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I got promoted at my job!!! :w00t:
  • Mood: Thrilled
Happy Valentine's Day to all you love birds, single birds, and Valentine's Day celebrators in general! And to all you non-celebrators (like myself, haha), hope your day has been fantastic! ;)

Thought I'd share some love with you all. And by love, I mean gorgeous art you should totally check out.  

Cy No. 3 - The last Cig by wordman  American lowlifei am 18 years young and i sit
in an empty park on a partly-cloudy day
with a cigarette hanging out my mouth,
idly flicking the lighter with a hiss, hiss
of releasing gas. flame, no flame. flame,
no flame.
a small, tattered notebook full
of worthless shit scrawlings and poems sits
on my lap, and i let the wind blow the pages
of a lovingly dog-eared Bukowski book
laying by my side like having it makes me
into some sort of cultured adult.
flame, no flame. flame,
no flame.
  elephant are everlasting, transient
infinity exponentially
& time sometimes sets as a stye's eye
waits in blind patience while haste tempts at fate,
feral faces out-foxing daisies.
sister earth, save me.
help me raise sturdy babies
flaming paths & suckling grass
help me gather growths amass
hatched of dreams, daring things
daunting tasks seeming freed:
seen, a seraphim: flings fawn-wings
careening clean 'cross crispen skies
cradles crystallized creations
baptized by babes howling orations
organized by nations, natal equations
& these earthly elations cause a calming sensation
cease inferior imitation
a knowing being, awake & feeling.
  Fragility.Her delicate thumbs rest in
the hollows beneath her cheekbones,
begging an audience with happiness,
and wishing on falling tears for deaf ears
so she doesn’t have to listen to them
 Polka by Floor-Essence

Build A Better Me by PINK-ROSE14  graves.we have become as brittle as elder bone.
i am bent to a cross—bleeding in the garden—
watching white lilies creep up.
their feet curled around calcium graves.
i am built from carcasses.
a collection of ghosts. beetles mull in the
pits of my hands and ask me to forget
for my fingers crush them so.
like a leopard skinned i—
am just a mound.
all glamour lost to the knife.
  inebriatedher words were his whiskey,
getting him drunk with every syllable
but she spoke with a rotting tongue,
the air escaping from corrupted lungs
her words were his drug,
spun of moonbeams and soft shadows
and her voice curled around him like cigarette smoke
eroding his ears like it eroded her bronchioles
her words were his poison,
whispering through his veins
just an echo of a soft voice
and dirt thrown on a coffin
 Lavinia by cemetyemez  -Alzheimer-950 relatives,
each dying to exist.

[dancer in the dark]you.
rippling, fluid grace 
a dance of shadows; 
evanescent nights spent gazing
at ephemeral stars --
far beyond your grasp --
and wishing upon a
perpetual twilight
you are ink and shadows,
converging lines and contoured edges
a chiaroscuro of waning moonlight
chase your demons away
and keep your skeletons
under lock and key --
they'll haunt your dreams tonight
we are all hiding -- 
not from the dark, 
but from what's in it
forlorn dreams and cast-away hopes,
sinking under a sea of forgetting --
we all have things to hide
heavy footfalls, dense under the weight
of oppressing gravity
you've forgotten how to fly, 
haven't you?
you used to be so light,
borne upon silver wings
you've shed them now
  in somnia an hedoniasleep rolls off of me in stages
i am trapped in the gelatinous membrane of dream-choice
and the chance at something different.
the colors rise.
i am chanting, deep blue, come find me.
whoever said nights were for sleeping
has clearly never been in the restlessness
which comes after a bleeding love affair
with a hologram, an image with no purpose,
has never tasted how loud it can be,
loud like the word forget syrupy dark on their tongue.
i am chanting the lyrics that constitute oblivion,
and the life-force is reckless and the days bewilder me
as they go by, in and out of strings.
and the numbers point and laugh, there is no
use for them here between the strung up lights
of this city, there is no monster
trying to escape the confines of the
imagination, illness is stark and waits beneath
bare bones for somebody to find it.
it is spread out like someone who tried to understand,
but i can live my life a reckless hole
and shovel only regrets when
the frozen dirt won't chip beneath
the we
  10-08-2012one shot
with a bang
(or a whimper?)
a father
blows a hole
each of his
six sons
and a world ends.
  Laced.Slit-skin glances and
sour tongue words slip straight
into my bloodstream and fester.
And won't you please take back what
  blood on the temple walli still try to die tiny deaths,
destroy tiny pieces,
because i cannot live with the whole.
tiny deaths- some stomach, some hair, some nails.
fingertips losing pieces, i will crumble.
embrace yourself- all of yourself, the truth of who you are.
but i cannot accept that i am nothing i want to be.
i wanted to die at the kotel today, just right there,
but i could not kill myself.
i could not, because it is too late.
but i wanted to stand forever in that dark satin wind,
and just be disappeared to nothing.
i wanted fire and explosions,
a bomb to rip me to shreds.
i wanted a bullet through the head
through the heart
but i did not want to kill myself.

