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On the outside, we
Rofl and lol and lmao.
On the outside,
Curcuits come together,
On the outside,
The screen hides all of
The broken wires and
All of the damage
Caused my your
On the inside,
Everything is ruined.
Ripped open, that
Spark, jumping, flickering,
wanting to die as it lies,
borderline dead in a wire.
Because of your
On the inside,
I am broken.
I still attempt
To abide by your rules, follow
But nothing computes the way
Destroyed, And it's all
So even though on the outside,
We rofl and lol and lmao,
I am merely a
Glitch in the
The cars float outside of the window in my room. The window that takes up an entire fifteen-foot wall of my circular dome I call a bedroom. I watch them, smoothly gliding as if on ice, orange rings pulsating from where the tires would've been. Of course, I've only seen ice on TV and in movies. The Weather Dome keeping our city at a stable 72 degrees Fahrenheit doesn't allow for ice. Or rain for that matter, the plants are watered with mist, and our drinking water is recycled. I look down, beneath where the cars float like clouds, to see the transparent sidewalks, cluttered with people. And through those, I see the sinister tendrils of the smoke.
The pollutants made by our ignorant ancestors pound up against the bottom of our dome, as if it wanted to live the perfect lifestyle we "Cloud-Walkers" live. We "Cloud-Walkers" live in peace, away from the choking smog and whatever other hell-originating creatures live under us. But, sometimes, I wish for that lifestyle. I yearn for the k
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung words
Together on row upon row again
Of blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.
‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;
Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?
Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,
To point with honesty failed verse of thine.
No real poet discards upper case words;
Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.
You seek to free verse of those stern letters,
Sever away bleak capital fetters,
But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,
Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.
Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;
It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,
To make our dull words sound great all the time,
Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,
Heralding a poet’s summer prime.
Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;
Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,
The subject not gilded in raiment fine;
Your bold ink font, crystal waters divine
Tastes bitter to the ton
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