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You Gotta Toughen Up, Cowboy Up
The broad ruffled figure released his grip and moved the brown stick a ways, pushing ashes and burnt wood to make room for air to run through; to watch as the flames reached higher, with no bounds. It was alluring, and constituted deep thoughts; ones of intense feeling.
It was a chilly night, and a lonely one at that. The only source of life was a growing fire, that of a light whistle in the wind, and a white light in the sky which lightened the mood. Only a little. The slow moving clouds, the soundless giants made him seem smaller than the rest of the world.
Men would be fooled to believe that, though.
He was a very silent man as well, but he had big dreams. Big as the clouds.
A small hum came into existence, just a small voice. After a few seconds the man spoke a few words, and the brightness of the flames flickered against his eyes. And pretty soon, he found himself singing a small tune. It was alone that he was not afraid to show his full true voice.
A beautiful strong voice.
Where The Dust Settles - 2
The gunshots were unexpected. Everyone was tightly packed around the fire, still laughing when the bursts flew over their heads. The fire itself seemed to writhe with anxiety. Exasperation swept over Johnston, but he remained calm and just stayed in his position: lean and comfortable. A hand on the .45. The hat over his face so he could rest his eyes.
Some of the boys reached for their rifles and pistols, but a deep, low voice caught them off-guard. Off in the distance, a few groans and throat-cut cries indicated that something was going on with the cattle.
“Howdy, folks. I come here to talk.”
A man emerged from the torrential blackness upon a charcoal-streaked steed; a pipe stuck out of his mouth at an awkward angle, like a twisted tree branch ready to break off. His black hat hung down low, just barely enough for a man to see the narrow, auburn eyes. The revolver clutched in his scarred hand seemed to speak the very words of death, but Johnston understood its language. If
Standing On The Hill
Sitting on the hill
Is a wait worth making
The clouds of burden seem endless
But they will always pass by
To see and to dream
Is to reach beyond the norm
One can never truly exist
Without an arm outstretched
Memories become clear
Some are dear some are not
In the end it is memorable
Just knowing we are here
The endless blue ocean
High above our heads
Slowly waves and falls closer
Yet auras ascend with heart
Standing on the hill
Against a vast new sight
We must make a moment in our lives
Taking us to unimaginable heights
A Higher Calling
This is the great reward of service, to live, far out and on, in the life of others; this is the mystery of Christ, - to give life's best for such high sake that it shall be found again unto life eternal…”
Such was the belief, and heart, of thirty-four year-old Colonel Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, as he looked down on those unrelenting grey bodies climbing the rocky, bloody slopes of Little Round Top. With nearly half his regiment killed or wounded, and a torrent of infernal fire looming over their heads, certain decisions had to be made.
To no extent was there any end of emotional fervor. Indeed, as he looked upon the rebels, his enemy, Chamberlain could not feel the hatred many others bore instead. He was a professor from Maine, having taught at Bowdoin College. But the call for arms had marched him far away from his wife and children; from experiences he knew growing up as a boy. He learned through determination, and sought success through great challenges. “Do it
Travel For You - 3
The steps are soundless
The appearance unwanting
Here upon the trail
Is nothing more
Only one beautiful presence walks the way
Livid and fruitful
Still the appearance is unwanted
The air is turning for cold
The appearance can do nothing
But keep walking and walking
Along that trail
Behind the beautiful presence
An elegant sun brought the vivid colors sincerely missed the past days, which culminated with a breath of relief. No longer were the clouds gray and listless – instigating into its neighbors below a feeling of utmost hell – but they were now calming and right in the hearts.
There was always a beast which tore at them, and some wished they could stride with the torrential rains in the opposite direction; to return home, fall into the arms of family and friends, and be greeted with tears of love and happiness; to forever smell the baking of pies and taste those lovely dinners whom mothers always had the knack of preparing.
Who could forget venturing into the woods with fathers, muskets in hand and a manly spirit in rise; claiming the first deer, receiving such brusque but complimentary words as to build upon that manhood!
Who could forget!
Home was awaiting, and they dearly wished to return. But as of now…it was not to be. So, when…?
Rolling hills encompassed th
Where The Dust Settles - 1
He took in the cool, fresh air, relieving all that anxiety that plagued the dusty old body he’d lugged around since the beginning of the trip. Now, it wasn’t out of tiredness that he did so. No...instead, it was out of a burning excitement. The expanse of lush, green grass and swift movement of the winds gave the fields an appearance of that of the ocean – an ocean he wanted to cross. It belittled the thoughts he first had of Montana territory.
