Shop Mobile More Submit  Join Login
About Literature / Hobbyist Senior Member Lili Leader-WilliamsFemale/United States Groups :iconddsuggestiondrive: DDSuggestionDrive
Have you suggested a DD today?
Recent Activity
Deviant for 6 Years
Core Member 'til Hell freezes over
Statistics 535 Deviations 16,636 Comments 168,013 Pageviews

Random from DDs I've Featured

Literature
Unintended Freedom
The person waiting for you on the right side
Of every wrong turn
Is dead.
You will never be her;
She was only a frail figment,
Pigmenting your notions of who you thought
You ought to be.
Her loves are not your loves.
Her dreams are your delusions.
Her hopes are the nightmares you wake up
Groping from.
Rejoice, fortune has cut you off
From the misfortune of becoming
Who you imagined you should become.
:iconsquibblyquill:squibblyquill
:iconsquibblyquill:squibblyquill 79 25
Literature
Snapshots in Dystopia No 01
Josh had heard the term “egghead” but he hadn't imagined one, much less seen one, until he had started working with a particular clerk at the stables. The overall appearance of the man's head was that of a slightly elongated, and top-rounded, egg. This was enhanced by the fact the man had no hair on his scalp, and a scant thinning line around the edges. Moreover, it was an ugly egg. His eyes were deep set, surrounded by dark circles. Half-moon spectacles sat halfway down his hawk nose. His somewhat large ears sprang away from his head slightly, and his thick lips formed a gash of a mouth which seemed to be in a constant, practiced frown. He wore a dark business suit and tie that fit and provided something pleasant to see on the figure that might otherwise be described as a goblin. However, Josh didn't mind this clerk.
Josh waited patiently in the small, sparse room. It was designed to hold 10 people quite comfortably, but rarely even held two. Wooden benches were built into
:iconSteve-C2:Steve-C2
:iconsteve-c2:Steve-C2 36 36
Literature
A Hostage to Her
TRIGGER WARNING. ED
I was crying so hard that the tears were pooling in my ears as she held my chin back. My eyes and nose streamed and meant I choked for breath around each new handful. I'd like to say she was methodical, orderly. But she was not. She had a surgical tray of containers and ripped heartfuls out of them at random. Pressing her hand down over my mouth so that mashed potato filled it and I had to swallow it to breathe. I gagged and writhed under her hands. She'd hold me down until my mouth was clear enough for oxygen and then, as I inhaled and coughed on a potato trying to get into my lungs, she'd press down a handful of something else. 
It wasn't always like that. Sometimes she'd hold my nose and press my tongue down, tipping vodka directly over my tonsils. Sometimes she'd let me have little pauses to cry. Most of the time though she would go too fast, force too much into my small, convulsing throat, and I would vomit. My body rejecting her attack. It wasn't i
:iconPoetryOD:PoetryOD
:iconpoetryod:PoetryOD 104 120
Literature
Infectious
Lauren struggled to open her eyes, the lids heavy, the light in the room blinding. What time is it? It was evening when–
"You're awake, good"
Darren. They were having dinner when she–
"The sedative will wear off shortly, you'll be a bit groggy, and the epidural will make it impossible for you to move, but try not to be alarmed."
She forced her eyes open, blinked as they teared against the bright light of the room. Darren stood facing her, stripped to the waist, one hand cradling the other elbow, idly stroking his chin with his free hand.
"The van I brought you here in is radio opaque, and this entire building is wired such that we're untraceable. I don't expect company."
He moved to a chair opposite, still watching her. On the table beside him she could make out an array of tools, and a camera on a long articulated arm, which he pulled and pointed at his midsection while he continued to talk.
"It's entirely possible that you don't know why you're here, and if that's the cas
:iconSRSmith:SRSmith
:iconsrsmith:SRSmith 52 38
Literature
anomolous anatomy.
how curious is you,
who stands to peg some sutured scuttle of wisdom
stood tall against mountain patience thinned
firm by your hands,
who's neck thicks the eyes it follows
for sensing its senseful faculties of land,
who governs the calculations of inceptions of bust
in a language fathomly grown quiet by its own
less desperate tongue,
who sets the dawn of wind forced fitful
in the purple-chimed beat of my own setting sun,
who's ruthlessness motioned the world of moving parts
in heat of its resistance, unlasting
permanence,
who finds my thirst of stem-end memories unerased
quick to sin (far too long to forgive),
who unearths neither wave nor particle
in summation of the visible spectrum
(eyes are the only
ones).
:iconsimilar-singularity:similar-singularity
:iconsimilar-singularity:similar-singularity 40 27
Literature
a conversation with Uncle Sam
Would you rather it be us or them?
I say next question please
  as if to loosen the noose my tongue has become
and You say speaking of, all good things come with a price
 and I try my hardest not to disagree.
Faith is the ultimate form of patriotism
            so I stand up a little taller
 as military jets fly overhead and baptize
                    the sky with their presence.
You say the best defense is a good offense.
 But what about the bombs?
   The fat boys and little men we scatter
              with soft voices and big sticks
and You just smile that smile,
and by now I feel that the silence is somewhat appropriate.
  We drop bombs because we all want to feel
              a little more like god sometimes,
             
