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Your Ophelia, my dear Millais,
will forever be the iconic image
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This Alabaster Monument. It's Like the Color of Your Skin.
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This is a work of fiction and is in no way meant to accurately portray any person or persons living or dead.
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My life unfolds like the book you spoke of,
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"Here on this ring of grass we have sat together, bound by the tremendous power of some inner compulsion. The trees wave, the clouds pass.
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I don't believe in Paper Towns.
John Green does not define me.
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Clever lady
Fending off grasping, hostile hands
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"The shadows were children then, eager to run away from the shade where they couldn't distinguish each other's features from the rest of the shapeless black."
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He’s different, too other for the natives to accept, people
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The red room of panic and distress,
My uncle's ghost won't let me rest.
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Rolled models
Vomit-stained
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Adele, I can only hope that you accept this apology
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Soft rains of gamma ions
Pool in a breath-taking glow
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Loved twice, left twice
Your fears proven true
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AP: Slavetothemusic. Thanks for hosting this competition, the great man is one of my favourite authors too!
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Clytemnestra
Has time tarnished you?
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Was Circe to blame
For giving Greek men snouts
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Not useless beauty,
But the complications of
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Facing death, I think of you
Life, birth, marriage
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I stood on the wall and watched you
As I held your infant son
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I'm beautiful
A work of art
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I had fifty sons
When this damned war began
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I am not a faceless beast
Ravening and cruel
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I know what it is like
For your soul
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Patroklus
The origin of family
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Well, Achilleus was a heel
Letting comrades die
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Does death ride a pale horse,
The color of indulgence and cream?
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Live was I ere I saw evil Eyes broken witnessed a shattered soul
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Take now
this final tableau:
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If Revenge, Murder and Rape fooled you
Just kill them all.
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The material is strong unlike that glass,
Yet it is just as delicate and just as soft
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A Vampiress' Love Story
by APoetessSylvia Leigh
54 lines, 1 comment,
on Apr 28 6:34 PM 2008. In Dark, Erotiva, Vampiress, Vampire, Moonlight, Love, Passion, Literature, Turn Me
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to the masters of the pen
born of a mixing nation
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here is the whole of it, a book of simple words
rasping its scratchy throat that puts mild men to sleep
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It was winter. It was the city. It was night.
It was bitter cold.
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To be, or not to be- that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler to leave the pack
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I sit here in the dark of night
And let slip these words I love
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With flicking tail the ethereal being
Is one with the surrounding aquamarine.
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A leafy child,
Fetus bound to the ground,
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("this carry go bring come my dear, brings misery")
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