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About Literature / Hobbyist Senior Member Lili Leader-WilliamsFemale/United States Groups :iconddsuggestiondrive: DDSuggestionDrive
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Deviant for 6 Years
Core Member 'til Hell freezes over
Statistics 537 Deviations 16,642 Comments 171,841 Pageviews

Random from DDs I've Featured

i'm sorry for only writing sad things,
but saturday night i wanted to offend god
into listening to just one line- needed to drag someone
into hearing the roar between my ears with me.
i'd like to write something you can put music to-
lyrical and pretty. funny. maybe irreverent.
but today what is most real to me
is not laughter. it is feeling short of breath.
empty of poetic language. unfunny. too long
for a limerick. unsuited to sonnets. musical only 
in the slamming of my heart.  an erratic beat
at best. endings. comparing crises of the mind
to someone throwing up in the bathroom
after too much beer pong and hard rock-
both are shameful to repeat in therapy
and i feel like i cannot stop ruining parties. 
needing steady hands for these atlas shoulders
that will not relax. staircases white like
imagined hospitals. thinking i should say
call me an ambulance. crying. not calling
an ambulance. not calling a taxi, i can't call
a taxi, i don't have money for a taxi, holding
my breath. 4, 7, 4. 4, 7, 4. in.
:icon1nkl1ng:1nkl1ng 167 55
Padre del Tiempo
Shrinking tree bark and the smell of absence
God— or something—
She's been here, telling the snow to fall
and the bloom that I will bring another day.
:iconcraazhy:Craazhy 43 10
november is calling
I trace your ink-infused skin
with my wanting fingertips
and I remember the better
days. You were younger
once and I was sweeter
once, and we shared a
prison cell called love.
You are no longer baby-
faced and I have hair down
to my waist, and you smoke
cigarettes and you drink
whiskey because you want to
be a man’s man. You kiss me
sweetly for the fifth year
in a row, even though I
haven’t known what it’s like
to call you mine in four.
I can’t detach myself from
your wanting gaze, the way
you look at me when I shed
my skin. I can’t let go of your
laugh and your blue-green-grey
eyes, the way you smirk and pull
me close to your heat.
There is a tomahawk on your
arm and I trace its black lines
and the softness of your skin,
and I pray that it will not always
be this way.
:icon19seconds:19seconds 66 30
grief on an answering machine
chemistry tells us
matter cannot be destroyed
but changes
from one form to another.
           i heard you today
           on old voicemails;
       the voice that kisses
the boundaries of being,
screaming the conservation of the soul,
tells me you are here
even when you are not
/ /
   it is only a sound.
i have remembered a plethora of them; searching
for the moments i can remember your nervous humming, your raucous prayers.
but i only know the staccato breaths of a starting engine
i have spoken sotto voce into the mouths of unripe girls
i hear lawnmowers screaming in yards they burned down to build a shopping mall
i fuck a boy to the sound of passing trains.
these are sounds to throw away, sounds i do not need
but your voice is not one of them
/ /
   mourning you is a second language
and i am stumbling through sentences.
i don’t know the word for ‘goodbye’
so teach m
:iconignotism:ignotism 112 27
The Great Francus
See, now, a house.  It’s a typical house, two storeys, one-car garage.  A small front lawn stretches out to the curb, with a ditch at the end, and a mid-sized maple tree in the middle.  It’s spring, so the leaves are coming back, the lawn’s looking fairly green.
Take a closer look at the house, past the red bricks and Leave It To Beaver near-perfection of the design.  Go further.  A living room with a 32-inch television and a couple of gaming systems; no blu-ray player yet, but give them time, it’s in the budget.  There’s a kitchen, with a rarely used breakfast bar, an impeccably clean white tiled floor, and a small table with that morning’s paper opened to the comics, an empty coffee cup beside it.  A dining room with a nice chandelier that’s there mainly for show, and candelabras on the long dining room table for a bit of class.  There’s a drawing room, too, with ni
:iconvaldrin:Valdrin 45 31
Mature content
Some Violence Required :iconleyghan:leyghan 26 41
I love the marks that a woman’s clothes leave on her body. I love the red indents and the proof of a long day before she even opens her mouth.
Tight socks circumventing ankle bones. A watch cutting a bit too tightly around a pulse. The alluringly simple bra straps; wire pressing up into the impossibly soft undersides of breasts; the cryptic clasp nestled between shoulder blades. The imprint of lace and elastic on the taut tender tendon of the inner thigh. The geography of jeans around the hips and trailing along the legs like railroad tracks. The line on her cheek from when she fell asleep on the bus home.
I love the luxurious sigh when it all puddles to the floor, shedding this artificial skin. Remnants of weariness leave whispers on the body.
And after all she has been through, she still comes to me and allows me to trace these whispers with my fingertips, eyes, lips. She doesn't cover herself and doesn't hide and lets me in.
We leave the lights on.
:iconindigoskyes:IndigoSkyes 162 75
I don't want to die.