and what can be more American than that?
:iconsuccesswithhonor:successwithhonor
:iconsuccesswithhonor:successwithhonor 61 21
Mature content
The Very Best Roast Beast Recipe :iconaugmented4th:Augmented4th 60 13
Literature
On losing a friend
(it did not end in tears.)
I could give you armfuls of oceans, great
mountain ranges wrapped in silver bows,
a coral reef gleaming like a sapphire chain
but you will always ask for a dormant volcano
and a star you can hold in your palm.
And I have tried to be that star, have tried to
combust bright enough, shrink small enough
but it is never enough for you. You kiss my
mouth with those carmine lips and swallow my
heartbeat with your gentle laugh and I glow
I glow and you go you go you go on stringing
me along a trail of crumbs, making me forget
that I am starving myself for your table scraps.
I could press the slats of pre-dawn light into your
answering machine, could fold dust columns that
fall between venetian archways into your bedsheets,
could hang the lost jewels of jaguar fangs clattering
above your dreamcatcher and you would only ask for
a dormant volcano and a brittle sea-salt glass wave.
And I have tried to capture the tides and I have tried
to blow glass but my hands are clum
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet 200 62
Literature
Disaster films are more honest than you realize.
It was a few years ago; I was eating in a Chinese restaurant with my parents. The place was built with a ton on windows going around the perimeter - you could see out three of four walls.
The entrance was set up oddly - the register cut off the corner where the door was to make a triangular lobby of sorts. Behind the register was a large aquarium. The fish could be seen from nearly anywhere in the restaurant; a few large goldfish, what I assume was a grouper of some kind, and even a black  eel, amongst an assortment of smaller fish happily living together in the fake seaweed and castle.
My family and I were sitting towards the back of the place, more or less by ourselves, roughly diagonal from the aquarium. There were some other patrons, but it wasn't a full house; just enough to create a pleasantly subdued background chatter. The TV was on, but I don't remember what channel. I think it was the news, some local channel. I didn’t pay much attention, instead fixating on the wi
:iconSilverInkblot:SilverInkblot
:iconsilverinkblot:SilverInkblot 154 75
Mature content
Come to Mama :iconnamelessshe:NamelessShe 57 61
Literature
How to Pocket a Man's Humanity
First, convince him to adopt
a rescue cat, fat, days away
from slaughter. Find one mis-
sing half his tail. The pair
will purr in tune; this step
is important. Next, rush him,
him and his rescue, to their
home, and then keep them dry
and healthy. Move deliberate-
ly, with articulation. Shape
the sound. Watch cat and man
sup together, sleep together.
Spring happens upon them, as
it does, and the man and his
rescue walk along the bridge-
less route to the forest and
grove without wind. Convince
him to let rescue race aloft,
to the distant hill-top. And
he will, and he does, and he
is gone. The man screams out-
ward into the meadow, scream
after scream weaving through
stalks of wheat, but nothing.
No clicks or mews. A nothing
against the rust of night on
the horizon. Help the man to-
ward his doorstep. Help keep
him apprised of the treeline
and its shadows. Finally, he,
rescue, appears, and the man
grabs your collar and shouts
and walks and runs and stops.
Rescue has brought home life
fle
:iconjswebb:jswebb
:iconjswebb:jswebb 118 38
Literature
Sundrop
o  
 n
  some
  days I
   watch you
 rise and rage
with a new year
firework fervour–
untamed and glorious,
pulling the years together
with  a snap of  your fingers.
but some days you are languid,
stretching like the summer dusting
of freckles along your forearms, the
slumberous strands of hair shuttering
your sky-eyes from the morning light.
on these days, I think the earth spins
slower and the birds sing a little
quieter. on these days, I look
at you and I think:
sundrop.
:iconConcora:Concora
:iconconcora:Concora 193 58
Literature
The Death that is Left Behind
I.
Somewhere beneath
the layers laid,
alone is a man who scrapes
outward.  He is
like the child fallen
down a deep well, who
sees the way is up and yet
scratches stone walls
instead--the flesh of
fingers giving way, symbolizing
a waning vivacity sealed
in the center of his diamond-hard
shell.  
II.
Sound is a physic;  music, a friction--
white hot motion to motionless 
souls.  It is pain and heat, terrible
and beautiful, healing, and the death
that is left behind.  
   
