Just watched The Hunger Games...

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And this is what I think of it: chromeantennae.tumblr.com/post…
Watch that, children. :XD:

In other news, I wanna bring you beautiful folks a feature so here we go:
to the girl with the razors in her back pocket,stop. turn around. i understand you,
and i understand the sadness
entrenched in your bones. i understand
the late nights spent in anxious prayer
to the towels, to the creaky floorboard
just outside your parents' room, to the sink
that stains too easily. i understand
the catastrophic glances that people throw you
when you open your mouth and try
to belong. i understand the intense moments
spent in dressing rooms splicing together outfits
that will gracefully sweep past tally-marked wrists and ankles
and hopefully make sense in the dead of summer.
i understand the nights that you carve the emptiness
onto the razor and wonder if it wouldn't be better
to just die tonight instead. no one can be angry...
or disappointed...or judgmental...or sympathetic (because
sometimes forced empathy is the worst)...when you
no longer exist. it just stops. and anything
has to be better than this.
well, you're right about one thing. it does
get better. and not in that corny way
people tell you. you won't se
<da:thumb id="470488103"/> Don't Fall In Love With A Writer               Just because they will bruise your neck with pearls of metaphors; and splash palettes of colours onto your chest with reckless waves and boundless twilight. They will smear ink onto your lips as you kiss them because that is how they leave hickeys. They are wildest in their 2 a.m. diary, and liveliest in book racks of novels; they have butterflies in every heartbeat and they breathe living poems. They leave trails in libraries and coffee shops like Hansel leaves crumbs in forest and they have undying lovers because every love story is ever living in their abyssal oceans of analogies and similes. They know every cliché like the sunset knows the moon rise, and every wound in their heart like blood in their veins. They are terrifying because they weave you in splinters of fires rolling down their cheeks. They are weird because they don't smile much but sometimes you could catch their smiles in poems or tales. They are psychotic b Glasgow GrinSchadenfreude is her favorite word.
He is the smile carved on the corners
of her lips - permanent disfigurement.

at the end of the dayYou come home late
skirting my questions like landmines
as if with one wrong move I’d detonate.
I switch off the TV, come to bed and stay awake.
I watch you sleep and
it’s just not the same.
<da:thumb id="469867874"/> bird girl, learn to flyshe had never dreamed
of freedom, but
gradually a
thousand years of sentiment
cracked and
fell from around her bones
<da:thumb id="469907147"/>
GossipsMoths will flock to a flame.
But it doesn't mean they don't fear the fire.
misery-clad crownyou still wear that old, riven gown,
eversince
I met you half way; falling down,
I clasp my misery-clad, broken crown
  (of all the things)
but not your old, and riven gown.
muddy spittle; ugly brown
hogs useless wings,
half way -- living down.
a paradox love, winter-sown;
prince, and princess, in old, riven gown,
who wished they hadn't met
half way, falling down.
find what you hateon my skeleton alleyways are built,
gaps and craters. suicide pact-bound teens
walking into lava.
i spied on them like an nsa angel.
a xenocryst pricked my toe.
i was the one veering off the fiery sidewalk,
looking down,
once
i readjusted
my lenses.
and saw chunks of motorway half-
regurgitated, ashen smegma
fallout. the language into which
my onanistic fire
          easily translates.
suddenly everything had meaning
and urgency.
           first of all,
there was someone watching over
our wreckage. and it was
no god.
The Nowhere Man 'No need to disguise or to pretend,
Don't misconstrue and don't misapprehend.
There's nothing left, no fortress to defend'
- Placebo.
'Make up something to believe in your heart of hearts,
So you have something to wear on your sleeve of sleeves.'
- The National.

Every day he walks into the same store. Every day he walks the same route to the lower floor. Every day he looks at the same shelves of merchandise. Never buying anything. Never speaking. Just staring. He doesn’t make eye contact with other customers or members of staff. He just looks through the same items. Every day.
His entrance could be timed to the minute. Every mor

Books.We check the backs
of good books
for epilogues
unwritten,
Running a cautious finger
down their spines
expecting goosebumps to bloom
from those paper mausoleums
that hold lives and deaths
that happen
cyclically  
in our heads.
We slide them back between
two others,
cuddled close
in a particleboard purgatory.
And with less frequency,
we revisit those living things
trapped in
constancy.
And write another
and another-
victory falls: xvi.And in similar fires,
brought forth Regin
a fine edge - blind-stricken
grief-bearer, shadowed
and cracked upon the anvil.
So hilt and blade,
now divorced, returned
to Hell interminable:
all evil must be forged
by infernal flames, and devils
defeated only by betrayal.
Let bloody hands be bathed
by sinister kiss; no sword
would do but that of history's making:
the Fates walk hand in hand
with breath-filled lungs.
So the murder-hand,
winged and feathered, imitation
of foe and fire,
sealed its wounds (lustful
scars of Phoenix blood)
and took flight,
weightless, thought and memory
cowered in fear
and Earth herself split open
to its will.
<da:thumb id="469928534"/>
MultiplicityI am not left
nor right,
not centred,
but bent
to keep changing.
I am a landscape,
inviting you to get lost
in the details.
The thousand lives that carve my surface –
Can you feel them?
Can you see
the lingering lilac
is not my deepest colour?
Can you find
my innermost core
and grasp it
as just one
of many?
little lambso you love the vulgar poet with the pockmarked face?
I could spin you riddles that would make Bukowski blush
or do I have to be a motherless misogynist drunk
to play at your daddy issue Stockholm Syndrome?
cut your teeth on university critics
the world of men lusts for slaughter
Tounges and razor bladesDear owners
Of judging eyes
And lowered voices
I do not expect you to understand
That in this war of mine
My companion is a lifeless piece of metal
Or that I seek comfort in sharp pain
Rather than soft hugs
I would never expect you
To pity me
For that I have no need
Nor do I expect you to understand
That I sometimes find it easier
To cry through my wrists
Rather than my eyes
But dear owners
Of sharp tongues
And lethal words
I do expect you not to mock me
For the scars on my skin
As I will not mock you
For those on your mind
Guilty Pleasure (FFM Day 20)I had company when the world almost ended.
They caught me off guard.  Rushing from the Polaroid Room, I didn't check the latch.  The fake wall didn't snicker shut all the way.
Three hours later, they excused themselves to the toilet--and stumbled across my guilty pleasure instead.  I found them turning circles, mouth agape and confusion wrinkling their brows.  I tried to look at it from their angle--four walls plastered floor to ceiling with snapshots of her.  Her eating dinner.  Her sleeping.  Her in the bath.  All I could see was the beauty, the grace, the perfection--the things I loved most about her.
They left disgusted, flinging insults over their shoulder.  The last one cut me deep.  Woke me up.  This morning, I took the pictures down and burned all but one.  The first one I ever took:  her baby picture.  She'd been so tiny then, just a slip of gold scales hiding between plastic plants.
Holding it gently betwee
 

Happy reading, y'all! :dalove:

And remember! You are beautiful, amazing, and incredible. Yes, YOU. :D
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lizilicious's avatar
Thank you for the feature ; _ ;