There had been some hysteria among the men, though he could not point out why. Maybe it was the passion of the flaring sun – the endless days of breaking dawn to get a head start, and sweating like a mad dog thereafter. Perhaps it was the wild thought of being out on their own, finally free of homely duties. Or maybe it was just the coffee. That strong, dry coffee with the bitter after-taste.
Johnston wiped his nose with the hem of his sleeve, and took a good glance at the aura emanating from the surrounding clouds
A last wave of applause swept out from the surrounding crowd as Edward Everett, finished at last with his two-hour speech, smiled graciously. The November day was mild; a light breeze was all that carried throughout. It was a perfect date and occasion to have 15,000 people gathered at the newly established cemetery.
Everett searched around gradually, and then sat down in a chair beside other famous and well-known men that had been invited. His heart beat with pride as the crowd continued to clap, even a bit after he had seated himself.
The breeze picked up, but then settled thereafter. The sun was bright, and birds could be seen twittering around the landscape.
Then all went quiet.
The crowd’s attention was kept to as a tall, solemn figure rose from his seat. A slight smile was upon his aging-old face. He removed his hat and placed it behind him with ease, then stood up to his full height. A crude white piece of paper was clutched in his thin hands. His uniform was neat and tidy.
To The Last
He was already wounded twice, but was still alive. A revolver-pistol was held loftily in his hand; a bent scabbard, which had previously deflected a spent round, lay near him with no use. Yet, nothing else was on his mind except one thing: hold the line.
The great effort of the whole army around him was entirely audible, and the mass teamwork, the sense that this whole army was the last defense kept everyone on high alert. Already, they had endured several charges. It was only possible to hold out such strong spearheads because of the steep, rocky hill. He had read and learned everything he could about the tactics of war: marches, counter-marches, drills, attacking positions, retreat calls; but it was all useless at the moment. The college professor knew that the gray boys down there would continue to drive into his lines. The past summers, the rebels had won battle after battle. They had the stonewall at Fredericksburg. But now, the professor and his Maine men had the heights and the
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 holes for all to see
and an ending of mirrors and smoke.
It was getting hard to catch my breath.
Surely death would be oh so sweet.
Addicted to the thought like Crystal Meth,
it skipped through my head like an erratic beat.
She stumbled upon a key that washed up on the shore.
Wondering what it could unlock.
Determined to solve the riddle and explor
if we were to never speak again.In silence absolute
I almost forgot you,
I almost remembered to forget
you, lonely afternoon
of naked breath,
the softness of sunset
as it rakes along my skin.
The nonchalance of the sky
almost unbearably falters
an outbreak of tears
weigh down my hair
memory of your touch,
memory of your heart,
eyes blinking through the rain
glimpses of turquoise-
blue souls dancing, but
not quite entwined.
claws into my brows,
furrows the flesh
rivulets of thought
that tear through my nervous system
cellular tinnitus, reverberations
in my spinal column,
raising mountains from
my body, darklight clouds
ghosting in the peripheries
of my vision
memory of your touch,
memory of your heart,
a lyrical tattoo
of ripened countryside
a vibrant concerto
washed between us
tidal colour drowning,
from your sweet humour
to my aching sternum
the cliffs fall away
and autumn breaks in upon us,
auburn sorrows of light
I Write to a Lover Who Doesn't ExistYou must've noticed how I was left bleeding
Because all you could do was stare
At me with those gemstones you call eyes.
We danced around bookshelves in the mystery section
Pretending not to notice each other
And ignoring the fact that our eyes kept meeting.
I wonder now that if we'd danced in the romance section
Would we have still ignored that part of ourselves?
And after all, aren't mysteries ment to be solved?
You must wash your hair with sunflower petals and pomegranate seeds
Because your aroma is that of a goddess
And I was attracted to you as quickly
As if you had called my name.
Would you call my name?
And would you say yours as well
Because although I have a feeling you go by Aphrodite,
We have not yet acquainted ourselves.
I shrug into Harry's shirt
underneath my autumn scarf--
cologne on the cuffs bringing
color as I close my eyes,
the brown of his hair,
laughter, pine green.
Fingers on marbled buttons
smooth as the cream
he puts in his chai.
I think of him like rain on a Sunday,
a slow breath uttered in calm,
eyes shut to listen,
he is peace,
stability in grayer moments.