   
:iconchadwood:chadwood
:iconchadwood:chadwood 81 27
Literature
It's Gourmet
The squid writhed in my hands, its skin flashing from white to violent red.  It choked its tentacles up my forearms, its beak gaping open and closed.  I slid my thumbs to either side of its voiceless screaming and cracked the thing’s cartilage skull.  The squid’s skin faded from red to pink and finally to a lifeless white.  I removed my arms from the mess, now just a stack of tentacles on my cutting board, and wiped my bloody arms on my apron.  “There’s got to be an easier way.”
“There is.” Yur said beside me.  He could have passed for a human—but who really wanted to? 
I threw the squid’s body into a bubbling chili that could have stood in for any number of species’ excrements.  The fact that I could spot floating artifacts of the previous week’s meals didn’t help the comparison.  I snatched a lid and capped off the pot before the squid’s gelatinous body began to
:iconbeccaleeg:beccaleeg
:iconbeccaleeg:beccaleeg 56 38
Literature
I'll Wait by the Water
This is the place where our memories began.
A creek at the bottom of a canyon,
red cliffs on either side and a giant
pond dam to the north that wildflowers grow on.
Paths that we created through the woods
and up and down those copper canyon walls
while we pretended to be wild Injuns
or wanted outlaws being hunted by a posse.
You were on your knees,
in the middle of the creek,
when I found you.
A neighbor girl, trespassing.
I had a mind to chase you off
until I asked what you were doing.
You looked at me, smiled, and said,
"Catching crawdads. Come help!"
After that day, we spent Springs and Summers
building fort walls and chasing frogs,
skipping stones and arguing baseball,
sharing comic books and trading punches.
You could hit as hard as any boy I knew.
We had our own bridge to Terabithia,
our own kingdoms of knights and castles,
won the World Series with back to back homeruns,
settled the Wild West and discovered gold in the mountains.
My parents thought you were imaginary
until I bro
:iconIago-de-Xibalba:Iago-de-Xibalba
:iconiago-de-xibalba:Iago-de-Xibalba 207 83
Literature
i promise it wasn't you
one:
that boy taught me that girls who speak up
are not fit for loving.
that bastard taught me that girls who say no
are not fit for loving;
it was my voice or my heart,
and i chose love.
(after all,
isn't that the greatest thing?)
two.
when the pain weighted my
body to the floor,
when the carpet covered me with dust
and claimed my bones,
my friends called me lazy.
"where are your wounds?"
i cupped my glued-up heart in my hands.
they rolled their eyes
and turned away,
asked me why i'd turn myself
into some craft project
for a hopeless, wandering boy
and night after night i cried
"i don't know, i don't know,
i don't know."
three:
when the hurt made food
stick like paper maché
in the back of my throat,
they called me sick-
when i bent
they said
"i can see your bones,
oh god how i'd like to stick my fingers inside you
and split you down your middle,
right in fucking two."
four:
the sorrow settled in for good.
it was a little like drowning-
they told me,
"well, i knew someone else who
:iconMercury-the-Queen:Mercury-the-Queen
:iconmercury-the-queen:Mercury-the-Queen 156 92

