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 Nov 2014 atlas
Mason
ironic
 Nov 2014 atlas
Mason
Hello
I am the rock that was thrown at your window
waking you from your dreams
of the boy who threw me
Now that I have cooled to you
Let there be gold of tarnished masonry,
Temples soothed by the sun to ruin
That sleep utterly.
Give me hand for the dances,
Ripples at Philae, in and out,
And lips, my Lesbian,
Wall flowers that once were flame.

Your hair is my Carthage
And my arms the bow,
And our words arrows
To shoot the stars
Who from that misty sea
Swarm to destroy us.

But you there beside me—
Oh, how shall I defy you,
Who wound me in the night
With ******* shining
Like Venus and like Mars?
The night that is shouting Jason
When the loud eaves rattle
As with waves above me
Blue at the prow of my desire.
Tracing the outline of your scars
Is like reading your soul.
The stories they can tell.
Just more parts to your whole.
Never cover them,
Do not be ashamed
Your scars show the truth
Of life filled with love and pain.
They are a part of you,
What makes you truly whole
I'll trace the outline of each scar
To better understand your soul.
For a friend.
You know who you are. :)
 Nov 2014 atlas
Creep
Night (pt 1)
 Nov 2014 atlas
Creep
Wake up in the middle of the night
for inspiration,
new ideas,
thoughts waiting to be poured onto paper.
ever notice how its at night when you get your best ideas?
i want you to tell me i’m beautiful, every day until i believe it. the truth is i was never beautiful, not until you said it, until you lied about it. i felt something when you said those words, something i’ve never been before. i’m different after you and i don’t know how to go back to being who i was.
monday 10th november '14 ~ out of the two of us you are the ******* beautiful one
 Nov 2014 atlas
holyoak
i didn't want to turn you into a poem
i didn't want you to be my muse
you've ruined my mind and my pen
you've made me blind to inspiration
i can't hold the pages still anymore
i can't understand my own writing 
your hair isn't a waterfall 
your eyes aren't deep oceans 
i'm not held here by your gravity
i'm not sure that your voice is music
you won't own me
i won't turn you into poetry

[holyoak]
we've spent approximately three months talking about authors and analyzing works and mentioning things like the author cannot give the audience closure because he doesn't have it himself and all i can think about is how i'm the one who needs comfort in a room full of students but i'm not going to get it

old habits die hard, and now i'm the one with the broken mouth and the burnt tongue, the person whose voice has been taken away because i cannot say things that are pictures anymore and i just wish you would realize how much of a constant struggle it is having to think about your memory at least once

thinking back to when you cared is something that i just can't put into a metaphor; i can't put any of this into a metaphor. if i tried it would go something like the way you made me feel was somewhere between two brick walls that were just continuously closing and i used all my weight to keep them open but i kept growing weaker and you kept growing forceful and the minute the summer days came into full bloom i was completely broken

sometimes i look out my window and i am convinced i need to get away because it will be good for me, but how can i build myself up against a world full of you? you're a drop in the water of *******, and for some reason i can't talk to anyone anymore without feeling like they're apart of your ocean

i'm waiting with all of my heart for thanksgiving -- waiting for the moment when i find out whether or not i can leave, and until them i'm stuck. maybe you remind me of colors and of snow, maybe he reminds me of white cars and hot chocolate, and maybe the other one reminds me of chlorine and equations, but maybe i can escape them all

english teachers will tell you that an author does things on purpose but i disagree. words fall onto the page as effortlessly as water flows through a mountain, and it's just because of this that the beauty of a novel comes about. i've been throwing my own ideas on paper for over a year, and now my own pages are finally soaked with the memories of you that i don't know how to apply the pen to a piece of paper without throwing that paper away. everything begins with a dot but it's time to start writing -- if it's therapy for certain great writes, it can be therapy for me too

i need to stop being afraid.
 Nov 2014 atlas
Colette Williams
Would I ever love to
Stomp you down
Until you believe
That nothing you do
Means anything
 Nov 2014 atlas
ShamusDeyo
When Moonlight wens upon the moore
And Starlight knocks upon your door.
When thrums the hum of Faerie Wings
And the Harpen sound of Elfen strings.
Accompanied by dark Dwarven drums
The music of the night doth come.

A Shaman tends with Force of Night
A Silver Sword of fierce Light.
The wounds flow. The battle bounds
Thunder of Hooves upon the ground.
Tirelessly on the battles fight
But fades away in Mornings light.

And now that morning light is near
I arise from sleep with vision clear.
And the webs of tiredness
Fall from my eyes.
My new day begins
Under the skies…...JMF 11/9/14
Self Explanatory...You can't see miracles if you don't believe in Magic

All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack
when a boy finds a girl pretty
his mass of love gains velocity
and in that moment(um) of trance
he sees a chance for romance!

when a girl finds a boy attractive
though she first plays a little evasive
can’t hide for long her cheeks’ blush
in the growing velocity of her love’s mass!
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