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BlindTrade me your eyes,
So that I may see the sky,
Azure air across my face,
As I stare and sigh,
How I wish that I wasn't blind.
Trade me your nose,
So that I may sniff real roses,
Alluring aroma floats gentle,
As I breathe in that aerial ambrosia,
Where heaven be here I see.
Trade me your mouth,
So that I may stop and say Hi!
Converse confidence in clarity,
As I stand and stare in starstruck,
Wonder as ignorance says bye!
Trade me your eyes,
So that I may recall you with surprise,
Trade me your nose and mouth,
So that I may sense your presence,
As I halter and falter below bright skies.
© James Nankervis August 14th 2011
HopeThe hard black dirt cracks beneath my feet,
Treading across bloody earth covered in ash and soot,
The scent of decay like chlorine in my lungs,
from the dark black dirt i see a flower bud,
rising up from the blackened earth,
its silken white petals reach forth to catch the light
InspirationSo many nights of dreaming,
Of wishing for magic and song,
And when I awaken,
My dreams continue,
Leaving me longing
For a world of my own making.
Characters beg for a chance to shine,
And a chance for love.
How can I deny them?
They live a life so different from mine,
They are a part of me.
I wonder who is more real?
Stick and Stones, LoveSticks and stones,
May break my bones.
But words can do much more.
I find them scribbled on notes strewn about,
And I hear your voice when I read them to myself.
They come in soft whispers,
Or thunderous shouts of anger.
They can inspire a masterpiece
Fueled by joy or pain.
They're sung sweetly in sunshine
Or bitterly in rain.
They can serve to begin or end
Something wonderful or terrible.
They are how I know you.
The bridges between our minds.
They are the art of the commoner.
You're lips, a brush, you're words, the strokes
The air is your canvas.
You paint your perception with your voice,
Giving me a portrait of what my eyes could never see.
Will you show me who you are or who you want to be?
With your words, you
Can tell the truth or fool me.
You create or destroy.
With your words,
You love or hate,
You give or you take.
Your words are your choice.
There is life and death.
In the power of your voice.
It swallows you whole,
Exceeds your control.
Apprehends your soul,
Until it has taken its toll.
It’s an overwhelming feeling.
That is made to be appealing
And you can’t help revealing,
The doubts you are concealing.
It’s an undefined dimple
And a well known jingle.
But only when you are single
Does it all seem so simple.
It is one of life’s many gifts,
That empowers and uplifts
And can lead you adrift.
Should you miss your shift.
It is impossible to describe it.
It is impossible to fight it.
Because once it is ignited
And once you have tried it.
It will take your independence.
You will become used to its presence.
You will become addicted to its essence
And include it at the end of your every sentence.
It exists even in the hearts of its haters.
It is a taste even they will savour
And although its duration wavers.
There will never be a feeling that is greater.
Everything I have said and more.
I am merely repeating what you already know.
Voice on PermafrostNever can I escape my mind’s permafrost
Where memories are embedded in snow
And fallen to the ground like frail twigs
Dead fragments in a desolate year
Sometimes I dream that someone sings to me
And we arrange a performance together
A to C to E then E to G to B
But it is only the echo of my own piece
Sometimes I look up and think the sky is sweet
Shrouded with delicate snowflakes drifting from cottony mist
Suspending themselves over the permafrost
But when I touch them, they sting my palms
Sometimes I hear someone crying behind the pine trees
And avert my blurred gaze as the wind spits ice into my eyes
Straining to find the company I yearn for
Only to discover that the crying
Was the echo of my own wails
Always, the snow is my reflection
Sparse, white sleet.
TickI search your cells with tiny fingers,
split hairs in a ravenous fashion.
Distinctive as a freckle or a mole,
I move with you—I drink of you.
When the time is right, pluck me away,
set me aflame, or drown me in alcohol.
Cry of an ArtistThey tell me I’ll understand
when I’m older.
That I shouldn’t be an artist.
I want to be those crumpled papers
in the corner of my room,
and the late nights I stayed awake
blinking at the moon.
And even though I lack the supplies
and ideas are far away,
I feel artistic blood
running through my veins.
I’m that empty spray can
left in the shadows of the walls
where street art’s been made
but the name’s not there at all.
And I’m that lonely artist
who fears of sticking out
because all the art critics
feel the urge to not speak, but shout.
And I’m that girl standing by the window,
wanting those paints and brushes,
pencils and pens,
and the city that hushes
when my art makes its
The Story of Little DollThere once was a doll with a broken, heart face,
Without a pretty smile, no one remembered her name.
She sat without friends amongst the cuddly toys,
And got picked up and threw about by some of the rowdier boys.
Her porcelain was chipped and she was missing a curl,
She looked more like a monster than a sweet little girl.
The shopkeeper couldn’t sell her so he kept her by the till,
‘Not for sale’- she never sat by the window sill -
It was a fear, in the shop, that she would scare customers away.
So little doll watched people pass, collecting dust every day.
And sometimes, perchance, when she caught sight of herself,
She thought about throwing her body from the edge of the shelf.
Outcast and unwanted by every child she’d ever seen,
As broken goods, she was worthless, she had come to believe.
Until one day a little girl, with a burnt and scarred face,
Asked the shopkeeper why little doll looked so out of place:
‘Ah young madam, I couldn’t sell you her
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More