Spring’s ceaseless breeze; a petal bath. Prize-
winning weeds that tickle your calves. Old
Sisyphus getting God's helping hand.
This field of poppies in bloom for seasons;
even the sun's favorite daughter
will start searching for the tunnel.
How did your mind of many trenches fall here?
Here, a single charcoal leaf.
There, the pregnant moon shines a minute too long.
And a dark mirror floods your eyes.
Which road in these fields do you walk?
Who is it you have left behind?
The smell of exhaustion is close – an old friend, a past grave.
Will you ever return to sink
into one certainty among
cellar moss, reluctant aged gra
you are a memory that
seeps through skin,
slowly down my limb,
fresh from my veins;
the wraith of all my
empty dawns when
i float between yesterday and
tomorrow and
throw my fists at
today.
i could make you
perfect and
complex and
ethereal
and we could've been
star-crossed and
fey and
dying,
but the jaded truth is
you were just one and
we were none of that.
--
holes always manage to make their way into us.
the void creeps in,
quiet and shy,
pale-faced and sneering.
six walls.
miles away.
the echoing.
the losing.
such lost.
one cannot destroy themselves
without destroying others, too.
we just need to b
we are all remnants of sun dust.
we gurgle and bubble and squeak;
we bob on the rainbow waves of grey.
my flesh is filthy.
worms writhe under the heavy skin:
dead lumps of pale lines that chatter so loud.
the flesh is thick like tree bark
and grow on it eyes.
eyes draw more eyes, and one can never escape scrutiny.
i try to kill them worms: i stab, i slice, i clobber and i burn.
but what has an end must lead to a beginning,
and the cells morph alive once more.
out, out - out of this sack.
eagle masses scream.
hello, hello.
here, swallow this!
so back, back, into silent shadows,
where my fog-men suck souls
and i eat plasma.
she is best described as going,
always moving
for ever,
ephemeral,
drifting.
she is half-there,
almost gone,
lithe and leaving,
with hair that blends with disappearing smoke,
present only to an accidental
glance.
her blurred frame is
longing and sad,
tired of movement, maybe missing -
missing something.
she floats
through the slow rising of the mountains
like the mist. slowly,
sinking, to the whispering waters,
circling the lands, resting in dark rock crevasses, then
heaving higher, high to where sunlight may break through the heavens
but not quite, for light stings - it hurts, and she
dips down back under the shelter
i have seen the grey sea.
silence, silence - the waves of souls
breathed me soft death.
wails, whispers, wishes all washed away.
soothing emptiness embraced me quiet.
twenty nine hours, i was alive:
alone and hidden, peaceful in the void.
dirt, stone, rubble and all.
alive, alive, alive.
i have seen the light.
then caw! caw!
white fingers grab me.
they pull. i pull.
they pull me into the loud dark.
i am saved, and i am dead.
fie, fie!
why, why.
this ocean is burning fire with dead
skin from running lips, people spittle flooding my eyes.
they say, they say.
love, love.
precious like a diamond.
i cannot.
cannot.
cannot.
--
here are the endless folds of the world's charcoal skies where the
screeching moon rules and
teeth loom over horizons. my skin cage is too tight,
moving mouths
have invaded my head and we are all
tombless.
hot light
blinds, shining,
and poppies prance in circles til dead.
crow eyes glare.
you speak.
you speak. the fire-haired people speaks.
tick ticks, my head.
i shiver. and paint a red staining picture.
today, i leave
this sparkling world and my welted being behind.
--
within the cold walls my mirrors fade to kill the faces,
the chatter stops and the throbbing ceases.
the ticking hand in my brain falls dea
i. a fair wraith of fatality
even from here
i can hear the crunch of your brittle
ribcage as your bones sunder.
they look at you like you're a moonflower,
with their small green eyes and
low-chattering fingers.
they want to know
the things that are wrong with you:
poetry on discoloured skin,
burning cigarettes,
your twisted black nights,
fear of the sun,
mind's intrusion of flicking tongues and
pressed flesh and
fusing vitals-
and how you still haunt:
silhouette teetering on the blurred edges of our memories,
phoenix eyes behind ember hair,
just a trivial skyward curve of your lips.
yet has no one noticed: you're not breathing?