No one does, I suppose. It's a natural human instinct to keep on living. But that doesn't stop the hands of fate. The hands that, as soon as their cold fingertips brush against your skin, you're gone.
The hands of the ones they call Angels.
They aren't real angels. Real angels don't exist. Just as God doesn't exist. There are no benevolent beings with crystalline white wings and halos burning with heavenly fire - there is no supreme existence sitting on a golden throne watching from above. Not anymore, at least. If they ever did exist then we killed them long ago and as punishment, the universe created the Angels that we know now.
It was an accident. As are most things these days. Three hundred and then some years ago, back when people still went to church and prayed to whatever deity they had conjured up in their minds, it happened. The stories say it was a joint effort of an elite handful of scientists gathered from around the world. They had meant well; s
:iconlupus-astra:lupus-astra 137 37
The Gap - Page 38 by Peris-Productions The Gap - Page 38 :iconperis-productions:Peris-Productions 273 47
she must have dreamed him,
assembled of slow pieces
that clutched
and called in the dark
she is a temple
and he is dismantling her
with chorused glories
that terrace and
he bleeds desire,
an ache to sculpt her;
a curse born of ruin,
a silence crafted sharp
in flickered glances
and in flame.
she must have known him,
borne witness as he
stormed and conquered
with shadows rampant
at his back
and she must have seen him
behind shut eyes;
not as he will be
nor as he is,
but as she
would have him;
arching hallelujahs
under the domes
of her doomed
:iconlissomer:Lissomer 92 53
Monsanto Cafe
He looked up from his chemistry notes to see her staring at him intently from across the table. She sat with her hands clasped around a cup of dandelion tea, eyebrows furrowed and lips frowning bright red over the white china rim.
“Do you ever stop and think,” she said, slowly and purposefully, “that you could have been a binder?”
He looked down at the binder in his hands. She’d been staring at his notes, not at him. “Sorry, what?” he said, slightly annoyed.
“Just think. Your body is made of billions of atoms. What was the probability those exact atoms would come together to make you?”
“Your point being?”
She sipped pensively at her tea. “Well, what if something had happened? The chances those atoms would get like this –” she jabbed a finger at him “– right here, right now, were amazingly small. One mishap and they could have become anything else. You could have been a dog, an asteroi
:iconmatrixwrath8:matrixwrath8 117 69
The summer of ‘67, funerals fanned out
like a poker hand in Mother’s family.
You could see she'd waited a lifetime
for this one, black dress in plastic,
handkerchief ironed and folded, ready.
She forced herself to touch the badge,
the service revolver he'd used, his Stetson,
sweat-stained on a hook in the hall.
She would conjure everything in time,
enough to rise above the casseroles,
the Jello salads melting in our kitchen,
hoarded tears poised above the glare
of Tupperware and Avon calling.
It was in the way she held her mouth,
her breath, waiting for something beautiful.
A childhood ago, summer nights,
her skin had prickled at the crunch of gravel,
his boots, hard across the floor,
the smells - leather, cigar smoke,
Macallan on his breath.
A five-year old wears innocence like iron
and a paper crown, shedding glitter.
She'd filled herself with crickets' song,
flown with fireflies beyond the glass,
as she waited for something beautiful.
:iconemmasloane:EmmaSloane 52 46
We are born in pain, all of us. When that first breath of oxygen touches our lungs and it tastes of fire in our bodies, it is then we are known to be alive – screaming our indignation that this is the life we've been brought into, that this is how the world will greet us. With suffering. I was no different, whimpering softly, stunned at the sensation in my infant body, wondering why it must be that my entrance to this life hurt. It was only appropriate, then, that my birth as a god was through agony.
Sometimes, when walking home after dark, I'd play this scenario through in my head. I was raised to believe I'd be attacked by men. I knew how I kept the mace in the front pocket of my purse, although I'd been too timid to take the lid off and figure out how to actually use it. I was reckless in my disregard, knowing full well what I'd been taught growing up, and then discarding it the next moments with only the outside illusion of playing by the rules. Instead, I saw in my head what
:iconfainting-goat:fainting-goat 127 41
en route
my body is the
abandoned bank
on main street;
my body is the
burnt hull of an
apartment complex
only now in repair;
my body is a
feeling of shame,
a pungent rot,
a score of roadkill
in half decay.
my body is migratory:
a flock of wearied birds,
a search for belonging,
the fat on my hips.
with too few windows
and a steep indoor climb,
my body is home.
:iconhypnicjerks:hypnicjerks 77 58
The Crying Of Birds
I pluck their calls from the sky,
Stuff them into my pocket like so many marbles.
Sometimes I cast them on the ground
And like runes they advise me,
Nudge me about things I already know.
Afterwards I’ll scoop them up and in cupped hands
Breathe gently into a cave of skin.
Then there will be music.
:iconflutingspirit:Flutingspirit 68 26

