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GravityAutumn wanted to learn
how to
fall.
So, the galaxy of dead trees
coiling in your lungs
devoured her spine.
Your gifts,
a lifeline wrapped around
her neck like a noose;
an orange and red
assisted suicide.
& you said "God bless your
heart." like some divine
higher power could forgive
her for loving you.
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How long?So many lonely people
So many broken hearts
Pain so hard to measure
Lovers torn apart
So Many broken hearts
Rivers of tears are shed
Children should be cherished
Not abused in bed
Rivers of tears are shed
Women weep and wail
Wars kill sons and daughters
Cause politicians fail
Women weep and wail
Watch the children dying
While those who could help
Just sit there sighing
Watch the children dying
Just what will it take
Before we decide to wake up
And changes start to make

What am I?What am I?
A pain in the chest.
A lump in the throat.
A dark cloud hanging above the head.
A irritation raising your anger.
A cry ready to come out,
but you can choose not to say a thing anyway.
What am I?
Something that can be ignored.
Yet I can make your conscience haunt you.
For your greed? Lust? Betrayal?
You don't say a thing just because your afraid of him.
Of not being forgiven.
What am I?

Supermassive Black HoleStrings of starless strands
lasso my sanity,
as a Lyzzard's tongue
slays unawares a fly.
Distorted snarls melt
my glaciers in the dead of night;
vibrating in the frequency
of tachycardia.
Falling upwards
in your wells of gravity,
you set my soul alight;
spinning towards the singularity.
A blink before the light,
the brims of Space
of satin waves
smile and unweave a word:
"What?"

Shameful Confession of a 'Writer'Trees know no words.
Instead, they dance
With the wind, like ballerinas spin with pianos and violins in every chord.
Speaking sweetly with a flick of a foot, a sway of a branch,
And a quick little grin, while I trip on words.
I wish I can speak in tongues of daffodils during early spring.
The way each petal holds hope within its bloom, I wish to hold hope the same way;
Blooming its beauty with words, instead of blooming with May.
Sometimes, I'd get so sick of wishing to be a flower,
I'd start wishing I was rain.
I want to cry with the world and wash every window stained with hate.
But I only spill black inked words, and this is why

ArtistI am an artist;
I paint pictures just as you,
Vivid swirls of greys and hues
Of purples and reds,
And greens and blues.
Sometimes its dark,
Sometimes its light,
Sometimes I fear-
Something not right.
With my brush I dot and dash-
Swish across to add a slash,
Spill some here,
Throw some there.
Once I'm done its everywhere.
I see the Greats,
And wonder if
This kind of brush
Is far too stiff;
For it doesn't bend,
And hardly sways,
I'm left to wonder,
Artistic ways.

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November Feature!by #DeviantsGallery