Frank sits at the cafe at 4 o'clock every afternoon with his Cavalier King Charles Spaniel on his lap, watching people walk up the cobblestoned street even though there really isn’t ever anything new to see. At 6 pm he floats home sipping slowly at his black coffee, staring at his feet and listening to the satisfying clomp of his hard leather shoe against the worn stones of the path.
He comes home and hangs up his coat then kisses Mia on the cheek.
She asks about his day.
"It was fine," he said, "thanks."
He watches her nimble fingers wrap around the teapot handle and watches the liquid flow and settle.
Mia smiles at him and bring
embers: a series for an end. by 520romeo, literature
Literature
embers: a series for an end.
i.
in the end
when you are warm where it is dark,
let the smooth cigar smoke tell you
i loved you most
and when we surrendered, i
lost nothing but myself,
that my attic still smells like
that sober sea of ours.
ii.
a writer's mind is as turbulent as
the wide Sargasso Sea.
i have shredded my closet on you.
i have tried to drown my bicycle
and i have jumped cliffs
in desperation.
someday my knees will kiss the grass
and i will turn my face to the icy sky,
let out the agony of twelve years.
i will beg for this copper watch to freeze
to give me time for a taste of memory.
then on that day i'll go free rein,
but i will
i. a fair wraith of fatality
even from here
i can hear the crunch of your brittle
ribcage as your bones sunder.
they look at you like you're a moonflower,
with their small green eyes and
low-chattering fingers.
they want to know
the things that are wrong with you:
poetry on discoloured skin,
burning cigarettes,
your twisted black nights,
fear of the sun,
mind's intrusion of flicking tongues and
pressed flesh and
fusing vitals-
and how you still haunt:
silhouette teetering on the blurred edges of our memories,
phoenix eyes behind ember hair,
just a trivial skyward curve of your lips.
yet has no one noticed: you're not breathing?
Spring’s ceaseless breeze; a petal bath. Prize-
winning weeds that tickle your calves. Old
Sisyphus getting God's helping hand.
This field of poppies in bloom for seasons;
even the sun's favorite daughter
will start searching for the tunnel.
How did your mind of many trenches fall here?
Here, a single charcoal leaf.
There, the pregnant moon shines a minute too long.
And a dark mirror floods your eyes.
Which road in these fields do you walk?
Who is it you have left behind?
The smell of exhaustion is close – an old friend, a past grave.
Will you ever return to sink
into one certainty among
cellar moss, reluctant aged gra
you are a memory that
seeps through skin,
slowly down my limb,
fresh from my veins;
the wraith of all my
empty dawns when
i float between yesterday and
tomorrow and
throw my fists at
today.
i could make you
perfect and
complex and
ethereal
and we could've been
star-crossed and
fey and
dying,
but the jaded truth is
you were just one and
we were none of that.
--
holes always manage to make their way into us.
the void creeps in,
quiet and shy,
pale-faced and sneering.
six walls.
miles away.
the echoing.
the losing.
such lost.
one cannot destroy themselves
without destroying others, too.
we just need to b
we are all remnants of sun dust.
we gurgle and bubble and squeak;
we bob on the rainbow waves of grey.
my flesh is filthy.
worms writhe under the heavy skin:
dead lumps of pale lines that chatter so loud.
the flesh is thick like tree bark
and grow on it eyes.
eyes draw more eyes, and one can never escape scrutiny.
i try to kill them worms: i stab, i slice, i clobber and i burn.
but what has an end must lead to a beginning,
and the cells morph alive once more.
out, out - out of this sack.
eagle masses scream.
hello, hello.
here, swallow this!
so back, back, into silent shadows,
where my fog-men suck souls
and i eat plasma.
she is best described as going,
always moving
for ever,
ephemeral,
drifting.
she is half-there,
almost gone,
lithe and leaving,
with hair that blends with disappearing smoke,
present only to an accidental
glance.
her blurred frame is
longing and sad,
tired of movement, maybe missing -
missing something.
she floats
through the slow rising of the mountains
like the mist. slowly,
sinking, to the whispering waters,
circling the lands, resting in dark rock crevasses, then
heaving higher, high to where sunlight may break through the heavens
but not quite, for light stings - it hurts, and she
dips down back under the shelter
i have seen the grey sea.
