DeannaFlames

I think of nothing really worse that lived or ever shall exist than a woman you immerse in coldness, in a loveless fever kissed. It isn't by her choice she dies and lives again in dark and cold. It is because her broken cries echo lonely, she grows old. It isn't sticks, nor stones, nor fire that cleanse her heart from love as it's a man's pure lack of desire to keep her, to all women above. Or, maybe you should say, it is a tender word she hears no more for a man once gentle insists his heart is now behind a door. However, I believe, a woman simply needs some reassurance every now and then that nothing her peace can impede as she is only

You will never really know how much I cried that night I died and choked on loving words and all you did was pull aside. You're never really gonna see the loving tears in my misty eyes that moment when you fell into a pit of self-despise. Then you asked of me to show what never occured to me at all. You asked me not to let you go when I so fiercely avoided that fall. But grabbing your hand fastly seemed almost enough to pick it all up and put you together, and lastly our kiss was for us an infinity trap.

Where have the butterflies gone and is it for good? I see and I hear he cries but this for my pride is food. I'm spent and I'm breathless because of loves and of past that have left me chainless with wings that fly away fast. Sometimes I sit and wonder if it is good for me at all that I have turned much colder and instead of heart I have a hole. But then I see that hurt is incapable to reach me and I know I will survive this or whatever I will have to stand.

I like it when the weather is with myself in wild sync because then in the nether of my nightly soul I can sink. When the rain pours wildly, so wild it makes a river running the streets mildly and pushing stems to shiver. And then the clouds will snap and the night will be day so you can see the earthly crap and your self will need to pray. Then count to three and hear the sound of the sky when it sounds like its pain is near and its heart is broken then.

Sip a cup of ice cold latte and take a brand-old book. Invite your mind for a karate in your imagination’s nook. Throw your feet on the bench while your back keeps the stones from getting cold and old French down to their sandy rock bones. Spread the paper pages and kiss the story you know all too well. Give yourself that regular bliss, escape your earthly dose of hell. The first word is the deepest. Or so they say. They lie and die. The last page is the steepest – the end that makes you cry.

What makes you beautiful is the same that can tame any soul and make it rueful with pleasure and shame. They burn like coals in fire but the flames can never reach those pools of sinful desire that any goddess would preach. You break every arrangement that you have personally set then you look for amendment your two of stars always get. Grow up already, it’s nearly time emotion to know how to show for without it life has no rhyme and your mock halo has no glow.

Reach out your finger, the ringer – I’d love to bind myself to thee. Our witness to God will be the singer in this downtown temple in LV. You recoil, I shiver, angers boil. Why would you? Am I not good for the majesty you are, Kevlar? Or would you rather lonely stood? I offer you a mess of love, a dove if only you would like to take for eternity, for life, beyond, above, instead you choose for it to break. Revenge is but a foul, we know damaged people do well to survive. Without a hope to throw we grow into creatures that do not revive.

Emotional profits I seek. I don't find them nowhere. Forcing my feelings to peek into this crappy atmosphere. Where are my honesties hiding? I lost them in a big fat lie. Why are my papers so blinding when nothing I see in my cry? Hamlet would had died again if only he had seen this horror! No last wishes to obtain, just misery and terror... I quit it. Now. I preach. Since nothing lives of me no more. My hand I will no longer reach, no hope will ever dock my shore...

My heart is a circle so endless, so vague. Older than a turtle, deadlier than plague. My soul is a square - so shallow, so edgy. I found it but where? It's a painting, yet sketchy. My fase is an ellipse - so mirrory white. So thin are my lips, so dead, yet not quite. What is my shape? I, finally, don't see. I'll go meet my fate, I won't even think to flee.

A sculptured face of ice lingers in between the locks of gold. Lids closing over glacier eyes. His beauty is the oldest story told. The music box stops playing as deft long fingers break it. His breath on me is flaying, my soul is pained and naked. Why his skin is cold like marble? Also pale, and soft, and lifeless? His cold kisses tend to startle. Why his heart is broken clueless? He says he's waiting in the dark, gathering dust on shelves of love. But in fact his hollow body's stark, his feelings stolen by a dove.

The splashing sound of an applause settles. An orchestra plays a piano. A beautiful woman sings a melodious song, her name, Jackie Evancho. Tiki torches tower over with fire. She stands on the hearth. She stands up underneath the stars. She sings of Romeo & Juliet under cupids bow. Many truths of Shakespeare comes out of the secrets of Romeo. The sound of the instruments are but transitions of the wind, played by an orchestra, trapped in a piano, composed by a spirit like that of John Williams. To see all of this is like you're on the set of a film, behind the scenes, within a realm. A ocean flowing with sound is crashing into you

Illumination  9/15/14 I locked my heart in a mahogany box and threw away the key. There was no one to care for - there was nothing left for me. My heart had ceased beating long ago after years of misery and pain. Through countless highs and lecherous lows I became immune to pounding rain. I walked without even my shadow as a friend. Numb to all emotions that surfaced to my skin. Knowing I would be alone to the bitter end suffering the consequences of sin. I was shunned and shamed - bruised and maimed. No one cared - no one knew. No one bothered to change my view. My life was a silent movie of a language no one spoke. With plenty of plot

I have lines to cross and skeletons to shatter, because halted mercy resides in these hands. But I will not show mercy with you. Today is painted with pinstripes and broken nails, it is when you decide I am good enough to be yours. But I made myself worse, when I was with you.

Step One: Grow. Step Two: Turn towards sun. Step Three: Open petals. Step Four: Close petals. Step Five: Wither.

He made me feel old at sixteen, almost seventeen. I was able to breathe in his folds of never-quite-enough love and expired aftershave. After three weeks, he was a part of me I needed to get rid of. So I let him die because if I had let him live I would have been selfish.

Darling, Do you remember how we met? That was the night I learned that "flattery will get you nowhere" really means "seduce me hard enough and I'll do anything for you." I have learned that I hate the sensation of love: Someone punching your jaw, bones docking into your throat and every breath feels like poison sludge clawing its way into your lungs. You choke, drown, die, wither but you're not dead.