Sky 8 by MoaVBritannia  sit prettyi.
when she says sorry,
she means it
while some people have god,
she has the bruises on her knees,
the holes in her dress,
and the knots in her hair.
she's trapped –
like little boats in little bottles,
sailing nowhere.
you're the one
who should be sorry.
unlike many,
she knows to always be cautious
of the people with rough eyes,
and a rough voice,
and a rough touch.
she knows always to be cautious
of the hands that grip
and the hands that hold.
she knows always to be cautious
of those who lie with their soul
instead of their lips.
unlike many,
she knows always to be cautious.
 I want to stay in the dark... by DrunkenTune Kaldi by LovieLovetree IMG 0164 by LovieLovetree

grosug by LovieLovetree  ProdigalFather, tell the calf to not bleed on me,
as I've watched God's name hemorrhage twice.
In His kingdom like a slaughterhouse, I'd go hungry
with a belly swollen with avarice.
Father, if I am an unworthy son,
let me know. I'll give you back your brown eyes,
your stern voice, your cleft chin, your legs that can't run
and I'll inherit Lucifer's wings 'fore I rise.
There are famines as barren as the womb
for those who won't be reborn humble and poor
So Dad, let me gorge on spring's growth spurts in the tomb;
some of us don't know what living is for.
Father, don't let your calf bleed on me.
I have hunger pains that I want you to see.
  MoeraeEach woman comes ready-made
with everything she'll ever need:
A history: the chanting
in her mother's blood-echoes
unwound through the umbilical cord,
the kite string pull of home.
A future: the artillery
of microscopic pills
embedded in her hips,
a dowry of pearls.
Her own death: prophesized
in the Rorschach smears
of monthly blood tributes.
It clings beneath the skin
and quietly suckles.
She is a mosaic of women:
Crone, maiden, child.
Three facets of the same mirror
watch from within
layers like Russian dolls,
sharing a single compound eye.
They do not blink.
Each waits her turn. Her moment.
They are a DNA filmstrip,
each scene vanishing
into the next one's hands.
  but irefuse to jump from ships
before they've even set sail
 Temple of the Sky by Questingpoet
  • Mood: Content
Just finished filing taxes. Yippee ki-yay. 

Also, I am now officially signed into Goodreads:…   
  • Mood: Neutral
Key by MrMattRain  not an actual poemHow long can I sit politely on their couch?
He gets me a drink. I get myself
slowly ruined by the shifting of her thighs
and the way she gently touches
what is hers - 
coffee table, fridge door,
her phone,
her walls,
his arm.
Broad-mouthed, slim-throated queen,
I miss the days
when neither of us
owned a thing
at all. 
 Everyone loves Dolls by pLayBbiUm 
architecturethere are poor draftsmen who distill sound
in forty-two proof and forty-nine hundred decibels
that will always sound like wingbeats – maybe heartbeats too
whirring around the scaffolding at three hundred feet
where the men hurl their lunchmeat over the steel beams
far beneath where the airplane will land one day
and they all chant together "THESE ARE THE DAYS
OH YES – THESE ARE THE DAYS" in a trembling baritone
fit through the skeleton of the city that shudders
like a violin shudders – all night long
if it has to – like one of the lonely women
shuddering in the pale light of her living room
cuddled up with her lung disease and the dog
that wanted to be in the circus but settled
for the couch like she settled into her armchair
one day and tried not to get up ever again
even when the ice cream man wanted to love her
and the mail man wanted to buy her a drink
or two when all she wanted was a forty-five
playing in the background like baptism water
or strawberry ice crea
  lightrub your eyes,
find morning
in your hands
in the sugar
in your coffee, sprinkled,
ego torn and locked in your hair
do not feed it,
it is already
obese, on the verge of dying
sleeping. I never closed my eyes,
wrapped in vertigo,
I fell towards you
not for.
our foreheads touched,
our minds opened and then it was just.
bright, orange,
 The Double by HilaryJR