silence, silence - the waves of souls
breathed me soft death.
wails, whispers, wishes all washed away.
soothing emptiness embraced me quiet.
twenty nine hours, i was alive:
alone and hidden, peaceful in the void.
dirt, stone, rubble and all.
alive, alive, alive.
i have seen the light.
then caw! caw!
white fingers grab me.
they pull. i pull.
they pull me into the loud dark.
i am saved, and i am dead.
fie, fie!
why, why.
this ocean is burning fire with dead
skin from running lips, people spittle flooding my eyes.
they say, they say.
love, love.
precious like a diamond.
i cannot.
cannot.
cannot.
--
here are the endless folds of the world's charcoal skies where the
screeching moon rules and
teeth loom over horizons. my skin cage is too tight,
moving mouths
have invaded my head and we are all
tombless.
hot light
blinds, shining,
and poppies prance in circles til dead.
crow eyes glare.
you speak.
you speak. the fire-haired people speaks.
tick ticks, my head.
i shiver. and paint a red staining picture.
today, i leave
this sparkling world and my welted being behind.
--
within the cold walls my mirrors fade to kill the faces,
the chatter stops and the throbbing ceases.
the ticking hand in my brain falls dea
Frank sits at the cafe at 4 o'clock every afternoon with his Cavalier King Charles Spaniel on his lap, watching people walk up the cobblestoned street even though there really isn’t ever anything new to see. At 6 pm he floats home sipping slowly at his black coffee, staring at his feet and listening to the satisfying clomp of his hard leather shoe against the worn stones of the path.
He comes home and hangs up his coat then kisses Mia on the cheek.
She asks about his day.
"It was fine," he said, "thanks."
He watches her nimble fingers wrap around the teapot handle and watches the liquid flow and settle.
Mia smiles at him and bring
embers: a series for an end. by 520romeo, literature
Literature
embers: a series for an end.
i.
in the end
when you are warm where it is dark,
let the smooth cigar smoke tell you
i loved you most
and when we surrendered, i
lost nothing but myself,
that my attic still smells like
that sober sea of ours.
ii.
a writer's mind is as turbulent as
the wide Sargasso Sea.
i have shredded my closet on you.
i have tried to drown my bicycle
and i have jumped cliffs
in desperation.
someday my knees will kiss the grass
and i will turn my face to the icy sky,
let out the agony of twelve years.
i will beg for this copper watch to freeze
to give me time for a taste of memory.
then on that day i'll go free rein,
but i will
tWR Critiques You! With double the fun! by HugQueen, journal
tWR Critiques You! With double the fun!
What is "tWR Critiques You!"?
Find out HERE, on the first blog entry we posted.
tWR Critiques You! is great to read if you want to get better at critiquing! (:
And why double the fun?
Since we haven't posted one of these articles in too long, we'll be doing a double feature today. (: We'll be studying Lychalis (https://www.deviantart.com/lychalis) and 520romeo (https://www.deviantart.com/520romeo) 's galleries and writing. :D
Let's start with 520romeo...
The work he wanted critiqued was Seven Bad Things of Minds:
So let's see what flashes right at us from the first glimpse. The formatting of the poem, undoubtedly - why was it done? 520romeo (https://www.deviantart.com/520romeo) asks if it helps understand the poem, so let's read it a first time.
Featured Member XXXVIII: ~520romeo by theWrittenRevolution, journal
Featured Member XXXVIII: ~520romeo
:spotlight-left: 520romeo (https://www.deviantart.com/520romeo) :spotlight-right:
~520romeo (https://www.deviantart.com/520romeo)
Featured by cherrichan13 (https://www.deviantart.com/cherrichan13)
520romeo (https://www.deviantart.com/520romeo) has a gift with words. There is always an underlying emotion or story below what is portrayed.
:thumb257057055:
the truth about evolution.
"grandpa finished. but then grandpa faded. he printed out a copy of his memoir, was proud of it for a month, then tucked it away and i haven't heard anyone speak of it since."
I love the way :dev5520romeo: chose to go about unraveling the plot line. The way the story is written reflects the effects the grandpa had and felt.
