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you, a garden.your flesh like smooth-lilies,
eyes like cosmic-daffodils.
there is the garden of your soul,
which i have often wandered-
plucking at petals and
blissfully unaware that beauty lives
only when observed through gentle eyes,
and withers at the slightest touch of
this is not fucking.with her-
i am confused,
my soul full of light-black contrasts
forms with no line
heavy value with no colour
deep strokes in graphite, charcoal
the blackest-whites and whitest-blacks
a thousand grays
warm through cool, but never
crossing the spectrum into reality
subconscious murmurs, whispers
thick moans dripping with lust
this is my body and my mind
rough outlines of thoughts
and your hands so soft
against the mountains of my spine
i feel your warmth,
your lasting heat
your fingernails so gentle against my shoulder-blades
making 3d planes on my framework
i move with you in my soul
“and the holy dove was moving too”
this is not fucking
this is making love in the spiritual sense
i am wrapping my arms around your eyelids
clutching at your desires
breathing out your next breath
inhaling your carbon dioxide,
this is nirvana
we are together now
not fucking, no
this is not just the union of two bodies
this is the ov
i am conflicted.and i am lost in a reality of
“maybe” spoken by head, and
“yes” spoken by heart.
i am but orchids pushing through the sidewalk cracks-
or the cause of an untimely change in direction.
i am the gasping of lovers ripe with lust,
and smoke ring o’s of those stuck in til’ death do they part.
i am ill,
ripped in opposite directions;
i am a living paradox.
how is it that friendship turned into false love?
“no” unhesitatingly spoken and
so quickly withdrawn, agony in each “i’m sorry.”
in my desire for the anecdote to my loneliness,
i paved a road of inevitable collapse.
what is it that i thought could come of this,
what did i so foolishly submit myself to?
why do i always follow my head instead of my heart?
i am done fitting myself into this sharp-edged box of my own creation,
done with my self-inflicted unhappiness,
done with overthinking the simplest things.
i am following my half-soul,
my bruised insides s
the city song.it burns it’s harsh breath through my lungs. bitter grinds of tobacco and old coffee sting my throat- their taste spreading to my fingertips and tingling violently; i have seen wolves and dark shadows in the corners of my eyes but screams are now tormenting my subconscious. when i listen to the music of the winds in cities black with pollution i can hear women pleading for mercy and cruel laughs of evil men. they deliver images of rape and abuse through my dreams.
when will the world show the angry creatures lurking under porches and young children’s beds? they hide but move swiftly and their reign is becoming apparent.
i can see people walking with their clothing strewn low and their hats turned backwards; their breath is of highs and lows and all that creeps in between the lines. self-discovery is self-mutilation and it difficult for most to come to terms with their true vile nature.
a gunshot rings in the night- it is not just a sound but an implication of death and fear
The Lost PrinceThis is about Louis-Charles,
hear his story through
it took up his entire life,
but is only a minute to you.
He was young and he was kind,
his nature innocent.
He took not one person's life,
but now he lies discontent.
He was taken from his mother
when red, white and blue;
had taken people's minds and burned through.
He and his parents were secluded,
in a room built for two.
He screamed for his governess,
and she could only save little Lou.
His mother's hair is spread
over the base of a guillotine,
his father soon will follow
with fear barely seen.
Little Louis is all alone now,
taken away from his governess-
and all she can do is sadly vow
to never let them surround him in darkness.
She quickly bounds up the roof,
her feet wrapped in gauze.
The guards have not yet found any proof
for the firework's cause.
She's bringing you light little Louis,
she'll never abandon her post
because you asked for beauty,
and you're the one for which she cares the most.
a pathetic poem for you.
your hair is black as night
and though you have no wings,
you always seem to take flight.
your pores are dripping with light,
i soak in all of these things
(i scream in delight).
and unlike you she was dark,
her passion low- she brings
memories of pain and of leaving marks.
she was like a shark,
you like spring
you brought me out of those cries and barks.
you taught me how to sing.
it feels like strings are cutting off my circulation- jerky movements that don't cease (i'm side to side up to down thrown towards the sky).
i'm a puppet to my addictions.
your raw-edge-hands are tracing the outline of my frock dress. old-skin rough-callouses unwanted hands. i remember them and i think of glass and ash. your hair was red and so was your bed, that i knew so very well. i remember your contrast-form on the sheets. you were dreaming but you were dead- drunk and passed out. i wept. my age was young, at only one when you gave me love for grown-ups and prom and under the starlight with candles.
i guess i'll stop trying to make it sound beautiful. there is nothing to bring light to. this darkness brought no light.
sometimes my words aren't pretty- sometimes they aren't sweet. (right now they're filled with pain and loss and defeat.)
i see you sometimes in the shadows and under the moon. the wind is running its hands through your hair. you look tired. (go to sleep daddy, please go to sleep now.)
it's hard to remember when all you want to do is forget. (when your dreams are filled with only love and regret.)
stop it daddy, it hurts.