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The American Obesity Problem
               I have no face. There was a time when I may have owned one, but this is a fuzzy half-memory. In fact, it may be entirely an invention of fantasy. These days, regardless of my history, I know for a fact that I have no face. However, I have been granted a name: The American Obesity Problem. And I am growing in the United States. You may have seen me on television. You may have been witness to my disconcerting back cleavage and mystified by the seamless transition my legs make from my calves into my ankles. You probably saw my unsettlingly large, shelf-like behind as it strained against my tight Capri pants that I swore I would fit into someday and, when I didn't lose the weight, decided to wear anyway because, "If I spend more than $30 on pants I better damn well find a way to squeeze into them." You may have caught a glance of ponytail resting on my back, or a peek at several of my lower chins. But
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Pausing By The Wine
Marriage is
the frustration of reality
when the man who works the wine section
pauses in his tracks to make sure
you've found everything you "really need...are you sure?"
With a look that tells you
he finds you sort of beautiful
and you wonder how your life
might be different,
if any man other than this one
had ever looked at you like that.
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my words are green tonight
written in the air in a neon glow
standing on the corner in the snow
reciting poetry from memory
i feel very tall
there is power in words
and tonight i'm in control
looming large and strong and
razor sharp
and feeling very tall
have i had too much? no,
just enough to clearly see
my shoulders are straight, my
head held high
speaking green words
and very, very tall
:iconbark:Bark 191 142
Conscious Stream From The Chemical Plant
The following is a non-fictional account of a conscious stream that took place during my exploration of a water treatment plant.
I was at the office, looking at the wall-sized whiteboard.  Around 200 buildings stared back at me, numbered and color-coded.  I've been to pretty much all of them, but one unfamiliar number stuck out to me.  #41.  What a boring number.  MUD Platte West, that's a Metropolitain Utilities District.  I look up the address and drive.  Just to go see it.  And by the way, this isn't even a slow day for me, this is mostly what I do.
I drive West for 35 minutes, which is forever in Omaha time.  One road, Q St, hills, meadows, an elementary school, more hills.  41 is easy to spot, it's a huge concrete thing in the middle of nowhere.  I take the access road to the guard shack, he smiles, lifts the arm and I'm in.  the tile is obnoxiously clean. &
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Random from Lovely Words