--- 0221 by IrinaJoanne  The Southern Land Not Yet KnownDecember can break you
when you live in this  
neck of the woods.
The sun is a tyrant, pressing his
fingers on the mother-of-pearl
and the milk of my thighs,
probing at the silk
behind my knees.
Filling up my eyes.
And every summer I feel a little more
like roadkill, hot and bloody
and splayed. The aching pulse
is too much to bear,
the spilling, the rotting,
the rigor mortis knotting up my spine.
I can worship this.
I can make this mine.
Faith comes from the scream first,
and it comes from the stillness second.
I see the lapis lazuli of the harbour’s curve,
cold and bright-filled eye,
and I think I can understand this.
The summer storms, their dark and frantic rise,
the sharply swollen smell in the wetness of the dirt,
the deepest richness of the crumbled earth –
something primal snapping in the sky,
like puking or coming or finally,
starting to cry. I can understand this.
Salt on my teeth. Salt in my blood
and my sister’s hair. The snakes tangled
in t
 Purple sky by FinlandNature
wax by cloudsfall Untitled by mldzz  is my verse alive in amherst?solitude bred ingenuity while safeguarding innocence

self-portrait by LadyMartist Soul-mates by little-naoko  Bird's eyeAn orange cat
elegant and frank
with a slim Egyptian face
and pose
dabs at a wounded bird
in the grass.
I bend low
and wave him off.
With a gentle shove
he relents
showing me the crook
of his tail,
the Nile
in his walk.
The bird has
tiny beads of blood
between its wings
and under its beak
but the damage appears
to be minor.
Its eyes are wide and gleaming,
wild and deep and black.
They pitch something
inside me
off balance when I
look at them.  
Their blankness
is alive and unknowable,
as if the original darkness
of things lay in there,
the ancient darkness
for which the first light
was phenomenon.
I pick up the bird
and carry it off.
The cat licks
its paw
as if nothing
had happened.

Empty by CezarJ Forgotten Memories by CezarJ Joan of Arc.. by CezarJ 
Leap of Faith by Suvetar  boys dont cryand the way
that your hand
holds onto mine
feels like the noose around my neck,
i'm trying to hang myself
off your
no - 
i'm not dead yet.
but your thoughts
are bullets
and your words are guns
and when they shoot me in the head
you cure it with a band aid
because you don't have
a medical degree yet.
your kisses have left me
black and blue
while i still use
the mug you gave me
as an ash tray.
and i'm holding on
to the lip stick stains
on the dresser
wearing them around my neck
to hide how you took
my breath away.
  the observant curator will notice...the observant curator will notice...
fertilizer falls
softly, mocking the rain, and
horses shuffle, shy
of what could kill
or sustain them
fertilizer rests
slowly dissolving, diffusing
into the earth
of how people curate
their lawns instead
of their families
Cold days II by MKAphotography  #3 (my love was born still)i remember the colour of your hair the day that you were born
and the way that your eyes gripped like vices,
refusing to see anything more than your own inner sanctum;
i can still hear the first, curdled cries you let loose into the world.
i remember holding the talisman of your birth against myself
and hearing your gurgling as we drove,
desperate to find relief at the end of yet another road.
i remember the curve of your mouth as you ate softened apples,
the way you struggled to fit your fist between your gums
and the saliva that coated your fingers when you finally gave up.
but mostly i remember the ways i tried to love you,
and the ways in which i managed to fail.
  the writing on the walls.tonight would be
a damn good night
to fall in love
with you.
i'll smoke
one of your cigarettes
because maybe
it will taste like you.
let's have a shot
of cheap vodka
and chase it
with shooting stars.
if you fall asleep in my bed,
i'll wake you early enough
to see the magic of golden sun
on my bookshelf in the morning.

