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!
In October.She is chameleons,
beside once-remembered friends
of once-remembered pasts,
falling fragmented in kitchen sinks
and cleaning bottles,
breaking hearts for puzzles,
bandaging wounds on tables
of answers without questions;
and she is still unknown
come next October.
green life by blacklightwhen that orchid-coloured
glow surrounded like
a fog of sun,
you and I touched
hands at fingers' ends, and
something roaring, glaring,
passed between our palms.
a crackling voltage vein,
a conduit christ.
precious recalled and
returned, eternal, your
frays or folds.
no brigade of buckets ever
could have made it fade.
I crafted a
palm to crown
your fabric and to
gift-bow your gamma flash.
where is your pride now?
your great and heavy sorrow?
bare to me your bruise,
hand here your plague.
my concubine will not
forever lie in saturned tatters. I
will make her shout and shine.
she is silver, she is mine.
I will reveal her,
purple-blue as crystal,
bright as green life
the Eden of self-creationhe
perched on the lip
of a girl
was hot with
leather vests and wine
he is carnivorous
she is music
sweat and muscle
they are alive
creating light graffiti
from the strobe light
on their moist limbs
their anthem is
warm summer nights,
bonfires and bands
but for now
the essence of
saying Sundays are never beautiful
counting fallen meteors as wishing stars. we
dream the inconsistencies of space- timid
chemistry mapped between your rough skin
and my boneless fingers, breaking outlines of isolation
in constellations, dwelling in the abodes of time lost
beneath tearless skies.
living amid painted strokes of genius, between
colors communicating to trebles and records in collective
urgency. let us crush the aftermath of our damaged
liberties, breathing the dire fumes of cremated guitar strings as
Van Gogh enters the centre of the last field, aims his cocked
gun and forms the sixth instance of forlorn
refusing to act upon the word fuck, and
completing this cycle of
Theresa Goes Up the StairsMy life is a series of discontentments.
When I was seven, I tried to fly by jumping off the tallest hill in Florida. I expected an invisible gust of wind to whisk me off my feet, take my bird arms and let me soar with the gulls in the ocean-drenched air. Yet as soon as I leapt, my sandals hit the ground with a dismal flop, and I found myself still upon the hill, on my way down down down from that point on.
At age ten I decided to be a genius by turning to books and numbers for solace. I believed I would be honored with various rewards and be the envy of my peers, be that girl, the one both beautiful and intelligent, a cosmic genius. Yet I found myself with no ribbons and no friends, taking the lonely, taxing route that the elect walk, balancing books on my head that later fell down down down when I stumbled with no one to catch me.
I was thirteen when I loved a boy by allowing him to dance with me. I guessed he would make my heart somersault and myself twirl round my room after all lov
the muse snatchershaking my muse awake
is like pulling pears from apple trees
watching light disintegrate raindrops
from afar, in this state of numinous nebulousness
i can’t sleep a wink.
you’re on my mind, muse murderer
i fear you as much as i
you’re in the strands of my hair, tugging vines
of lust and love and ringing bells for servants in
the master bedroom of my mind’s house.
swallowing music is eating fire to you
every sound wrapped around your beautiful throat
like a coiling serpent or that stripy scarf that you
gagged me with.
and now my ears are shut to the world,
deaf gramophones turning pointlessly
scratched vinyl claw marks down my back,
your back, returned from the destruction of my muse.
typing with fingers
at least they’re good for that. (mine are certainly
no better for anything else)
but the strain wizens them
witch claws, elbow talons
everything i was all in your name and the bluntest
part is that i don’t think i mind.
Just Once.I'll only do this once.
I'll pull you underneath these covers, put the blanket over our heads as if we're little kids again just hiding from mom and her scolding face. I'll hold onto you so tight our breath will get shallow and and if it didn't feel so good, we'd realise just how bad it hurts our sides. I'll let you brush back my bangs, tucking them behind my ears, even though I hate the ugly twisted ear you adore so much. I'll stare into your eyes, noticing that you have a smokey gray outline on your pupils and sharp jagged lines inside those circles of dark brown.
I'll cradle your head in my lap, touching ever so gently every beautiful part of your face while whispering about all the vulnerable parts of my life that made the fear in me today. I'll even tell you about the times I cried until I couldn't breathe and how I questioned if I was worth anything but then I'll tell you how you changed me, made me feel so amazing and loved. I'll stumble through finding the right words of