radiantI am shaking ligaments, tender machinations, unrealistic ideologies of anarbitrary cynicist. [gaps between human sympathyare toxic; breathingis a chore. there is a careful warmth in the combined effort of necessity's unwanted side effects.]we are the forgotten.we are the tangled limbsand childhood stories fora more sensitive future; weare the longing, we arethe limitless. we are measured in the people we touch;and I will love you in the UV light of hide and seek paranoia. I love you in the red shimmer of harbored dreams, I love youin the industrial gl
beauty is a state of mindforgiveness is thescent the violet leaveson the foot that stomped it;I am beautiful in remembrance:I am beautiful in a body two sizes too large, in eyes dilated with questions (eyesyou cannot name; gray like the ocean, blue like the heart, green like the fever dream I cannot wake from) I am the hair of a lion, a wild thing, ignition upon tempted glance. I am the skinyou cannot name, always fleeting; the chameleon you always see but never truly take in. and I know a boy carved of ivory silence, &
existentialism and shoddy metaphorsI was violet-cheeked anddiamond-hearted; a workof art in reverse,tearing between my ribsand calling it beautiful,and I wonder now why theynever taught me this in school;the sepia-saturated glow lifegives out some point afteryou’ve realized wishes arefor those who’ve not yetwoken more alone than whenthey went to sleep,they never taught me allthe reasons why or thatsin tastes sweet. I metmy maker once in a backalleybar, stormy eyes and peppermintbreath, charming off a hangover;he sighed, “I know how manydays it’ll take you to give upcompletely. I know how manydreams you’ve sold away andhow many lies you need toswallow before you can fall asleep.I know that you’ve never quitegrown up and I know thatyou’re afraid of me” hesmiled silent and downedanother drink, losing himselfin the ramblings of a solipsisticexistence where “I” am finally allthat matters (and sometimesI believe I was built hollowlik
zeroi sworei would never number the poemsi wrote about myself because thatwould be like ticking off the daysuntil my breakdown;i was a moth, unapologetically throwing myselfat any gleam of hope; wasting my wingson industrial promisescolors always felt much moreappropriate for the purple boilingbeneath my heart and the pallidpurposelessness of my head,but i was born into a colorless world--no one sees me behind the metallic scarsof my skin and iron grating of my voice againstthe grain; no one sees me as more thangray regret or monochrome mistakes,no one sees me butall i ever wanted was for afallen god with feathered heelsto believe in me: to pray uponthe monuments i built forbroken dreams and to baptize mein his tainted tears,i just want him to be real. morethan anything, i want to be real, i wantto be more than an imaginary friendto various mental limitations; i wantto trade my liquid skin [evaporating]for a chance to bei am a moth and you are the lighthousei
ghostwriterhere, everyone’s pupils are dilatedand skin is stretched too tightto expose the wind-swept spider webswrithing beneath their porcelain composurehere, the shadows are afraid of us.(and it is our desireto finally come down to that placeof completionwhere wearesimple skeletonswith bleachedbones anddetached jaws)at night, the rigid ghosts rock me tosleep. their cardboard hearts andinky eyes just begging to be seen(it is only in thedarkness that I amperceived to be morethan I am; holynightlight, exaltedstar to guide themall homesleepily butsteadily blinkingout.)the current carries my name,I have spent too littletoo long on rivers thatonly flow southI vomit up saltwater andtry to remember,forget
on becoming alivethank god for sleeping pillsand the man who gave me a bagto quiet my mind.thank god for boys with open handsand curious minds and naïve heartswho make me young becausegod, you birthed me oldthank godyou birthed me old,so I could be the one tomeasure the livelihood of starswhile the others madetheir childhood wishescome true.thank god I have a mindthat runs a million miles fasterthan I ever could, becauseI believe my heart is an hourglassof honey and grime, andI’m slowly running out oftime, and I fearthese days are numbered.thank god for peoplewho write the words bleeding in my heartwithout knowing I exist, thank godfor beauty and my understandingthat I only exist in relation to itand in appreciation of whatI can’t become.thank god for my rebirthbecause I spent all thoseeye-opening years of my lifesleeping behind the wheel, thank godsomeone was there to wakeme up. (thank god that I canweep for happiness and depressionin the same day,
gossamer loveyou will love a womanwho uses the wordgossamertoo often. she willdiagnose dead artists' descentsinto madness and laughtoo loudly at jokesno one understands.she will braid crowns offlowers, she will write poemsin constellations, she willtry to walk like a dancer sono one can hear herleave. she will bean ice sculpture, and whenshe cries, you'll convince yourselfshe's melting, she loves you, you'vechanged her, you'vechanged; she will wear youlike a comma, likean incomplete thought,likeapausein her story, andshe will leave you wonderingwhatyoudidwrong.