Heidelberg, 2011Heidelberg, your streets run
with the blood of philosophers -
roses and rubies cascade
where they once meditate upon
the river Neckar, the pink stones
of fallen castles to be spat upon
by the people. Heidelberg,
your history outweighs the secrets,
it catacombs through snow
like coffee grains wedged
between wrinkled stones.
The Altstadt is your legacy,
an anachronism; the Hauptstrasse
rambles through like a goatherd
beating a path for sheep; The Universitat
boasts arches and sandstones enduring
on history's pedestal - now lost
in the squall of market stalls peddling bratwurst
in the rain.
Heidelberg, from the Philosophenweg
I can see autumn's shadow collide
past and present, when summer leaves
brown in fainter sunshine, curl and whisk away
to dust the crimson rooftops, the pebbled paths
that once inspired scholarly thoughts.
Under my feet they promise of snow
sleeting from the peaks
of gingerbread mountains, white
and sugary, clumped
and rolled by human hands. I stumble,
and the earth c
  ghost watersher tongue spins tales of poison,
lacing sailors with her forked lies
the ocean rises and falls
with quick, bated breaths from her chest
as the sails of her haunted, bowing ship
billow across waters of lost souls.
she pirates the never-ending seas,
and whispers siren songs
directed at youthful, wide-eyed sailors
lingering along the salted shore.
underneath the carcass of her ship
lies the eternal cemetery of her prey.
their cries echo in the icicle wind
while she laughs at their misery.
bruises and tattoos line her jaw
with one lone scar scraped across her right eye
a haunting symbol that she is
that even the huntress of the seven seas
can be vulnerable at times.
she’s forbidden from dry land,
a wretched curse she cannot escape.
she tricks souls aboard her boat
to gather tales from a land she mourns.
her eyes are glassy and her touch is cold.
the gag is still folded across her mouth,
and the bloodstains decorate her throat,
beside the nightstand sits a suicide note
it reads:
my l
 Drawing my Dreamer by kristina323  

004.a flannel shirt
a cigarette
those downcast eyes
your damn regrets;
your skinny frame
the moleskin book
i really miss
your classic look.
  Early WinterThere's just one Earth, but I can't breathe with the others.
I'm not meant for them—
whether ordained by god
or tossed forward, into each other, by the raging indifference of nature.
Until they stop talking about weather
and the old men— what they wouldn't give for this misery,
wasted on the miserable—
I had said I will love you,
even if you don't love me.
 Glow by ImagineAppleScruffs 
tuesday nightsthe full moon aches.
tuesday nights are always full of statues.
i wonder what it is to be dead. do you remember
the mother? the comedown from the other, write
as an animal, as a breathing piece of fabric--
the fabric felt in the lines.
you are the main event. hold still.
disengage. you are no mercury flower.
imagine imagine imagine. the airplane
coating of skin to bone. all flesh is concentrated
on your ankles.
so much has happened and will happen
before we can respond to this as an end. epicenter.
the spider-work of lines.
the gas station attendant wondering
if he did the right thing.
the sky holding its breath, beware, beware.
there are no other answers.
there is never anything but light,
and light on light never told us anything about what
we needed to know or be or wear or be wary of.
catch the clouds in your hands.
call me miracle, though i am not
a thing of wonder, i am still
i am still a being made of sticks.
watch me fall apart.
exhaustion makes the most beautiful s
 dramatic by HappyLittleMe   throbbin' the hoodthe garden, to be clear, means drone-stained and yonder stands,
and the guerrilla medium with its impression of white, dying horses.
And this, of course, is the body,
the exile,
the tattered moon hung between rocks to protect the forest fire from the wind.
Now comes the part of the poem where I say something specific about myself
so I don't look completely full of shit.
So here it is: The garden is a crowd
in my dream, and my dream, the fragile panic,
and an excess of power-lines and their buzzing,
and a thesis on the institution of marriage-
How you can fuck senators and still be in love with a deserted house,
And the garden is duality,
how one person can exist in two places at the same time,
or be two people at the same place,
and its me the way the santa ana river dries to a valley of stones
and come find me and I miss you and how we're all different people and sometimes we're rooms and sometimes we're oceans and sometimes we're gardens.
snippetsi. your hands are maps i wanna memorize inside and out
so i'll always know the way home.
ii. you're dead to me but i keep you alive
on paper and black text.
iii. i will weave stories out of the lines on your skin.
iv. joke's on you: i made my heart out of nothing but brittle plastic,
good luck finding a home in there.
v. empty like a hollowed out pumpkin.
except not as scary,
just more pathetic.
vi. i have secrets that no one knows that i'm scared i will end up
taking to the grave.
i don't know if my soul can handle all that baggage.
vii. i want to hold fire in the palm of my hand
 Sebastian 01 by EirikHenden6 23 by 1LovelyArt 