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Clair de Lune
Sometimes I imagine
That when Debussy penned this movement,
He hesitated with the title.
"Clair de Lune"…moonlight.
Perhaps he didn't have the courage
To add an "E" to the end of her name,
Immortalizing her in music.
The gentle chords pouring
From his piano describing
The peace with which she slept.
"Claire of the Moon."
She was the embodiment of dreams.
Indeed, with her hair spread out
In messy ringlets across the pillow,
The pale, spring-time glow
Of the moon hanging heavy
In the April sky
Gently casting its cool light
Through the half-open window,
Onto her faintly blushing cheek.
She looked ethereal,
Like a flower that opens for moonlight alone.
Imbued in this music is the tenderness
With which he desired
To move a stray curl from where it lay
Draped across her brow.
As the movement sweetly closes,
She gently wakes, smiling,
As I gently wake from the scene I created.
This exists in my imagination only,
The romantic in me dreaming
With the fictional Claire.
:iconcallerofcrows:callerofcrows 306 157
Right Where I Want To Be
  She tosses and turns through the night.  Speaks in her sleep. Searching. Always searching in her dreams. For what who knows?  Sometimes I wish I could follow her into her dreams and then everything would be alright.
  She cries in her sleep, tears staining her face. It's the only time I've ever seen her cry. She always seems so strong. And yet she is fragile at the same time. I know how one wrong word could shatter her. One wrong move leave her broken in pieces.
  And then I hear it; my name. Almost a whisper. I almost missed it. I wipe away her tears and wrap my arms around her. I don't mind staying up through the night when she gets like this. Seems to be happening more often though. She tosses and turns the whole time. And always the tears come like tonight.
  I hold her as tightly as I can without waking her. Humming softly under my breath. I guess I wasn't as quiet as I thought. Her eyes open and she looks
:iconwords-of-a-weirdo:words-of-a-weirdo 26 155
When the sky's fallen
its emptiness floats. Puddles
share heaven with us.
:iconalecbell:AlecBell 19 22
The nocturnal slur of words
and headiness in your
and throat
like a ship
that drifted out
too far -
such is the stuff
of dreams, my son.
Storms that hover
off the coast
of your smile
and those tiny seedlings
of ruby hue
making poor men
wish for riches -
such is where we make our bed
once daylight slips
from view.
Love that leaves us
threadbare and blind
to all but pleasure
seeking shelter,
and those incantations
of the flesh
spun by fledgling senses -
such are the prayers
that slip our lips
once darkness claims its due.
:iconscarlettletters:Scarlettletters 151 68
i have you bookmarked -
vii. Sometimes breakfast, lunch and dinner were like art; food was flung from each corner, creating a futile canvas on every wall. I played a scale of musical doors as they slammed one by one. I'm sure I broke a few vocal chords too. He was always right beside me, yet so far.
But we mingled together. When his hand gripped mine with his feathery touch, it seemed okay to pretend. Maybe my mind still needed to develop, needed watering. Or maybe together we just made feelings obsolete.
iv. And we did.
We sat on park benches blowing smoke kisses and watched movies, that only seemed good because everything else on TV was crap.
Bubblegum. Pot. Gallons of ice-cream. We fed two pigeons and named them Ben and Jerry. We danced to Genesis, even though we both knew that they were possibly the most overplayed band in the world-universe-all-shopping-centers-in-London-ever.
At night we slipped between the park gates and sat by the lake. It felt like the moon was right ne
:iconbowie-loon123:bowie-loon123 223 55
don't be scared
this is what we need to do
grab yellowed paper
and bits of twine
think about your favorite smells
and wish them onto the paper
and tie it all up
bundle up your loves
and keep them close
maybe you've disappointed someone
or a lot of someones
maybe you've hurt
and been hurt
but we need to let these go
and love the ones
love(d) us
i never said sorry to a boy
who told me he loved me
i didn't love
anyone then
not even
i hope he isn't lonely
are you?
(i am sometimes)
don't stop smiling
there are
little beasts inside us that
enjoy frowns and crying and anger
keep a sign with you
that reads:
"do not feed the anger beasts"
they're ravenous and mean
and they'll steal your car keys
i think
if you love someone
or don't really like them
you should tell them
it might hurt or be scary
but a lot of things are
i'm a bit
of a hypocrite
because i never
follow my own advice
but i think i might
for once
:iconfrayedheartstring:FrayedHeartString 5 4
Greta oto. They are found down in Venezuela all the way to Panama. A member of the brush-footed butterfly family. Only two inches long in wingspan. They're my favorite insect.
I met a man once and he wanted to leave everything. He had a bottle in his hand and I was afraid he was going to inhale it all and let his light go out like I'd seen so many go before.
I told him he couldn't leave, because then he would never get to see these fascinating and beautiful butterflies from down south. The butterflies with glass wings that are only two inches wide with tiny bodies.
He asked me if that was my only reason to still be here, a tiny little insect. I told him, no, not really, but it was a reason. One of many, I guess. I stayed up with him all night, and I don't think I've ever been more exhausted in my life.
He told me about the things he had seen and done and felt and I wished my whole heart out that things like wars and sadness and emptiness didn't have to exist. I'll never know what it's
:iconfrayedheartstring:FrayedHeartString 16 14
I try to be quiet and not step on the toes of lovers as I pass them through gardens and under bridges and over city streets. I tried to be quiet so no one would notice the tall girl who has never held hands with anyone. I don't want to be seen, I want to be quiet.
I could be like the mice that scurry about in old houses and the shadows of an old forgotten swing on gravel. I'd like to be these things, because then I could help the people who are all yellow school buses and parking lights and root beer floats. I like to see their lives mix around and work out how they're meant to, because then mine can too. But it can never be the other way around.
I tried to be quiet but he wouldn't let me and now I'm only back where I started. I thought maybe someone in this world wanted to be quiet with me but he stood in front of me and started to yell with his camera and beard and bright eyes flashing at everyone, everything, snapsnapsnapsnapclickfweeclick.
Sometimes I visit antique shops with my pa
:iconfrayedheartstring:FrayedHeartString 9 5
Can people explode from too much sunlight in their hearts?
I'm starting to remember what it's like
to sing and smile and just not care if there are monsters and
crooked salesmen hiding under my bed
(Maybe they're just lonely)
Je ne regrette rien
Nope, I'm perfectly dandy and wild and
just so
Will you look at yourself, dear?
Please, turn to that mirror there
and let's discuss
just how lovely you are, yes, you!
I think if everyone just stopped
and listened to a happy song
Oldies, especially everyday
We wouldn't have so many sad faces and eyes
turned to the ground
I just like seeing you smile
Is that selfish?
Well I hope not because I don't want to take anything from
Let's just grab new hands
Climb trees
Go streaking for all I care
(And no I haven't done that yet but would you like to?)
We can build a fort out of blankets and stay up late
telling stories about men with long beards and
girls who don't know how to spell
smile for me
I don't think you kn
:iconfrayedheartstring:FrayedHeartString 8 15
          Scents from inside the suit intertwined their intentions with the sights of tangled and tessellated hair illumed by firefly LED's, spiking my circulation with memories and murmurs of dopamine.
          I took her by the gaze; she steered her sight away from mine. I led her through a glance that involved no scuffling of hands.
          She was one of two wayward strangers passing in the cosmos; two separate glances met as objects in motion tending to motion. People aren't the same however.
          Drifter was the term we were known as, people cast off of vessels and ships, mostly by accident, condemned to trudge about the universe until starvation kicked in or their oxygen-starved filters were finally incapable of operating. My unplanned departure from the mysteriously flaming
:iconnichrysalis:Nichrysalis 98 53
Glimpses Through Windows
"What's it like to snake your fingers through gravity and rope the Earth's water with it?"
I wondered, if for a moment, he would actually listen if I gave him an answer.
"What's it like to breathe?" I asked, and though I knew he couldn't really hear my question, I wondered what he'd think if he knew who I really was. If he could actually understand me.
The conversation was taking eons because I would stop and sprinkle stardust on the grass; waiting for the sun to peer from behind me. He held his breath, but I can't feel the oxygen settling in his chest. I can't. I can't.
"You're not very good at this, are you."
It wasn't a question this time. More of you are there and so I'm telling you because you're there statements. I wasn't good at answering questions anyways. He didn't stay outside for long, they never do. The warmth of a house draws them back.
"Look how pretty the moon is, mommy!"
Her voice caught my attention, paper cup pressed up against her ear she waited for a response
:iconhugqueen:HugQueen 24 63
I plant my feet in a grove of whispering trees.
Cool breeze sweeps limbs which yawn and stretch,
soles decompose as toes grow, break through soil,
descend into deep brown fists of earth.
Trunk thickens, arms broaden, fingers twist
and branch into capillaries which bud and burst
into saw-toothed leaves and apple blossoms.
Soon my limbs are laden with fruit.
Freed from burden, we swell in praise of rain.
:iconjjpoatree:JJPoatree 22 17
Tell me the name is for a goddess,
capricious and deadly, who    
mocks the afflicted in their dreams.
I might endure more graciously
if only this were a dream. It is
she who tosses fireballs of light
pulsating, flashing bright
and going dim in the blackness
behind these herniated eyes,
to devour while I hear the sustained
pitch of a sonic scream through
the static frequency of night air,
the peel and cry of her harpies
smelling of singed hair and brains;
the fever and sound rips through veins,
cauterizing shut the window for sleep,
leaving the frantic staccato of a
heart in flight, as I whisper
Goddess, why spare me the night.
:iconjade-pandora:Jade-Pandora 72 82

