|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
The Perfect ShotWith his heart chained to his sleeve, he slumps in his chair.
The radio plays a soft tune hidden in layers of airwave static.
The shades are drawn and the light claws at the windows, but he doesn’t let it in.
He doesn’t let it see. He doesn’t let anyone see his chest rise and fall, breathing stale air.
Boxes carpet the floor, photos hide in the debris. He found these memories in the attic.
Faces his mind could not forget. Pictures and people that should have been thrown in the trash bin.
His lungs expand to fill the empty spot where his heart once beat,
But the void is still there, and it will never be replaced
Just like those pictures he lost over the years.
There’s a photo of him with his first car, sweet 16, but now he’s riding shotgun in the passenger seat.
Another memory he thought he misplaced.
These pictures are crumpled, wrinkled and torn. New smears cover the old stains of countless tears.
He’s been here many times before, to this state of m
Snake BiteGoodbye, My love, Goodbye.
I'm shedding my winter coat like a snake sheds it's skin.
I'm breaking free from this shell.
I need a new place to begin.
I'm sorry that it had to be this way,
You should have seen the end coming fast.
It arrived to no surprise,
That the sweetness of this venom couldn't last.
Please understand, my Dear,
This didn't end like it did in my mind.
I didn't mean to cause you harm,
But there's no other way to say goodbye.
With Wisdom Comes PainWhen I was young I learned to walk.
I didn't know where I was going, I just put left foot in front of right,
Now each step seems to be a useless plight.
When I was young I believed in fairy-tales.
I was certain that a dragon lived under my bed,
But now he seems to hide in my head instead.
When I was young I learned to write.
I learned to spell every sound that I read or heard,
But lately I seem to be running out of words.
When I was young I stared at the sky
And didn't see the clouds or the heaven's closing door.
Now the clouds grow, each year their seems to be more.
When I was young I dotted my I's with hearts
Because I knew that my heart and I would find love someday,
But now when I find love it never stays.
When I was young I learned that people die
And I never stopped asking why, but mom said it was okay to cry.
I cried so much that I ran out of tears, but I'll always feel the droplets in my eyes.
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
Keep in Touch!