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the want of a thing"the want of a thing is always more beautiful than the thing itself."
- from cyclic motion by CyneNoir
He will always be the log
prostrated across the rocky river bed -
skeleton of a microcosmic world
I imagined him a sapling,
youth sprouting from supple branches,
roots gladly reaching for secrets
in the soil; I imagined him alive -
but he is no more than the log,
lain slant along the water's lonely line
awaiting the severity of the seasons
Why Spirit Day Is Not EnoughPreface
This essay was written in October of 2010 after DeviantART released this article supporting the Spirit Day movement to bring awareness to LGBT bullying.
I wrote it because there were so many comments on the official article that were defaming to one group or another that I felt the true issue had been lost in the rhetoric. The point of Spirit Day is to show solidarity and compassion for your fellow human beings. Not gay or straight or ill or handicapped - those categories don't matter. We're just humans, each flawed and each perfect. Spirit Day was an attempt to remind us of that.
I was confronted with two major arguments to this editorial in the original posting. One was that singling out LGBT suicides meant that I was putting more importance on that group than any other. For the purpose of the article, I suppose that's true. Spirit Day focused on LGBT issues, so the article (
My Romantic Bones Are Dancinglove is...
the ability to face torment
from a thousand needles
drilling a million holes each
into the same square of skin -
the gouge is a constellation
accompanying an epic tale
that's every brand
the knowledge we are broken
by familiar hands
and restored by
familiar arms & lips
a metaphor for the inexpressible
god in each of us;
manifested in a flame, licking
hollow spaces in our yawning caverns.
one soul seeking the fingertips
of another soul seeking the fingertips
of another soul seeking
reparations for its mundane sins.
the first breath, the last breath;
the purpose of inhalations between.
things i am getting better atmeandering.
comparatively caressing the curvature
of broken bodies and flower petals. an elbow,
I have learned, is not so different from a tulip.
& creating similarly.
recognizing your hands
as life preserving devices;
grasping with intent.
For Beauty's Sake?Is it for vanity's sake we remake
ourselves in the next generation's face?
Do eyes and lips and hair a full soul make,
or do conscience and mores also share place?
The legacy left behind lies ahead:
not in DNA strands, replicated
rather in kindnesses easily shed
and big ideas, praising words quickly said.
The world weeps with children aplenty,
hungry, enslaved, pitiful in the streets.
What use to them, rigid identity,
who, in seeking food, often find defeat?
Beauty resides not in a comely face
but in our ardor for this human race.
What's LeftThey found him hung like meat
waiting to be salted.
Accidental suicide the paper read.
Thirty-two and drunk, foolish
and wasted: A portrait strangers
might examine for poems about life
and death and the unsubstantiated
point to everything.
And we are wordless, mindless,
awed by the severity of grief;
each alone in a cavity
of communal questions.
_Un_Expected& it broke my heart so
I chose boiled broccoli
over apples, preferring
a sulfurous stench
to the perfume
of your favored fruit.
I contemplated clichés.
BoyMany women will write poetry
from you. They will translate
your nose into an apostrophe
your smile to the front side
of a parentheses, the back
to tears only once admitted.
They will filter your father's ashes
into adverbs that define your fingers
quaking along skin and sin
toward fibrous paper.
They will dismiss your flaws
as improperly placed commas
or periods born before their time.
They will inspect, perfect
& infect you with emotions
you never learned to muster.
But none of them will know
you as I did: a boy, bent
beneath the waves of love
and glad for it.
Death to the ConspiratorI harbor a foolish hope that sensation might flee my body.
The soldiers ordered to escort us make an awful commotion. Their boots click sharply against cobblestone floors while their guns and belts rattle with each stride. I feel the vibrations in my teeth. Father Jacob walks just ahead of us and snorts loudly every third or fourth step, as though trying to clear his nostrils of the prison's stench.
I have forgotten the scent of a warm summer day. We leave the gates and stone walls behind and step into the sun. It washes my vision in creamy white. My eyes adjust quickly. There is grass - rich, moist, and springy under my step. A pale haze rises above the city in the distance, and the white dome of the Capitol building reflects the sun brilliantly.
Briefly, I wonder if Jackson's hand hesitated before it signed my fate.
I cannot avoid it now, rising above the heads of the parade in front of me: the gallows, constructed not an entire day before. Fresh planks still reek of pine and cedar s
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Endorell-Taelos is very well known within the community for her selfless giving and gracious community spirit. Since joining DeviantART over seven years ago, Alicia has continued to make a positive impact on many deviants. Her helpful and thoughtful approach was one of her finest attributes when serving as a Community Volunteer, and this has continued throughout the many contests which Alicia provides on a regular basis. As we approach our Birthday celebrations, we can't... Read More