New Guidelines for Community Weeks For those of you that may not know yet, a Community Week is a chance for everyone in the community to bring to light their favourite subject, art, project or any other topic that you consider important but may get overlooked otherways. If you're interested in participating in the next Community Weeks, then please read the following info!
TranscendenceI'd like to be the sun as well as the moon:
frostbittenmy fragmented bones are
Bitlets 72An oxymoron is not yet an oxymoron
lacus autumnitoward winter, the night
to the girl teaching herself to flyShe is trapped by a moonlit mind,
fish in a tree.here's the thing,
GravityThere’s a pressure in my bones
5:41.there's no use
reality vs. pretendi.
The International Cheetah Day Challenge 2013!Updates: Tomorrow is ICD!!! If you haven't had time to make your own art, you can download an infographic from the CCF here and upload it to help make deviantART's homepage explode with cheetahs!
Sound PoemIthrumden, ithrumden delsum
nith mul thruss elmrissull.
Eth rut mundelliss
Curmiette dessel renrin
irme trell ithrumden.
ToysI found the shoebox
in my mother’s bedside drawer
when I was nine:
furry, plush handcuffs,
Rudolph’s nose on a belt,
objects like popsicles
When you’re nine you don’t get a rise
out of bondage or sadomasochism,
instead, I see the handcuffs,
the gag, and my secret weapon:
my trusty phallic baton
all ready for use the next time
I play Cops ‘n’ Robbers.
Bitlets 70He mopes with the letters
he has stolen from poems;
decides to learn the ropes
with letters he took from prose.
Twenty: For ZeanShe and I sleep face to face
in the shape of a photograph
of yesterday from tomorrow
in different rooms in homes
full of strangers;
I forget what their names were.
Twenty: I am Still AliveI've built a house of Hallmark cards
stacked against itself,
but I can't say how many times
'happy birthday' read as 'twenty'
is mismatched with how many times I am still alive.
But I could never see my hands
being the method I'm murdered with
and the logic is difficult to explain; I'm not that bad—
I've fucked up good—
but I'm not that bad
and I've built this house of Hallmark cards
stacked against itself to see if it will still stand.
Karmacoma w/ JakesExceptionWe’re all in some cosmic paper-chain,
where every set of joined hands –
and all those robed in plaster-bands –
are stretched across the galaxy:
A community in the infinity.
Yet, we find ourselves on Earth.
There's a karma to the coma-
toes of ambulances carrying
and job-interview smiles asking:
can I pick you off the ground?
My soles have never touched the soil;
from morn to eve, we heave and toil
to pull the sun around again –
to force the teen out from his skin –
ultraviolet burns for cowards:
Forest bulbs alter every genus.
The emeritus medical technician is
misquoting mosquitoes with intravenous;
green-light, green-light, green light–
For the first time in a thousand spins,
the pink strings around our wrists fall –
there is nothing to support our call.
I rip away.
I am not what I've worn;
I am who I have worn down.
Bitlets 50Today I introduced Manray to Pollock.
They made a photonegative night sky
but didn't know what to call it. Handed
it to me so I could name it as I saw fit—
then I let them know— don't hold out
the portrait without the canvas.
Take you to the basementLet me take you to the basement where there is a chair set aside for her by a neighbor. She is 12, you are 12 and some of your friends are a year or two older than you are when you condescendingly smirk and reply to her in front of your peers "I dunno if you're mature enough to hang out with us." You are referring to her size and stature, hinting at her development as a woman and her timid nature. What you see in her eyes you have interpreted as your victory of rejection, and she slinks away, scratching at her forearms.
You see, when you put her down in such a fashion she wasn't thinking about how she wouldn't be able to get to know you better; her mind was remembering a hot day the summer before when she entered her neighbor's house. The neighbor directed her towards the basement. He followed her and suggested she sit down in that chair the moment her feet touched the cold stone floor of the basement. The tone in his voice was commanding, and against her better instincts she sat down,
If Then You PauseTo the girl under the covers at noon:
If you pause by the wine
with tight jeans, theatrical boys
speaking bokeh and braille
and the hungry look that asks
‘why are we made with holes?’
If then you pause by the wine
I want to tell you things
I’ll tell you when you’re older:
that the best orange you’d ever eat
would be the taste of a man
girl with the iron lungI can see hard-fought fire in your eyes
wrapping you in curling-irons' cords and mascara stains.
You know I am introverted, I feel it in your bones
as they carry you across snowed-in roads,
the words 'retarded' and 'not right' wavering in your head.
I can hear the whispers on your cheeks
coiling around exhaust pipes and machinery.
You think we are all made of star dust and that honesty
is synonymous with hostility; I hate you
and your idiosyncrasies, your tiny tics and twitches.
I can see the red light district's claws
twisting your hair into its braids. We are all whores
but you sell yourself in a new kind of way, flaunting
what you've got and wrapping pictures around empty boxes.
Strip yourself bare for rich philistines if you will,
but loosen your fingernails from my lungs:
I've a curious desire to breathe for myself.
*The Cathedral*Graveyard sparkles, coat of frost
Souls sleep in comfort none are lost
Yew trees stand's silent friend
Up the pathway faithful wend.
