This is a weekly feature of amazing literature that I come by during my
travels across deviantART. This is only a small sample of a vast amount
of wonderful pieces of literature written by absolutely fantastic
writers. Each deviation was carefully selected from a writer's gallery
based on structure, impact and word usage. I will never feature the
same person twice, so check out these wonderful writers now while you can!Please this news article so it will reach a larger audience!
CathieSalt-and-pepper hair contrasts sharply with the crisp, starched pillow;
bone-thin arms resemble bed rails--
tears in my arms, the morphine drip in your vein.
My inner rage refutes your calm acceptance.
You ask if we are waiting for you to die: no.
We are waiting for a miracle,
we are waiting for you to heal--
We are waiting for something that will not happen.
We are stretching for something that is out of reach.
We are holding onto our obsolete hopes, the small fragments of our lives
so closely, we cannot see the bigger picture
In a paradox, God is calling you clearly,
but we can't seem to hear His voice--
only the silence ringing in our ears
as the monitor stops
your breathing ceases
your face un-creases--
and, for the first time in years,
you run Home.
when God closes a door...If I could paint
a portrait of you, it would look
like a window flung wide,
white curtains against blue sky with
sunshine pouring in
and ivy on the side,
and yellow tulips
on the smooth wood sill.
simultaneous understanding.1. days spent.
the albatross came with a wingspan
great and unending. it strayed
for a moment, getting caught
in telephone wires but managing to
break free in the end. the elephant in
the room was unmoved, whispering
"what really makes things literary
is the conceit."
blue and red lights flash behind me.
the dark purple bruises under my eyes don't respond,
feet shuffling to comply at knocks and fingers
fumbling with getting the window down in time.
i don't look the officer in the eye as i pass him
pieces of paper i assume are correct.
the windshield is invisible if you ignored the spider
web cracks on the passenger side. it's a reminder
from ancient times i'd like to think i don't remember.
"do you know how fast you were going, miss?"
last time i checked i wasn't moving, sir.
by the time we reached the destination, my feet were blue
and yellow and frozen. but i am okay, and it was otherwise safe.
we are standing at the edge of the world; it is nothing we haven't
heartbox.he packs his heart into a box, fills it up to the brim with fluffy white styrofoam pellets, before sealing the lid up with duct tape.
somewhere far away, he writes on the side of the box, pausing to think before scribbling, in block letters, beneath it, CAREFUL: FRAGILE!
stepping out of his house, he cradles the box gingerly against his chest, each beat of his sealed-up heart echoing against his hollow ribs.
"where're you headin'?" someone asks from behind him, and he shrugs. "doesn't matter. not here," he answers, sounding far more confident than he really is, and walks on ahead without a second glance behind.
where are you heading? he receives no reply - it's then he remembers his heart isn't his anymore.
"where to?" he whispers to the box.
"far," his heart beats back.
it's enough of an answer.
[he's an empty man wi
supercellthis is how tornadoes pass-
a stillness in the air
and a particular odd bruise-yellow of sky.
the drop in my stomach,
ache in my joints.
clouds piling up to flash
and raising up a furious cry.
you've been a cataclysmic catastrophe.
i should have known better--
bolted my cellar doors
and prayed for you to blow over,
like a hang-over
with what we've been given(writing is not an art.)
it just sounds like one. smells like one. feels like one.
but when we shove words down our gullets and
we taste them and they scrape against our throatsslow like dizzy bubbles down into our stomachs
and that's when we know.
(writing is not an art.)
it's out of desperation: a last resort
now if it were up to just and only me i wouldn't be a writer. if it were up to me
nobody would be a writer because words would say everything on their own.
but it isn't, and they don't.
(writing is not an art.)
us writerswe're selfish. we make trouble because we think thinkless thoughts that can't decide how to be thinked.
but we are human and need to know.
so we darken the lines we use to form our letters, and
our sketches become less vague
and more nonsensicaleveryone can find meaning but us.
it is ( )
and i guess that's all that's left once we've extracted the words from their definitions.
"lets all gather toget
The Allure of Forever YearningI attempt to live this one like a patch of grass growing backwards
so they are never grazed by the curt blades in an attempt to remain everlasting -
so I can than make a shallow attempt at passionate discourse about life like
a Polaroid of a life-like painting of nature hidden beneath the individual pixel
leaving the blind to appreciate all of its aesthetic beauty as if
our wide-eyed boisterous claims amount to just icons amongst rubble,
for a shooting star can be seen on screen but only truly believed
by those who witnessed it through the lens of the Hubble
telescope featuring new optics that are definitively life-like,
featuring all of the insincere pleasantries that life's like.
Haunted by the notion of the indistinguishable blending with beauty,
I fall from meditative yearning to resign in tentative sleep
but blissfully wander into the slowly rotating womb of a dream
- I found myself in an isolated oasis with green sensory signaling
to my brain an overload of plush rivers and whisp
constellationshe was a star
shone bright in the
moonlight and even
in the sun when the
skyscapes reigned blue.
she was a star but
she was a constellation
when the skies
were dark and
she wasnt alone.
she was a star and
she was a constellation
but there were
so many more
so many less
she was alone.
bright on the far
side of the galaxy because
it was in her nature;
she was a star.
genealogyThe box is so old it breaks apart at the corners
when I lift it, spilling out faces
on the cold basement floor;
this, they tell me, is not where you are.
I find my father staring at me, back when he wore
a stern beard and a blue uniform,
both smelling equally of diesel.
His thick arms are cradling our first cat
with the delicacy of a new parent with their first born.
Here is the man who kept a gun
and wouldn't tell his wife where,
who tore apart a family
while a young girl played in their yard;
someday, she will forgive him
over the casket of his mother's body
when they begin to walk away in silence.
It was first time I saw him cry,
the first time I've seen him in a suit
and he is handsome, even in mourning;
the first time I saw the man
my mother married, the one that sent her
clumsy poetry and roses and a ring.
And there are endless letters
from the months where he was a man lost,
stagnant for the first time since age fifteen.
I can feel him struggling and I tell my professor