorite stuffed animal or blanket we put so much faith in. When the only word for God is mother and we never have to endure or pretend, but as time goes on, those damaging tides roll in. With each blue crush of the pipe, we twist and bend, until only a few things remain we truly love. It’s at that moment of realization, as if trying to retain our own innocence; we pull close that which we still hold dear and thank God above.
Free KingPerhaps I will stage a comeback,
as if I was ever really here.
Write of new chapters and limits,
with all that has come to bear.
It started with the pursuit of change
and a blind leap of faith. I took flight
throwing caution to the wind
and bled along the way.
The landing was a treacherous one
casting bone and concrete
into the air.
When the dust settled
and the sky ceased to weep
I was a free king again.
And so I did what all kings should do.
I returned to where I'm from.
I found the people of my kingdom
to be different and yet the same.
They had a few new scars
and a little more time served
and the tattoos to document it all.
Aside from that
they were the same as I once knew,
standing with open arms.
When asked why I left
all those years ago
I told them
I did it for the children.
We rejoiced and reminisced of old times.
Then celebrated in true Spring Branch fashion
and at that point
I was reminded
of all I had missed.
Aimless WalkerThey lean in so heavy,
looking for reassurances from me,
but who am I.
Why should I know these things if they don’t?
What makes me so special?
Well I’ll tell you, absolutely nothing.
I’m the worst person in the world to count on.
I’m a discontent dreamer.
An aimless walker
who only does what needs to be done
and leaves the rest to chance or fate.
Like feathers in the breeze
or floating on the sea.
I can’t be what they need me to be.
and they’re falling with me.
But We Always Sing Together There The "old man" was maybe forty-nine, since that's the median age range for US American Indian males' longevity.
He seemed like an old man to me. I was only about twenty and terrified.
He was going to run a meeting I was supposed to attend.
I'd already heard about him.
He was said to hate seeing a woman in tipi meetings and he hated any white person there.
He hated to hear a woman sing there even more.
I was a young white woman who sang a lot in tipis, but this time I planned to skip the singing.
It would be enough just to be there.
It was my husband's fault. He was going and wanted me there with him.
We always went to meetings together and sang together, too.
Other Indians said we sounded "real good" together and that's what my husband wanted to show that old man.
In other words, he wanted to show me off as a white woman
Ode II.When I was a first-year medical student at fresher events, people used to say to me, "Oh wow, I bet you see lots of amazing stuff!" The simple answer to that was not really, not at that time. I'd been a medical student for a few weeks. No, I can't diagnose your knee problem or advise you which tablet you should be taking for your sinusitis. I've only got a few weeks on you. I certainly don't have stories of the weird and wonderful to share with you, much as I'd like to.
I think that the only time I've really sat down and reflected on this, is right now, almost at the end of my fourth year. This is when it strikes me how much has changed since I stood there in those fresher parties. Nowadays, when my friends and I get together, we do actually share stories of the weird and wonderful. I've done some rather 'special' special modules (sexual health clinic module, A&E/ER module ), so I've had some truly weird and wonderful stories to share. I think a number of people may remember me ap
Things To Consider Before Dating a GiverThere are some people, girl, who embody the phrase 'give you the shirt off his back.' He's one of them. And when I say that, I mean it. He'll do it for you-- and offer to-- several times, for many reasons. You'll love it, and you'll sleep in those clothes until they stop smelling like him. Then you'll give them back, because they are his shirts, after all.
But it won't stop there. He'd give that shirt to anyone; it's just you're on the receiving end more often because you're near him and unprepared more often than most. He's bought pizzas for strangers with his last ten dollars, and he's come over just to help your dad cut up a tree.
People have tried, unsuccessfully, to rob him-- more than once. You'll realize, as you spend more time together, that he'd be happy to give these people the money, and what upsets him is that they're not asking.
He'll blow off spending time with you to help his mom do things, and it won't be an excuse. He'll actually be very sorry that it took him hours mo
i was six years old the night my mother crept into my room, spread a second quilt on top of me, and began to quietly brush the hair of my barbies. she laid down on the cold wooden floor, one ear down - as if she could hear the small specks of dust moving across the downstairs hardwood.
"we're moving to waterford," she said, staring fondly at my lovingly-kept pocahontas doll. i hadn't seen her swipe it, and she played with the silky ends of the doll's purple-sewn hair in silence.