Random from Accepted DD Suggestions

Remords posthume :iconherculanum:Herculanum 491 104
Mature content
Finders Keepers 1 :iconleyghan:leyghan 97 75
Literature
October
I only felt autumn's presence
In October, in Hamburg
A month after she was expected
Crisp leaves, warm light
Geese on the lawn by the lake
And loneliness
Stretching through short days and long nights
Heralds of winter's coming
Shoes worn thin by miles
I wander, a stranger, mute
Head full, heart singing
The love of dark trunks and bright leaves
Untempered by geography
Or language
:iconchildwoman:childwoman
:iconchildwoman:childwoman 119 50
Literature
A Short Visit
In the country,
the scarcity of humanity,
our ability to stand outside and be alone,
holds an undeniable appeal to me.
Even in the cold, the quiet can be
a great friend. The sun was out today,
pleasant on the skin. The wind had subdued
from last night's blowing. I sat in my
great-grandfather's metal lawn chair.
He kept this one outside the barn.
Told me once how he found a meteorite
in the chair. Said it hit the barn
and bounced right down to sit a spell.
Said it gave him a little shock,
a space-spark he called it,
when he picked it up from its resting spot.
How old was he then?
My age? I only recall an aged,
bald, weathered, cowboy who still preferred
to do his business in the outhouse
instead of the indoor room with water
from pipes. He told me
he knew when I was being born
because his knees itched from where
I would sit and his hands stung
from where he would spank me.
He and Granny shared a small house,
blown by the horrid western Oklahoma wind,
on a hill that overlooked their pond
:iconIago-de-Xibalba:Iago-de-Xibalba
:iconiago-de-xibalba:Iago-de-Xibalba 67 20
Mature content
All Truths :iconglossolalias:glossolalias 157 200
Mature content
Furlough :iconkreepingspawn:KreepingSpawn 84 40
Literature
Caught in Battle
by LJ
     Lately I've been doing a lot of not sleeping at night.
    That is to say, I fall asleep fine, but about one in the morning the dreams turn to thoughts and I'm not asleep anymore.
    I just lie there, thinking too much to even close my eyes.
    My eyes feel bad in the red mornings, so tonight I light the oil lamp and sit up.
     I might as well write what was requested by a friend a few days ago, at dinner together.
     It doesn't kill dream memories, though.
     At that dinner, my friend said, "They're nice stories and nice paintings you do, but they're not you, you know."
     I protested. "They certainly are."
     But she protested last.
    "No, they aren't. They're other people's. You should write or paint yourself, for once."
     I made a joke then, and said I'd do a self-portrait of me asleep. I'll write now instead.
     The dream tonight was about the time I sketched a picture of him in the hospital. It was the last time I sketched him or was in a hospital wi
:iconxlntwtch:xlntwtch
:iconxlntwtch:xlntwtch 178 385
Literature
18.07.12
Max had waited for this moment since the day he’d been first activated. So what if the Council had subsequently determined that his model was too unstable for actual combat and repurposed them as crossing guards. Max had been created to be a hero, and no amount of reprogramming was going to stand in his way.
          Granted, his first two attempts hadn’t gone exactly as planned. There was no one to actually save in the first fire he set. He made sure there were at least five in the second, but some dumb X9 model had beaten him to it and got all the credit. Not this time, though. This time had been perfect. Plenty of heartstring-tugging potential victims, the nearest X9 units experiencing temporary technical difficulties, and a news crew with a perfectly timed tip.
          And it’d worked. Exactly as planned. In the end, he’d only gotten out four of the twenty, but t
:iconangeljunkie:angeljunkie
:iconangeljunkie:angeljunkie 96 31
Literature
Divination as a Means of Finding a Way Back
   1.  I say nothing I am thinking.
For twelve years I have wanted
to do exactly this, but suddenly
pronouncing my own name calls up
the question of who it belongs to
in the same breath Like
Solomon I was born a singer
but in the wrong key and my
chords will not carry me, will not
summon the wolves to me only
packs of hungry dogs
stupid with domestication
but nearly feral And like
a hungry ghost I have learned
not to speak against those
who will give me food
   2. A sketch of myself.
                      He says I must have been born
in the wrong culture, he says. I got a taste of
the crackling heat here, heat to drive you crazy,
and suddenly I open my wide arms for
New Orleans, find myself needing the wind from
the Great Plains. Like a buffalo I have the spirit
of the Sun and I carry it with me. I am a plant
of burnt umber,
            