FallowWhen I was a little girl, we lived in a house with a nectarine tree. My father tended to it faithfully, watering it and pruning away the dead wood and the branches that would grow too heavy with time, sealing the trimmed edges with care. Each spring, it bore a can-can line of frilly, fragrant petticoat blossoms, cast away wantonly beneath the carnal attentions of buzzing cyprian bees. Each summer, it groaned beneath the weight of fruit, ripening in heavy round golden bellies, basking in the honeyed California sunlight, serene and assured in its fecundity. For a glorious few weeks, we would eat nectarines all day long, in as many creative applications as we could think of, canning the excess for a taste of summer in the fallow months to come.
One spring, the tree dropped every one of its leaves, instead flowering in a veritable nova of blooms… somehow, it sensed the end of its long, slow life, and in one last tremendous effort, it sank all of its energies into posterity, producing
She used to owe God gratitude for her every achievement, by the colour of her life did she pray for jumping stars to chase the sky. Her destiny was to be Mulan, a disciple, a paladin who wielded life; a hero - pillar of humanity. Yet she wondered if stained glass was as messy as her pastel drawings, layers of struggles under layers of hues, did visitors look at those crooked contours and praise it as a work of genius?
She always preferred to use pen rather than pencil, albeit she loathed to admit her flaws, she thought that it would make her seem more grown up. Still, did those erratic scrawls substitute inked apologies? Has she been waiting for adulthood, where her pulse is flat like her waiting, waiting for second chances?
She loved how there were infinite respawns and infinite time she planned to spend on video games. Monsters were engineered to be defeated and players were drones on suicide missions, dropping full stops on the confusion which she
TopangaMy Favorite Rabbit Story
I tell this story often to speak to the intelligence of rabbits from my own personal experience. This involves my first rabbit, a big orange doe named Topanga. It was the late nineties, so Boy Meets World was on the air, which was where we got the name. We had made it a family tradition to name our pets alphabetically after I got my first two mice, Albina and Beatrice. After them, it was the parakeets Cecelia and David, then another mouse, Eric. After Albina and Beatrice passed, we bought two more, Falene and Ginger who I bred to Eric, resulting in a number of babies, whose names I can’t even recall, up to the letter S. So, when we got our rabbit, we were at T and I went with Topanga.
My stepdad was the one who spotted her. He was looking out the window and said there was an orange rabbit in the yard, which we didn’t quite believe until we looked for ourselves. There she was, just about as orange as a carrot. She was quite ta
The EncounterI saw him at the grocery store on a Thursday. His hair was cut shorter then before and he looked as pale as the moon. He was wearing that gawd awful jacket with the brown stripes around his thin frame. It had been 6 months. Maybe more. To be honest it felt like a million years was passing between the minutes.
Some would probably accuse my actions of staring at this man for so long rude. And it was, so please don't argue with me. Now...you don't know this man. But I do. Or....I did. He was someone very special to me, but I soon realized that the entire relationship was nothing but fake smiles and pretend make up on his end. Which hurt. Although I did fight through it and I still tried to be helpful, even though I knew it was in vain and he didn't give two fucks about me. I wanted more then anything to be close to him. Even if he pushed me away.
He had attempted suicide on countless days the year I met him. He would talk to me every night, and we would stay up until dawn talking. For so
Everyone was a bully somehowWe've probably all bullied someone at some point, no matter how much we deny it. Whether directly through angry, thoughtless comments, or indirectly by standing aside and saying nothing, we've all been a part of this horrible practice. We didn't mean for it to hurt, but it did.
Sure, everyone hates that annoying kid who constantly yells "I'm single!" whenever someone's talking about relationship problems, but that doesn't mean you have to pick on him.
Sure, everyone judges that girl for her lengthy dating history and skimpy clothing, but that doesn't mean you should call her a slut.
Sure, that somehow-popular guy bullies everyone, but that doesn't mean you have to be mean to him in return.
Sure, that girl isn't as athletic as the rest of the team, but that doesn't mean you should refuse to acknowledge her very existence for years on end.
So what do you do?
Be that one person who apologizes for bullying the poor kid. Tell people that enough is enough. Listen to him (although maybe you'r
Funny Antics: Children: Part 1I'm in the process of changing to a new job, but, like with most jobs, you do collect those few little laughs. And with children these moments are always dancing around waiting to be caught and savoured. So, whilst this is not a formal piece of writing, there are a few little examples of what I've collected over some time.
