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The Best ThingOnce upon a time,
I remembered you and I.
Pulling apart the picture frame,
Like a lion untamed.
Every teardrop I would cry,
Over your sick little lies.
An internal warfare.
All ‘cause you never cared.
You left me alone,
Like ice cream without the cone.
To stand in the rain,
Tortured from the pain.
But once upon right now,
I simply wonder how?
How I even put up with you,
After all the times I felt blue.
Don’t try to come back,
Saying you’ve finally gained what you lack.
Because see, now I am glad,
That you lost the best thing you ever had.
tasseographyyou stain my organs like the blackest of tea poured over and out into bone-white china cups. i feel the weight of your aftertaste in every moment of solitude scraped from breaks made into restless messes by your memory.
you haunt me like a mad man's symphony, like a eulogy pre-written and dedicated to the residue of us.
porcelain dolls with faces as pallid as your affection and as alabaster as your skeleton watch us fall apart. our saccharine sub-terrains implode, chipping the edges of our finest china with their crystalline shards; we bleed out as quickly as torn tea-bags doused in scalding water.
you are the tiresome teardrops that fall from my eyes whenever i get the chance to catch sunsets embracing lonesome fingers, palms and arms all wrapped up in the subtle undertones of ceylon.
if only we could keep pretending to be the finest, royal darjeeling, my darling, but the truth is that you were made to bloom with bergamot hope and i am but a melancholy, mint-infused reverie, whose sou
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
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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