:iconAzizrianDaoXrak:AzizrianDaoXrak
:iconazizriandaoxrak:AzizrianDaoXrak 185 111
Literature
on watching the night close its eyes on you
1. I will not tell you
you are pretty.
How can the halls and angles of such honest humanity
be so pinched between sounds as elementary as these?
2. You need not be two stringent boughs of                     syllables
nor weave your viney bones abreast these five petty        letters,
whirling in the fire of the river
Styx.
Do not attempt to peel yourself layer for layer,
leaving all the disgust behind.
Do not tally your body six                                                lines
too short, hemming the holes into
puckers red as those volcanoes of                                    strength
bursting at the base of your hips.
3. Blood is not satisfaction.
Blood is not patience, waiting for the rooms to empty
:iconsense-and-stupidity:sense-and-stupidity
:iconsense-and-stupidity:sense-and-stupidity 203 46
Literature
Never Told
He thinks it's odd, sometimes, though he's not certain why.
A sense of dislocation, perhaps. Like cutting yourself on an unsharpened blade. He walks the immense aisles of the cathedral, footsteps echoing hollowly into the blue shadows of high vaulted ceilings and arches, stone figures watching him from above as he, in turn, watches dawn play across their carved and weathered faces. The grandeur of this place is oddly soothing in the solitude it affords him. A holy place, just hushed, here suspended in the silence after Mattins when most have shuffled out. It's a favorite moment of his, a favorite service to attend, and today it gives him pause—there is training, and paperwork, and a squire for him to wake and a council meeting and a king, but he lets himself linger nonetheless. Just for a heartbeat, just for a heartbeat.
Hal smoothes his fingers over the well-worn coolness of a granite pillar, and he passes it by for the window beyond it, so familiar. He tilts his head back to
:iconJudah-Leonardo:Judah-Leonardo
:iconjudah-leonardo:Judah-Leonardo 89 15
Son of the Demon :iconaxlsalles:axlsalles 3,358 626
Literature
The Sculptor
Before he would have harvested a tree,
hacked off its limbs,
skinned it,
torn it from the earth,
shaved one by one its cells - its outer core,
until it was what he believed it was,
no more a tree.
Wiser, he walks deep in to the wood,
underneath a forest giant he stops,
looks up in to the leafy branches, sighs,
climbs and sheds his tears upon its boughs.
:iconsomnomollior:somnomollior
:iconsomnomollior:somnomollior 183 94
Literature
Apologies to Lao
Each day is its own microstep--
since I woke from my mother's womb,
I longed to mimic new words, trammel
the sound until it blossomed
like a newborn, and oh how I birthed
stories--told them how I wanted
the author's sacrosanct title
once I've grown. But growing meant
learning the practice of citizens
and their due contribution: beast-slaying
nature of please, thank you,
an apology: sincere
or not. Then there is time--the first
breath of nine, exhalation
of five, the suffocating mandate
of overtime. You grow used to it:
the cyclical disappearance of parents,
pervasive need of sleep, a home-
cooked meal's gradual transmogrification
to a microwave's impatient beeps,
the drive-thru's static, monotoned voice
by a man who has already learned
what I am learning: to cherish
the alarm's morning hymn over my mother's--
now I'm rarely late for work--can navigate
those can-lined aisles, the cold-grey
of the warehouse with deep strides
until I lose track of every step within
my eight hours--my mind
:iconfllnthblnk:fllnthblnk
:iconfllnthblnk:fllnthblnk 105 30
Interactive Portal Turret :iconsarmaibalazs:SarmaiBalazs 6,228 637

Random from Photos

Octopus :icon7redhotz:7Redhotz 376 26 Lost Inspiration :iconnamirenn:namirenn 295 12 Lakeland 18 :iconcsipesz:Csipesz 842 110 Fjadrargljufur :iconpatimakowska:PatiMakowska 757 57 The Fire in my Soul :iconkemal-kamil-akca:kemal-kamil-akca 623 39 Annabelle :iconemilysoto:EmilySoto 263 13 Red Fox in Autumn Mood :iconthrumyeye:thrumyeye 2,556 100 Untitled :iconplaci1:Placi1 52 2 The weary stairs :iconalexiuss:alexiuss 665 22 A World within a World 7 :iconnini1965:Nini1965 15 2 Crystal pirates :iconhendrikmandla:HendrikMandla 127 12 Reborn :iconpiscisvolantis:Piscisvolantis 115 23 Damn it! Morons don't learn until they die! :iconmadameskunk:MadameSkunk 343 40 Super Lu and dolphins :iconvitaly-sokol:Vitaly-Sokol 159 11 Red Deer :iconlinneaphoto:linneaphoto 280 30 Wintersleep :iconlaura-makabresku:laura-makabresku 1,367 64