A thing DA just did:… 

36 deviants said Thoughts?
School is literally consuming my life. I'm into the tougher courses and I don't learn as fast as I did when I was a teenager. :\ If you'd like to be in frequent contact with me, FB is the best option.  I've given the reigns at DDSuggestionDrive  to GeorgeXVII. I have every confidence that he'll be an extraordinary leader of the group. Far better than me, I daresay. 

Hope you all are well. I miss this place.

:heart: Lili


Add a Comment:
RTNightmare Featured By Owner Apr 13, 2017  Hobbyist General Artist
Hey! Are you still around?
(1 Reply)
KreepingSpawn Featured By Owner Mar 5, 2017  Professional Digital Artist
Also, a belated but heartfelt thanks for having my back in the forums.  ;} :hug:
PennedinWhite Featured By Owner Feb 11, 2017  Hobbyist Writer

Thanks for the love, dear!
(1 Reply)
Andorada Featured By Owner Feb 11, 2017
(1 Reply)
giusynuno Featured By Owner Jan 25, 2017  Hobbyist Artisan Crafter
I'm so sorry this comes so late, but Thank you so much for faving! It means the world to me:heart:

I've been away due to office being crazy and I totally missed the start of DD suggestion drive /(O__O)\ I hope I can find time to participate this time, too :D
(1 Reply)
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