He is the space in my empty bed
I ache for him the way
I crave prayer and
the feel of a rosary.
thuggish loverno more on love. tell me
instead of the hearts you've
beaten, and the way
they kept on
lukedon't leave me again;
the seasons flutter by with
the blink of spider web eyelashes
twirled around the pieces of
my decaying heart, molded
and renewed with the dawn
of your spring palms.
my senses spark in a
drunken flood of desire;
i refuse to wash away
our finger-painted memories
into the grasping swallow of
an atlantic undertow, but
the stale taste of vodka
sleeps under my palette.
you don't arc your silver
tongue to sip my salted
gums or latch your fists
into bird's nest tangled curls
--anymore, and the shivers
of shadows spin down my
splintered spine, the snap
of a twig between your
i'm alone; your cosmic dreams
and galactic eroticism treads
underneath another damsel's
breast, an arrow to her heart.
I wallow, naked and discarded,
drinking and drowning in the
alcoholic buzz of your sweat
on my tongue, all along knowing
you and i will never love again.
If I Were A Love PoetFor my Laban. For my love.
Sometimes, often enough
when my thoughts are consumed
with you- I find myself wishing
that I was a love poet.
Wouldn’t it be beautiful
to piece words together so artistically
that I could make people understand
what it’s like to miss hands
that have never held me?
Wouldn’t it be the damnedest thing,
if I could make a stranger
know how it feels to kiss you?
Sweetly, passionately, softly
Hesitantly- and yet all at once?
Even though their lips have never met yours,
Even though our lips have never met.
How lovely would it be
to sanely, yet romantically
explain to my parents what it’s like
to fall asleep with you?
We could tell them how you giggle when I beg you
to be the big spoon- because I feel like it’s to much responsibility.
We could tell them about the sleepy kisses you give me
at 3 a.m when you find me searching for
Make me a soulMake me a soul next to yours,
Make it small so you can hold it in your hands,
Make it blue like in the morning to wake up in you,
Make it strong to cry in silence when you've gone.
Make me a heart as big as the sun,
Make it warm, make it good,
Good to love, good to give, good to pray,
Make it beat for us, for you, for God.
Make me hands to feel,
Make them pure to touch,
Make them soft to caress,
Make them hard to live.
Make me a voice to sing your beauty,
Make it calm when you fall,
Make it sweet when you're mad,
Make it say 'I need you'.
Make me eyes to see you when you're working,
Even if you don't notice me.
Make them big so you can see yourself in them,
Make them deep so they'll be your refuge.
Take my whole existence and seal it with a kiss,
But make me lips to know you love me.
Make me love to know I live.
Make me know that I can dream.
Make me a soul, please.
Make me yours.
IridescentShe dances along the lines of poetry,
Her curls wind amongst the words
And I lie in love with each syllable
That is touched by her.
Thinking off her is not enough
She wraps round each thought
Like iron wrought ribbon -
In decadent dance
She caresses italics,
Winding her way through
Every dream with ethereal grace.
Iridescent, she taught me colour
Oh seraphim, but I am red, and
She lies in margins blue!
Forever my forbidden phallus,
She is everything taboo.
What Is He Worth?
A forgotten man
Is a soul worth losing
In spite of his successes
There is nothing he is
A shy man
Is someone worth ignoring
From day to night
Silence is his only sound
A man in love
Is someone worth crushing
His broken heart
Only matters to him
A forgotten, shy man who is in love
Doesn’t exist to her
He is invisible
So what is he worth?
I don't own the preview image.
*Additional Note*: This does not reflect my mood or thoughts as I am. It's rather more of a pondering.
ReflectionsVal's pursuit led him to the foul beast's domain. The hollowed-out cavern reeked of blood and rancid meat. The dim light he had seen as he charged through the tunnel after the monster could now be identified: torches. Rows of mysteriously lit torches lined the walls of the huge cave. At its center was a substantially large labyrinth of mirrors.
He spotted the beast entering.
He spun his silver broadsword in his hand and hurried in behind it.
His garb was a simple blue and white crusader's leather with thick armored pads and reinforcing steel studs. Lightweight and flexible, but quite effective defense against blunt blows and – in a pinch – the slashing claws of the unholy spawn of the earth. All monster-hunters wore a similar variety in Val's experience. It would serve him well in these close quarters of the mirrored maze.
Right, left, forward, left, right he turned, always catching a glimpse of the beast's tail as he wove his way through the corridors. Every so often he sp
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More