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thirteenstroke
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Name: Isabel
Country: United States
State: New York
Gender: Female
Interests: J.W.Waterhouse, summer nights, pollens/flower petals/ autume leaves, alphonse mucha, francesca lia block, urban cities, looking at people, neon lights, spanish lace, mint, water nymph, zita law, cantoluna, suza scalora, fashion, mint, yazawa ai
Expertise: piss people off with unnatural beauty
Occupation: Artist
Industry: Other
Message: message me
MSN: thirteenstroke@hotmail.com
Member Since:
4/9/2004
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| A seed drops into the soil
moisture, sunshine, photosynthesis.
A seed drops into the soil
moisture, sunshine, photosynthesis.
A seed drops into the soil
moisture.
sunshine.
nothing.
I don't know what i did wrong, but somehow I messed up. I don't want to fix it, so I'm going to let you go. Sorry. | | |
| To Whom It May Concern,
One day when you die,
I will not cry.
I will not allow the tears to blind me from seeing your face.
One day when you die,
I will not wear black.
I will wear a floral dress like the one I wore the day you blurred out that you love me.
One day when you die,
I will fight the temptation to follow you.
I will wait for the time when we'll meet again, and I know we will.
One day when you die,
I will not be lonely.
I know your love remains a shield independent from your body.
I will not pretend that love is perfect for we are both flawed.
But I can't reason with my soul, who loved you before I even know you.
So one day when I die,
Please do the same for me.
Our time together is not a count down,
and our love not limited by the number of our breath.
One day when I die,
Please let me go.
Isabel
Sept.22.2008. 9:39pm | | |
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[Long ago, when love was still young…]
Persephone came back for the last time. A goodbye forever.
The willow of a girl stood in the snow. Frosted skin and tears of mascara.
Flowers did not bloom at her feet.
“Oh my dear child!” cried Demeter, “It is winter, why have you come?”
“Mother,” whispered the goddess, “the moon came and filled my belly with butterflies; I am with child. Last night I had a dream of her, this child of mine. I saw her grow, minerals running through her veins. Raw and organic, her dress was the field of violets. As the years passed, she pulled the veils of youth over her head, layers and layers until she folded into a cocoon. A metamorphosis she went through and she came out a true goddess. But her eyes, black and eerie, like that of her father. She is life and she is death. The smell of her hair wakes thousands of roses, but a glance of her eyes can make them flake to dust.”
“She is not your child; she is your tears – those that you never cried.” Signed Demeter, “You must not give her birth for she will cause your death. See what she has done to you already! Sucking your life and beauty!”
“No. I can already feel her warmth in my stomach. She is my child. My final gift.”
Persephone dropped to the icy ground as thousands of butterflies broke out of her stomach.
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| I stepped out today, a piece less.
What is this the end of?
maybe it's just that song.
maybe I'm just tired.
maybe it's just New York. | | |
| "...No one had remarked it before, but the lovers discovered it. What will love not discover? It afforded a passage to the voice; and tender messages used to pass backward and forward through the gap. As they stood, Pyramus on this side, Thisbe on that, their breaths would mingle..."
--- "Pyramus and Thisbe"
What will love not discover? | | |
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