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One dayOne day the world will just cease to exist,
One day we’ll stop getting by.
when this day arrives,
we’ll get on with our lives,
And build a new castle in the sky.
One day the world will just stop getting by,
But we’ll carry on with our games.
We’ll live in a dream,
While the others will scream,
The world all consumed by the flames.
One day the world will be cold with no life,
And then we’re the only ones left.
We’ll look at the stars,
And we’ll think, “this is ours”,
But we’ll still be a little bereft.
Little girlOnce upon a time there lived a little girl. She was a pretty little thing, her hair a nest of golden curls, her eyes a brilliant shade of blue that almost looked purple in the right kind of light. Her cheeks got rosy when she was excited, and her mouth smiled often, showing off her missing front tooth.
She was truly a dear little girl, and her parents, well; everyone really, loved her very much. But sometimes, just sometimes, when no-one was looking, it was as if the light went out of her.
There was this one time when her mother, Mrs. Hoop, held a tea-party (more a coffee and scones party, actually) with her friends. The little girl was the main attraction most of the time. She was such a pretty little thing, smiling and laughing and clapping her small hands together when she was really amused. She didn’t appear to mind being the only child in the room, and all the ladies were taken by her. They took turns giving her scones with jam and cream, and telling her funny stories
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung words
Together on row upon row again
Of blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.
‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;
Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?
Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,
To point with honesty failed verse of thine.
No real poet discards upper case words;
Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.
You seek to free verse of those stern letters,
Sever away bleak capital fetters,
But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,
Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.
Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;
It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,
To make our dull words sound great all the time,
Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,
Heralding a poet’s summer prime.
Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;
Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,
The subject not gilded in raiment fine;
Your bold ink font, crystal waters divine
Tastes bitter to the ton
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More