I am the wayward childI wish I had something more to offerwhen your joints ached and your bones creakedand you wept dust; (the cobwebs aroundyour tongue were a comfort once)but I am three times screwedover backwards and turned right around,breathing in gravel and praying onthe only consistencies I know likeon Sun-day we are in the house of Godand it won’t rain and dad won’t speakand mom will sit with pursed lips countingall the times we didn’t kiss her goodbyeand everyone will call it normal,everyone will look at the way I write wordson cracked pavement and get glassy-eyedwhen they speak softly and forget the soundof my own voice when I’m afraid; all those times Itripped over my own feet and walked awaywith wounded knees, and they will call me normal.I’m at it again, building barricadesfrom ashes and calling them friends(this here is fear, he visits me nightly;and that stale stain in the corneris actually anxiety, recuperatingfrom the moment it caught a
it's the little things that follow you to sleeplately, i’ve been wasting every minutechoking on inevitabilities; wonderinghow many times i’ll promise myselfthis year i’ll be different untili move on to something lessunattainable. truthfully, i’m just sorryfor the ones who still thinki’m tryingand i have been waiting anugly amount of years for myprophetic completion-- a love likei say you’re beautiful when really i meanyou make my heart stop, likei was born to meet you or perhapsi’m actually breaking some universal lawof equilibrium; loving somethingso unnaturallybeautiful.i want a love like that:napkin poems, handwrittenand tender and accidental collisionsigniting a thousand forest firesbeneath my skin; me,blossoming like a wildfloweron a california highway, baskingin the sun and ignored definitionof earthly limitations. i want to believethat somewhere, there’s a boybuilt of summer sunsets and shooting starsfor every homesick girl who neverquite fit in, t
The Satori of Easter WaspsHornets don't regret.I can tell, the way they're trawling the egghunt like little Zen zygoteslooking for eves to cobble another nest of wombsfrom the damp distillery.They haven't cared for a million lives.All finalities, both my thrifty dreamsand those lofty tea clouds, when black and white would never do,when I had time to colour in their shells with crazy pinwheelsand hide them in ivy, they all parade through Grandma Becky'sbackyard garden.From bamboo rakes turning out the skyto the little spring torii that opens back to Earth,children run and rummage through a giant toybox in the shade.This is it, all of it: the slender brown bird that's not quite a sparrow,silent in the stone bath like she's listening for the militants,footfalls of ants bearing arms (or was it fruit)as they file across the backdoor threshold.I hide their tiny Eden in the dustwith the doormat. &
nightmarethe foxes are at your bedside and singing--feversongs,songs of boiling thoughtsand broken muscles.their lullabyes.they sneak so quiet, andsomehow,you can't quitedreamanymore.
A FeatherHere, in the feigned quiet of a bedroom that's never plainly restful,is not the dreamless sleep I was promised while reading novelsabout human frailty and how it can be overcome.There is no black of night when, for hours at a time,my synapses cease to fire or at least pace themselves:stretch like runners, envision ambition and set asidethe grueling hours of circling. To accomplish this,I want you to visualize an object, and when you wakefrom your meditation, that object will appear. Perhapsnot somewhere you can see it, but if you believe in it,it will have appeared somewhere. It's just the matterof finding it in the vastness of the your consciousnessthat complicates this process.I am dragged from one contemplation to the next ona object's path with no resistance. Gravity doesn't tempermy rages, my pity, my faith—I have tried to assign meaningto happenings, to symbolically shed my dysfunction by bathingwith the lights on or off, by shedding personal treasur
On The Collapse Of Modern Society"I've never seen so many folksputting their hopes in packaged air,as far as I'm concerned,and from what I've observedmisplacing material worth while rushing back and forthto get nowhere."my Grandma said, shaking her head.
Casual Bullshituncreative blasphemyis sometimes mistaken for high artin unprovoked conversationssuch as,"God isn't here,at least not as the spectrei imagined,so i've decided His absencewith a metaphor to hide my fearof responsibility,speaking in a rash personawith a new faithin nonsense."
bargainif you wanted me to,I could be your muse:I couldpaint your prose purple, prickyour metaphor ‘til it sang,lure your ideasinto lurid, tragic urgencyand watch them take flight.I could inspirewith the best of them,spill words like oilinto your open mouth, emptyhead: I couldmake my poetryyours.interested?
Big EyesI was reared toward codependenceon the jutting hip of a womanwho couldn't speak English,on the thrush tongue of a manwho couldn't hold his liquorand remarried to a gringa,a sympathy puker. Ammoniapaled the hair in my nostrils,kneeling on the third stair,plucking the big chunks upwith a napkin. I gagged,relapsed into the rolewhich wrote my schemesof intellectualization: crushingand cutting thin lines of diseases,inhaling the belonginginherent to helping a drunkup to his bedroom. It wasn't untilI walked through the aislesof a buzzing corporate womb,reading the recipes for diet sodaand composite fences, that Iwas birthed to an understandingthat empathy isn't weaknessif you can learn to distinguishright from wrong, heroin from china,selfishness from self-preservation.
Half an EpiphanyToday I realized:Yes, I believe in God,but I have yet to find Him.
Special Sundae Treat- Sammur-amat's Sunday FeaturePLEASE this feature and these wonderful works of art, thank you! The amount of artistic talent here on dA has always amazed me, I feel like it is a privilege to be able to feature such amazing pieces as these. Therefore, without further ado, this Sunday's Specials LITERATUREPoetry :thumb359055753: :thumb201519654::thumb364115597: :thumb363231856: :thumb364216853: :thumb365518983::thumb364905432: :thumb328290362: :thumb365720738: :thumb352586928:Prose:thumb361456286: :thumb365220761: :thumb363854568: :thumb365020290::thumb365047949: :thumb327681755: :thumb367871594: :thum
The wild curls, the bohemian blue-and white-striped shirt - the tungsten piercing look of a fully unfettered artist's soul (in other words: full blown madness)...
All I can say is: you're irresistibly sexy.