Basically I went through the first twenty-something pages of my favorites and sought out things I feel deserve more recognition.

Have fun. :D 
  • Mood: Peaceful


TheEmptyChest's Profile Picture
United States
Here's looking at you, kids.

Featured by DLD by IrrevocableFate DD Stamp by tRiBaLmArKiNgS Zodiac Stamp 'Sagittarius' by Sharkfold I love these people by Rebi-Valeska I Sniff Books by MademoiselleGrief Old Movies Stamp by SailorSolar Don't know what to say by eranashine Best Writing at Night Stamp by HarukaWind QUOTESQUOTESQUOTESQUOTES by endler ++ BPD Awareness by dimruthien Left handed stamp by WhiteKimahri I Love Fonts by ClefairyKid Stop Learning, Die Stamp by SparkLum Remembered Stamp by WetWithRain It's a peanut in paste form. by Tartly-Sweet Writer by Shadowed-Midnight I Support Lissomer by Aerode I Support chromeantennae by Aerode I Support AyeAye12 by Aerode STAMP: Glasses by Emotikonz The Early Stamp by Busiris I LOVE CATS - Stamp by Kumiko-Art Epic Music supporter by Chrysalislover Classical music stamp by Tollerka Make your life extraordinary by sally65356 I Care by Locou I observe. by Snuf-Stamps

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Add a Comment:
Scarlettletters Featured By Owner 3 days ago  Professional Writer
Thanks very much for faving my work!
TheEmptyChest Featured By Owner 2 days ago
You're very welcome!
shehrozeameen Featured By Owner Feb 16, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
I know we don't talk much, and I know we have our own agendas keeping us busy, but I figured I'd send you a belated valentines wish. Partly as a writer - because you are inspiring, and your approach has a distinctive flavour to it - when I read it, its so good honestly. And partly because as a person, you're relaxed and yet you're willing to give a person support in whatever capacity you can manage. Which is a good thing - its sadly a dying positive in people.

Stay awesome and I hope to see more of your presence here ln dA.
TheEmptyChest Featured By Owner Feb 16, 2015
Thank you so much! That means so, so much to me. Happy belated Valentine's day to you in return, and you be sure to keep up that awesomeness of yours as well. ;)  

And btw, I apologize for my lack of presence. If my personal life were less hectic I'd be on here a lot more, but alas, as the saying goes, "life gets in the way." I'm hanging in there like a trooper, trucking along, but I'm hoping things get better -- or at least settled -- so I can come around more. 

Thank you for thinking of me, for considering me an inspiring writer and supportive person. That's the best I could ever hope to be. :heart: 
musicallybrunet Featured By Owner Feb 15, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
thank you for the watch <3
TheEmptyChest Featured By Owner Feb 16, 2015
You are most welcome! :heart:
LadyMurasaki1 Featured By Owner Jan 25, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for the faves and watch! :heart:
TheEmptyChest Featured By Owner Jan 28, 2015
You're very welcome! :D
MadameAradia Featured By Owner Jan 20, 2015  Professional Traditional Artist
Thank you for the fav! :wave:
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