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Posts Tagged ‘artsy’

meet me in October,

and we can relive

that moment when

the focus of my life

 

became trying to get

outside of this fence that

chains me in—

holds me in—

and into your heart,

into your mind,

never regretting a thing.

 

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You are my color—

Every hue, every tint is part of a masterpiece,

Which only now has been unveiled to me:

A work of swirling shades and dizzying tinges,

Of impeccable details woven together into a vision

That makes the onlooker gasp and the artist beam with pride.

You are the sky after the storm,

When the rain turns into drops of the sun

And the flashes of lighting surrender to your fireworks,

Whose crashes and booms will away the song of thunder.

Your eyes are blind, you cannot see what I behold,

But your words are art; you are my color—

The only splash of paint in a world of charcoal.

 

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The stars in your eyes—

Ne’er could such a humble sight

Be any more grand.

 

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           She is running, the heels of her five-inch Barbie pink stilettos click-clacking against the pavement as her legs furiously thrust forward. Her dress is torn; her heavily made-up face has become pale, and her eyes, outlined in a thick contour of black, are as wide as that of a deer caught in the headlights. When she trips on her own feet, she flings off her shoes and continues running barefoot, her neon-colored toenails gleaming like beacons in the darkness. It is a midsummer’s night, but her arms are prickled with goose bumps, and shivers tingle up her spine. She glances over her shoulder and quickens her pace, her breath coming in short but heavy intervals, making it seem like she is gasping for oxygen. The air smells strongly of drink; she can still taste the alcohol that had passed over her tongue a just a short while ago. At this moment, however, she is not overtaken by the effects of drink, for the adrenaline pumping within her seemed to have beaten out all other sensations in her body. Her heartbeat is flying; she looks behind her once more, her eyes searching for something in the night. Perhaps she imagines it, but for one terrifying second, she catches sight of a figure in the shadows—a moving outline blacker than the surrounding gloom. She begins to tremble. Her bottom lip quivers, and a chilling scream escapes her throat. Her eyes dart desperately toward the several unlit mansions along the road, but no help comes. She is alone.

            Except—she’s not.

            Her body tenses as something sharp bounces off the back of her head. It lands behind her, and she stops to see what it was: one of her own hot pink stiletto shoes. A warm trickle of blood oozes down onto her neck, which is suddenly grasped by ice-cold fingers. They wrap around her tightly, sending her into an oblivion darker than the shades of night. The last thing she hears is a raspy, all-too-familiar whisper:

            “I have you now.”

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