:thumb195335851:
freeze those apple faces.
"i don't think i can match col
My DeviantART Story: A Journey of 9 DeviantYears by sophiaazhou, journal
My DeviantART Story: A Journey of 9 DeviantYears
Ok, so it's not exactly nine years yet, but at the end of this year it will be! And that's a long time time, if you stop to think about it, so I'm stopping to think about it to reflect on this nine-year journey through dA, seeing as 9 is such a lovely number.
I joined this site at the tail-end of 2005, back when I was in highschool and I thought winesoaked-roses would make the most awesome username...it didn't, so I'm not that anymore (thank goodness dA added the ability to change one's username, because I think having the username is why I took a speckled 2-year-on-off hiatus a few years ago; why would I think wine-soaked roses are lovely?
someone asked me for advice today-
a girl, fourteen, tear stains down her cheeks,
stick-thin wrists and fingers curling and clenching
searching for something to hold on to.
and all i could think to say
to this girl with hungry eyes and desperate hands
was, “it gets better.”
it took hours, driving home
before i was able to give name to the curling unclenching feeling inside me
the raw hunger, the razor-edged desperation,
the taste of the words i couldn’t find.
what i didn’t say;
you, with your hollow bones,
your spiderweb scars across your thighs,
your shattering thoughts inside your skull-
i know you.
i know how
“Sometimes we lay aside our own troubles when we wipe away another's tears.”
—Seneca
By techgnotic (https://www.deviantart.com/techgnotic)
Apart...
Is no longer alone
T
his life is not easy; a winding, sometimes whimsical, sometimes tragic journey that ultimately finds terminus in the same common destination for each of us. No matter the brave, fierce constructs we build and serve that would have us believe we are each one of us all alone as we make this journey, we make our way toward the end of all things side-by-side in our community of the living each day defying death. Our paths may be wildly divergent—the way of the hungry and impov
If fatigue could grind down
cosmic energy in the center
of the universe
and in your center
like you are
grinding nutmeg and cinnamon
onto your cappuccino,
stirring
the little cup of storm
with your bent spoon
and eating raw walnuts
with the poet
tumbling
out of the person
in sportive vapors,
this is
what has mesmerized you
to me: being wrapped up
entirely
by the silhouette of your
coming and going,
nurturing the pearl
you have broken off of
a universal necklace,
your button picked off
of the universal sweater
draped around my shoulders
when we tour the little towns
that stand over the Hudson
like haloed hallucinations.
I would h
Spring’s ceaseless breeze; a petal bath. Prize-
winning weeds that tickle your calves. Old
Sisyphus getting God's helping hand.
This field of poppies in bloom for seasons;
even the sun's favorite daughter
will start searching for the tunnel.
How did your mind of many trenches fall here?
Here, a single charcoal leaf.
There, the pregnant moon shines a minute too long.
And a dark mirror floods your eyes.
Which road in these fields do you walk?
Who is it you have left behind?
The smell of exhaustion is close – an old friend, a past grave.
Will you ever return to sink
into one certainty among
cellar moss, reluctant aged gra
do you like roses?
what is your favourite colour of rose?
grrrlrlsdghgh goodnight.
i apologise for being boring.
thank you for watching me.
i hate spring.
i have a tumblr now.
hello: emptydawns.tumblr.com http://emptydawns.tumblr.com/
for those of you doing nanowrimo, best of luck! its rigidity is simply something i can't do. plus i have college apps and IB which basically consume my life already, and i may or may not be lazy and a terrible writer.
anyway. i am not dead; i am simply tired for now.
those affected by sandy, i hope you stay safe.
i am going to take a walk in our storm over here soon.
keep writing, everyone.
:blackrose:
hello!
so i am curious. do you fancy rhyming poetry, or not so? and fixed forms, also?
i am nothing
tell me something interesting again?
maybe dreams. dreams are always interesting.
my dreams are either hostile like grey wonderlands, or they haunt me the way the human body does.
how be your lives?
have a nice day. you all are wonderful people. i don't doubt. :blackrose:
thank you for stopping by :)
and while you're here, i think it's worthwhile to say that the sick hydrangeas in my new poem are lonely. perhaps pay them a visit when you have time?
i thank you for them. :)
:heart: