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Confessions of a bookbinderI never cared for the smell of ink
Black acid tears on white silky skin
Letters, branded without consent
The pages scream, but only I can hear them
If the birches and oaks only knew
How writers, poets, critics and fools
Would tarnish their flesh in self-importance
I reckon they would have remained seeds
They enter with their abominations
Gleefully proclaiming their excellence
And I am left to dress them up
To make them pleasing to the eye and touch
And I dress them to perfection
The smell of leather pleases me
But no one seems to notice
No one seems to care
They look beyond my seams of careful devotion,
And the fine golden jewelry around their necks
And see only the filthy smudges
Upon their white silky skin
Soon but a whisperLife is a scream
And an echo will follow
A ferverous stream
For the ocean to swallow
Life is a breath
Fast inhaled by the young
Soon, fear of death
Will fill up their lungs
Life is a beat
So rhythmic at first
A meter complete,
The treehouseI built myself a treehouse
High up above the ground
Extended open invitations
But people never come around
It is made from solid metaphors
I picked them out myself
It took some time to find them all
Among the dusty shelves
I thought I’d be a dying shame
If they stayed hidden out of sight
So I cut and shaved and varnished them
And thought it turned out quite all right
For nails I used those little words
That critiques so despise
But when building using metaphors
You have to compromise
When I stood back to behold it all
I felt a tiny sting
This simple sloppy craftsmanship
Could never house a king
I thought about just burning it
All, down to the ground
Why even build a treehouse
If they will never come around?
It wasn’t ‘till I entered it
That I had a change of heart
I was ashamed for even thinking
About tearing it apart
I felt so safe within those walls
As safe as I could be
And if queens and kings won’t feel the same
What matters that to me?
I built a treehouse o
On the moveFifty miles from home
Twenty miles from condemnation
And so many miles I cannot count
On the road of contemplation
A million miles from love
Means a million miles from heartache
And would you risk that lengthy walk
Just to see a lonely heart break?
A hundred miles of tip-toe
As not to wake what's in the shade
And a lifetime then of running
In the dark through which you stray
Not a single mile of respite
Not a moment yet to pause
And to look back through the blackness
The road behind - forever lost
The destructive powers of imaginationWe shackle ourselves
In a cage of limitation
Every bar in our cell
Is our own creation
It’s not the lacking, but abundance
Of sly imagination
Turning minds against themselves
It’s a self-mutilation
Whatever enters a mind
That hungers after creation
Will be created all the same
There’s no room for hesitation
Even if you let loose
They will fight you tooth and nail
For their own preservation
Because a mind that is free
Is also free to rebel
And a rebellious mind
Can be a living hell
Human natureDusk and thoughts that do not sleep
The snowcovered treetops
Bears a golden lining
In remembrance of the sun
There was never enough pain to consume me
And the drizzle doesn't scream of fury
It only whispers
Of past and future
The now was always lost
The grass doesn't stab at my feet
Green shivs licking my skin with tongues of dew
Only taunting, tantalizing
And the venomous snakes slithering in its midst
Only crircle my persona
Perhaps not bothering with someone intent on
Endurance is not the opposite of defeat
The cool spring breeze and the furious winter wind
Could spend years in feeble attempts to move mountains
And deeds undone will forever go unsung
Why do you even write?
To answer the who, the what, the when, the how
Before the question above all others cloud your mind
That reversed echo that is the bane of your existance
Why? Scream it, tear the sky open
Let the floodgates unbolt and drown in it
Why can't you lose yourself in your words
Like raindrops in oceans
The travelersShe is the traveler
In nothern lights
The rusty traintracks croon
The steel did write
It will have her sleeping soon
She is a stranger
In a world of homes
Raindrop on the pane
She stops, but never long enough
For them to learn her name
She cannot sleep
Unless she hears
The thumping traintracks down below
She is forever on the run
But to where?
She does not know
Some say that she is searching
For a place she'll never find
Others say escaping
Leaving sorrows far behind
But I remember when I saw her
She smelled of lillies then
So I packed my bags and left my home
To find her scent again
A two person operaThe overture starts
With beating hearts
Percussion is essential
In this work of art
At the pluck of a string
Every hair on your body –
Hear the arias rise
The libretto written
In wordless cries
The finale draws near
This is the masterpiece
That will make our career…
Bridge ClosedIn the city of spires
thrust upward through the body of cloud
a piercing spike of adrenalin,
as the wind fondly ruffles her hair,
doesn't stop her from jumping up.
Reaching to be seen or saved,
by a city that blinks and misses her -
a temporary peak on the skyline.
Doesn't stop her from slamming
into the steel slashes
of the trainline below.
Even the most beautiful places
to those blinded by the inside-out-agony
of breathing against their will.
The city of spires remember her
as the cause for a bridge closed
on a Sunday.
The SundancersThe sundancers crease the sky ephemerally
and stain the floor with their bravery, eternally.
Poem for My 2nd Semester English Teacher(Short v.)You stapled these words to the page.
Like a modern day tyrant,
You denied them the little humanity
You trapped their souls into
And threw them to the curb,
I understand that certain things
Should be left Inhuman
But we even give hurricanes names.
You taught us to separate the person from the art,
But if the art is about that person, you can’t pull them apart
Did I Mention To You MarkiplierDid I mention to you Markiplier,
A man with so much love to share?
He's one of the few in this world
To take the time to show his care.
Did I mention to you my hero
Who helped me to lay down my knife?
He brought to light my joy inside
And reminded me the temporariness of strife.
Did I mention to you my saviour,
Who made me come to love me?
He blesses this world with all his work
In his constant support and charity.
Did I mention to you this humble man,
Who cares for the world deeply so?
He makes you laugh and makes you cry
Through the genuineness he shows.
It's hard to believe that this one man
Could inspire so many to chase their dreams
And prove to all who hear his words
That it may not be as difficult as it seems.
You call us your heros, your shining stars.
Thank you Mark for all you do.
It's people like me who want to prove
That the real hero is you.
FlamesThere are flames where
his head should be -
a poem left in the fireplace,
a dressing gown, a pipe,
forty pieces of silver.
This man promised you a winter
so warm and bountiful
spring would be ashamed.
He called you by name -
not the one that father knew
shoved under his bible.
But the one left behind
in the branches,
in the bucket of brambles,
and the columbines
buried at your feet.
Stones on the battlefield,
surrender in the grass.
What did his face
even look like behind the curtain,
counting those coins
and loosening the damp earth
from your shoes?
FriendshipFriendship is a tapestry
Woven through the years
With threads of joy and laughter
Happiness and tears
It's a work of art so priceless
It's shared by a precious few
Yet so easily created
By a loving friend like you
on moving outI take my bookends. I take my whiteboard
and that crooked letter opener I use to pop the caps off
beers, I take my poems,
I take my brand-new never-used coffeemaker
and my decades-old over-used typewriter which weighs
about 6 babies. I take my pictures, and those letters
you wrote me;
I do not take you. I take the
PS2. and the broken lamp. and your
shirt. I take no shit.
but my own shit.]
I take a blanket,
my good underwear
and a deck of cards.
I take my cat.
I burn the rest.
to nurse doe (whom we all know) i watched her
blood orange heart
cleanse and suture
old bullet wounds and
new bouts of lilacs,
lime, and blue
her alcohol and aloe
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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