1. Child: When I first started I was worried you would be the mean one.
Me: Me?! What made you think that?
Child: Because you were the room leader, and you never did your hair.. it was always in ponytails.
Me: And now?
Child: Well you're my favourite, I soon got to know you
(Really I should have stopped here)
Me: But.. but.. I STILL wear the pony tails.
Child: Oh yeah, I know, don't get me wrong, your hair still like, seriously needs a doctor or something! You honestly can't spend your life just in pony tails! Who even still wears them these days? It's sooooo uncool.
Well. That Tells Me. AND WHAT'S WRONG WITH PONYTAILS!?!?!? D: It was like getting a lecture off my mu
The CallThis is a written record of what happened on October 16th, 2013. My mother received a Kidney-Pancreas Transplant that day and this story is written from my point of view.
It all began around 5:55 A.M., my mother received what the family referred to as "The Call." I don't know what woke me up , but I remember my mom saying "No I haven't eaten anything... yes, I'll be there. Ok... goodbye."
I fell back asleep as my mom went into my little brother's room and told him what was going on. I heard her say that it was probably going to be a false alarm (meaning that she had been called to the hospital, but laboratory results said that something was wrong with either her or the organs) and that she would be home by noon. She came into my room and repeated what she said.
The day was also the day that my school took a major test (I believe it was the ACT. I am not sure). So you can imagine that my nerves were pretty thin by the time I was halfway through the dar
Doubt ch 1She looked at me with a sly smile, as if trying to put the mischief she had in mind into my own head. But was it actually mischief? I've seen that smile before when she wanted to do something against the rules. I looked back at her, not saying a word until the stare dragged out and I didn't know what she wanted from me.
"What?" I asked.
"I have something for you." She replied. "Well, for us." She dug into her bag pulling out a note pad while looking over her shoulder. It was one of those standard notebooks you use for school, with a purple front and a coil along the side to turn the pages easily. She held it out to me, and on the front it had our names side by side.
"Its so we can write letters to each other and look back on what we wrote. I wrote you the first letter." She pushed the notebook into my hands. As I began to open it she placed her hand on top of it, forcing it shut.
"Don't read it while I'm here. Read it later so the teachers don't catch on were passing notes."
an honest letter.
if i only had one minute left to live i would cry because you weren't here with me.
although, maybe i would just remember you and hope you had the best life possible. you deserve it, you know. you always try to boost my self-esteem, but you don't love yourself nearly as much as i think you should. i don't know, i just think you deserve to be happy- so fucking happy that it isn't even funny. what can i do that will make you content? even the most random thing, i'll do it.
you help me much more than you could imagine. even though i smoke and burn and cut and cry i always get through it, but if i didn't have you i might not be so lucky.
so, i guess what i'm trying to say is thank you for making my life worth living.
A Guide to Writing DialogueWhat is dialogue, exactly? The definition from Merriam-Webster’s dictionary was several lines long, so I shall summarize it in a short sentence for the sake of the readers; it’s the writing that illustrates conversations between two or more characters in a story. We read and hear it all around us, but creating it in your own work can be a challenge. However, if you find dialogue an obstacle in your writing, then don’t push the panic button. In this tutorial, you’ll find by analyzing what dialogue can do and how to use it, you can turn your greatest fear into your greatest ally in your story.
What dialogue is
Like I’ve asserted before, dialogue is basically what the characters are saying to each other. It can be found in multiple mediums such as books, movies, comics, video games, etc. We even engage in dialogue daily without even thinking. When you talk to your best friend, a co-worker, or even your dog, you create dialogue. It’s exchang
five.Five is the number of times you worry he’s stopped breathing, as the surgeons carve around his heart, twisting away the plaque ridden arteries, and pulling a vein out of his leg. Five is the number of heart wrenching hours you and your family were waiting in the hospital room, worried that your lives would crumble, that there would be five members of the family instead of six, that five days out of the week he would not come home for dinner, that five kisses from him would no longer be given to his wife and four children. Five was the amount of fingernails you bit off while watching people enter and exit the waiting room, and the amount of minutes your mother spent on the phone, explaining that something was wrong. Five is the critical difference between holding a father’s hand as your mother cries into his heart shaped pillow. The difference between rejoicing and smiling weakly because he’s okay or carrying your father’s American-flag-covered-casket and watchin
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Endorell-Taelos is very well known within the community for her selfless giving and gracious community spirit. Since joining DeviantART over seven years ago, Alicia has continued to make a positive impact on many deviants. Her helpful and thoughtful approach was one of her finest attributes when serving as a Community Volunteer, and this has continued throughout the many contests which Alicia provides on a regular basis. As we approach our Birthday celebrations, we can't... Read More