|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
There's an End to EverythingMy lungs have become glass; my heart stone and my brain is just a puddle of nothing. I’m dropping, dropping, dropping, but I never hit the ground. I don’t even know, is that possible? There has to be an end to everything, or so I’ve thought.
I guess I’ve just been wrong a lot lately.
I can feel the random stabs of pain that jolt up my spine and course through my nerves. They cause me to jerk and groan, but my eyes refuse to open.
I like the way her hand feels sifting through my hair; the way her arms wrap around me and how she breathes softly in my ear. Her breath is unusually gentle and her grip remarkably tight. People have always underestimated her; though not me. Even she herself doesn’t understand. I’ve watched her repair things thought to be irreparable and I’ve seen her do things that no one else would dare.
Unconsciously I can feel her grip on me loosen and her breathing cease. At this, my eyes flutter open and another bolt of electrici
Ninety percentHe is about sixty percent dead. Maybe seventy percent, it’s hard to tell.
His long arms hang loosely on his shoulders and his lips are cracked, chewed. His damaged blue eyes lifelessly scan the book that lies on the table in front of him. Even though so numb and cold, his eyes don’t fail to amaze the people that stare at him curiously. They have a fascinating sparkle and are filled with wonders, but it’s easy to see that soon the power will fade. With time he collects scars. And with those scars, his life begins to leak and disappear down the rusted drain.
His handsome face is hidden underneath dark shadows, gaunt cheekbones, and much too pale skin. His callused hands have scars across the knuckles and bruises line the side of his neck. He taps his foot, tap, tap, tap. Pause. He looks up for a second and the girl across the room catches his eyes. He averts her gaze and turns back to his book anxiously. Tap, tap, tap.
Study his long dark lashes, the effor
I'm Falling ApartNothing about Death is romantic.
Romance is not the cries of agony heard from miles away, the blood that seeps into the floorboards, nor the ropes that hang from the ceiling. Romance is not the hand that goes limp on a bed with white sheets… not screams of help in the moonlight.
Romance is slow dancing with no music, kisses after a fight, promises of the night.
But Death… Death is harsh, cruel, angry, and alone. So alone. His boney fingers wrap around the necks of the innocent and hardly ever the guilty. His teeth are sharp, his eyes are dark, his soul black and coated with the ones he reaps.
We grieve, we pain, we hurt, we suffer…
All because of Love.
Love is deep, dark, and vast like the ocean. My mother told me this once when I was small; she told me that while it makes some stronger, it can break others. Did it make me stronger? I have no idea. Am I broken? Maybe. Maybe I am.
And Anger grips us so tightly, with only the biggest efforts we escape.
86. Seeing RedAnd I walked out the door. I walked straight out through the front yard, pulling a bag over my shoulder as Anna ran behind me, screaming frantically, "No! Come back! Kota! No! You can't leave, please!" I didn't say anything, even. I ignored her, pulled out my car keys, opening my truck's hard beaten doors when she pulled down my arm ferociously, yanking me back. "Oh no you don't! I invested my whole life into you!" And then I told her what I had wanted to tell her for a long, long, time. I told her I mistakenly gave my life up for hers. I told her I didn't love her anymore. I told her that she was obsessive, clingy, and crazy. I told her it was over.
Then my world went black.
And white, bright. Bright, White. Then wide eyes… insane smiles. Laughter and a loud metal lock, bright red hair; freckles. I could never be sure, but I guessed this thing I kept seeing was a she. A girl. Anna; my Anna. Maybe. And I stood up, I tried to claw my way out the bright white room, but it proved
Genghis Whenever we were bad my mother used to take us to the mall to see Genghis Kahn. They kept him in a dusty diorama of a Mongolian steppe, all tall grass and yurts. He sat on a throne of bone (well, plastic shaped like bone), scowling in incomprehension at the American kids who flocked around him like startled lemmings. My mother would usually push us toward him, saying things like “Tell him what you did to your father’s stamp collection.” Genghis would give a grunt, spit a wad of phlegm onto the tall grass, and give us a wizened, wrinkled grimace, as if he had to go to the bathroom.
He terrified me.
My brother couldn’t get enough of him.
When my brother got caught in my mother’s evening dress, my mother grabbed us both and dragged us to Genghis. It was a slow day, and we were the only kids crowding him. “Tell him what you did,” my mother hissed a
Keep in Touch!
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