"i don't want to go," i told her, bleary-eyed and whining, "who wants to live in a place named after water? don't they have anything exciting to name it after?"
she stood with a thoughtful smile, something twisting in the murky brown pools of her eyes.
"water is like magic," she said. "water grows beautiful things."
and with that, she patted my foot, looked me in the eye, and took pocahontas away to the hall with her.
"she is beautiful," my mother told me softly. "i want her."
i closed my eyes
The rhythm's the same
It never changes
But as he dances
he always changes
with the synths
The drums beat fast
The drums beat deep
He sings a song
and lies to self and all
And finally he lies
Down and dies
But the flashing lights were fun
The sounds and sights were beautiful
It was worth it.
And so was I.
Lancelot Price 2014 January 16
between brushing my teeth and writing a novelI met God on the rooftop of an apartment block one black afternoon in Paris. He walked with a limp and had silver pennies where his teeth were missing and he was younger than I had ever been. Spray paint scripture on dirty subway tunnels didn't prepare me for the way his face made me sick with fear.
In secret I'd sometimes creep backstreet paths towards crippled churches and slip quiet into half-burnt pews and search among the cinders for scraps of bible pages. Once I found a whole book beneath a broken altar. Blind preachers filled the corners of grey streets, piled together babbling Revelation, but I turned to the first few chapters because I'd already heard the end, and maybe we could just start over.
Collapsed at the muddy feet of the Creator, those ripped-up bits of testament were no more than ash.
I begged God for a reset button and he looked at me so sad I thought my heart might break. Said he could see gospels on my hands, that
LilacsStage four lung cancer, they said. Six months, at best. You held on for so long, chemotherapy jovially turning you from a white haired lady in to a wig topped moppet. Vitamin C treatments, pills, sleep. Doctors, hospitals, tears and upset stomachs. To make you feel better, we announced that I was pregnant with your eleventh grandchild, and we hoped to God in Heaven that you would meet her. And you did. You clutched her to you with the fierce passion of somebody who has created a life inside of them and spooned her cake on her first birthday...and a month later you faded away.
When the call came, I was sitting on my living room floor. It was my birthday, quietly I turned another year older while you hummed along on machines in a hospital room, far from me. Far from anywhere I needed you to be, and the last place I wanted. It was just before midnight, everything was peaceful, I was content. Contemplative.
We had been in to see you earlier, I stopped by, chatted for just a while. You coul
Barefoot in the SnowYou ask me how I am; I’m fine, I’m fine
My toes have fallen off from walking barefoot in the snow
But I didn’t need them anyway, I’m okay
It’s you I’m worried about, grey –faced and dull-eyed
What’s going on, old friend? You’ve lost weight
Your step is slower, your shoulders stooped, are you in pain?
I see you’ve lost your toes as well
Let us walk together then; daylight will come in time
What do you Want to be When You Grow Up?We are taught when we are little that what only really matters is how much money we make. That's why most of get asked: "What do you want to be when you grow up?" They really didn't care what your ignorant little fingers splurged out, it just mattered that you had some sort of aspiration no matter how pointless it was. It just mattered that maybe it wasn't pointless to teach you. So when the smallest child in my second grade class had responded with a scraggly "Sparrow", eyes turned and eyebrows furrowed. "You have to be realistic," our teacher said, and that little boy (whose name is out of my mind's grasp) responded with a strong 'It is'.
"You can't turn into a sparrow though. Don't you want to be an actor or musician? Choose a career or lifestyle," our teacher said persistent to drain the dreams from him.
"My mommy said that we can be anything, though. She said that to me before she closed her eyes and turned into a sparrow. I saw it, she closed her eyes and a sparrow flew out
Harvest HomesShe says, you can tell America from the rest of the world by the color of the wallpaper, or lack thereof. That southern hospitality is refreshing after so many years in London. The stuffed animal in her grasp is named ‘Dog’. When asked why, she says, "are you blind, it is a dog after all."
When the aide handed her the night gown she asked if it was for sale. He told her it was a gift, but she couldn't accept it. However, if he wanted to lend it to her that would be “lovely”. The aide was actually a woman. When we told her so, she replied “Well, she was a man when he gave it to me.” We all laughed and she said, “Oh lovely then” and laughed while clapping her hands.
I can’t tell you how old she is; anything beyond 80 will do. I can’t tell you how crazy she is. I imagine more than a little. Needless to say, I liked her immediately.
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A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More