Illuminated Christmas star
Penitants travel from afar
Spiritual comfort, blessed peace
Worldly concerns find release
Stained glass window does inspire
Glorious colours flame desire
Insence smells and bells so pure
Winter Cathderal, open door.
i.by the grace of an orphan winter,
i have known you
babel, babylon: eyes raptured rare and hands
to strange knowing and throat bruising
pale against the press
. ...such sudden gods. such taken
you stumble where night falls
too far to the left; my wild garden
old dusks, blue
When we die~Some say,
That when we die,
Death will claim us.
With no remorse,
Just cold empty eyes,
And a cruel sharp blade,
To harvest our soul.
That when we die,
We are greeted with Angels.
With the gentleness,
Of the sun on the grass,
And we'll take our place,
On seats made of gold.
That when we die,
We are greeted by Death.
With a smile.
Of an old friend,
That we have missed,
And makes us whole.
A Freshwater Soulyou didn't dream he'd tear blank walls, whip
furled fists, let partly tattered tales slip
early echoes, and allow
the lonely ships to sink, baring bows.
sail sea. river, remove
yourself far forth. prepare to prove
that you can keep a gruelling grip.
BreatheTake a breath,
just breathe and you will
get through this...
never know where
we are going,
we can choose a direction,
but the world
has a funny way
of guiding us
to a place we never imagined.
I can't imagine
there is a reason behind it all,
why we end up
strung about so haphazardly,
there is a point,
maybe there is a reason.
I don't quite know
where you will end up
at the end
of your days,
or the end of today,
we both know that we
can never fully sever,
you can't quite admit it.
there is more at play here
than just two people,
an entire universe acting out a plan,
executing a strategy
that is sewn
into the very fabric
of our beings,
that which we call a soul
is the rope
which binds us together.
I close my eyes
because right now
it is hard
to look at anything,
they will open again
will fall back to me...
you have to release what you love
and let it find its way back
because the journey
will prove to the mi
(i am)phetaminehard to swallow -
that is the only phrase i know that comes close
the only phrase that almost
wraps it's mouth around
this is here because i heard the newborns
screaming that their toes were cold,
that they deserved to be loved
their lungs can re-assemble what they've borrowed
give it back
this is the firearm that my uncle gave me
when i was three
i am pointing it at your heart
you need to feel the hands of fear on your back
you need to hear it whisper,
and realize that it never tells you where you're going
six years ago i was afraid i'd lose her
told her that she was the spark
for all i'd done
that afternoon, the dogs came running
that afternoon, she decided she was theirs
six years ago i was afraid i'd never live if i stayed sober
one more day
i smoked a cigarette
drank a mug of schnapps
i went to bed alone that night
running down the bedspreads
and puddling along the hardwood floor
one last thing before you're free to go -
To GrandfatherI lost him
in the ruins of his lungs.
I go out of myself
looking for him
in the mirror
& autumn eyes
filled with dirt water
is the only resemblance
to paint his face
I go out looking
for you everyday in the cemetery
hoping your soul
could knock at my eyelids.
I lost everything
in the ruins of your lungs
but your hands
are the only things
I yearn for.
Decembrai find love at my doorstep,
pale and pining,
a fawn with bundles of lavender
in the folds of its limbs,
chrysanthemums and candle light threaded
through its veins,
love thick and smothered
across its irises.
i've got the window with the best view,
and it's you,
laid back, love, laid back.
the last of the seasons.i.
winter’s child is a little boy
dressed in white, his feet bare,
leaving no imprint in his wake.
he visits you at night,
painting your windows with frost and crystals.
his beautiful pale eyes speak an unfathomable sorrow,
and he disappears in the twinkle of an eye,
gone in a flurry of shimmering flakes.
winter’s maiden is delicate and pale.
watch as she sweeps by in diaphanous gowns of
ice and snow.
her voice is silver,
her eyes the cold stars above.
you give your heart to her
and she smiles enigmatically,
leaving you behind in wondering silence.
winter’s youth is brazen and grim.
he roars his defiance at the golden days of Summer,
shaking windowpanes with the gust of his breath,
freezing and withering with his touch
the dying remnants of golden autumn.
his steed is the northern wind,
and he passes you by, his face a mask,
his gaze stone.
slaps us in the face
while the blackbirds sing
"bye bye, baby,"
leaves too quickly,
oh, too soon,
and we are left
from the freezing
one last goodbye
for golden locks
Through the Eyes of the Monster"You're so much easier to see at night
and even though you've trapped yourself
into the darkness of a steadfast cage
there emanates from your past a light..."
Walking down a wet paved path
A mother and child cross the street to avoid me
And I can't help but think, good idea
Wish I could run away from myself too
Ripped sweatshirt and drenched
From sleeping on cardboard all night
Dad just needed a break from me, that's all
It must be hard on him, me as a burden
They always ask, "Why are you so wound up?"
I don't know, but I do know the knot in my chest
Only gets tighter and tighter
Until I snap
Outbursts, causing trouble, wreaking havoc
I think maybe a part of me even enjoys it
And it sickens me, the look of pity and fear on their faces,
And I want to say I'm sorry, but I can't.
So I'll just hate myself for being a monster
And wait for the next time I snap
Maybe I'll throw a chair across the room
Or scream at my mother again
But it won't matter, cau
Take a look at the 4th Edition of Designn Magazine, it's my first contribution!
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