Random from Lovely Words

Literature
I Want to be Read
I don't want confinement
behind strict white
cut to fit a traveller's pocket,
squeezed in on myself
where you peer around folds
to glimpse a meaning.
I don't want to be
recorded, sorted and optimised,
placed against the others waiting
to be discovered
or left preserved
or maybe lost.
Take me from them premature,
toss me to survive
and see myself reflected
many times a different angle
in prismatic clarity
though from uncertain origins.
Tear me from my bounds to share,
transpose me to your breath.
Prop me up
so that I may see myself live
in thought and speech and action
of the everyday.
Don't let me be another one of them;
I'm not content with seclusion —
I was made to be crumpled
in a strange kind of love.
Being seen is not enough;
I want to be read.
:iconShadocchi:Shadocchi
:iconshadocchi:Shadocchi 17 36
Mature content
It's Love :iconavfc4me:avfc4me 527 415
Literature
Footnote To The Apocalypse
The day after the apocalypse, I read.
I find a bookshop, one of the only buildings that hasn't been destroyed by the blast.  The door is locked, but the front window has a hole in it , and my shirt-wrapped fingers manage to break away enough of the splinters to create some sort of entrance. For the first time in my life, I am thankful for being small.
My hands are bleeding when I get inside. My shoulder is too - there's a sliver of glass buried in it too deep to dig out - and the gashes on my chest have opened up again, but there isn't much I can do about those. I don't want to bleed on the books, that's all.
I don't have any bandages, so I cut up the rest of my sleeves and wrap my fingers in the fabric: not perfect, but it will stop the worst of the staining. Then, I hunt.
It isn't a targeted pursuit - I'm after anything that's unburned, unbroken, and with all the pages intact - but somehow a pattern starts to emerge in the pile I make under the kneehole of the desk (animal
:iconGentlemanAnachronism:GentlemanAnachronism
:icongentlemananachronism:GentlemanAnachronism 333 197
Literature
Puck's Elegy
              Merry  flashes roll and cry                                     
           Beguiling force of Heaven's wry
          The crackling wind, shifts and sways
           Speckled silver flakes its rays
                                    Wanderer of brilliant shuttered shade
                    
:iconndris970:ndris970
:iconndris970:ndris970 19 10
Literature
The Trembling Room
The parents are sitting
behind a glass wall
on a brown leather couch.
Not black.
Not a black couch.
There is nothing black
in the room at all.
There is a glass coffee table
with shiny chrome legs.
There is a ceramic vase
holding red flowers.
There is a window
overlooking the hospital yard,
green grass, oak trees.
There is a mother, wringing her hands,
there is a father, grinding his teeth,
and there is silence.
There is so much
ready to break
in this trembling room.
:iconGabrielGadfly:GabrielGadfly
:icongabrielgadfly:GabrielGadfly 14 10
Literature
How the Poet's Mother Confesses To Him in a Dream
Last time I sat in this swing, I was a girl
with charm. I didn't mind the calm,
sitting alone, watching the world burn
sienna and sapphire, mighty seabirds
in flight against its rim. It was early dawn
last time I sat in this swing. I was a girl
waiting to wed a man, trying to discern
whether he cared. I felt embalmed,
sitting alone, watching the world burn
out. Cool air raced in, as if to purl
shoots of Ammophila. I had no qualms
last time. I sat in this swing. I was a girl
who relished the waves' collision. Their uncurl
kept me still in morning's salty balm,
sitting alone. Then, watching the world burn
into daybreak, I quickly stood and hurled
his ring, then returned. That moment became
the last time I sat in this swing. Just a girl
sitting alone, watching her world burn.
:iconjswebb:jswebb
:iconjswebb:jswebb 13 26
Literature
Glasses of Milk
Come back now.
Be what you once were,
brown and chafed with sun and sand,
to find me here, where I have waited over-long.
Give me your dirty hand.
We will eat cookies till our faces freckle with crumbs.
We will blow bubbles in tall glasses of milk
till we overflow, then tumble like puppies
till we bloody our knees.
Like joy, we will burble and rise.
:iconriparii:riparii
:iconriparii:riparii 30 92
Literature
Toast and Coffee
I forget our little important things, like
the way you like your toast
     (butter on one side, sugar sprinkled)
the way you like your coffee
     (black, strong, half-filled cup, a drop of sweetener)
or the way you like your sex
     (as hard as love, as sweet as figs).
I forget little unimportant things, such as
the movie we saw last night
     (the one with DiCaprio and the cops)
the meeting we had with the doctor
     (and you hate the doctors, in their white robes)
the dinner we had by the shore
     (fat steaks grilled on a burning fire).
Maybe I forget them little things,
but, you know, when things are gone
they pass along to some forgotten
realm, where the toast and the coffee
are making love.
I can imagine them love dripping memories,
being all that they are, bite after bite,
consumed, devoured, digested,
and gone. Temporal as r
:iconleoraigarath:leoraigarath
:iconleoraigarath:leoraigarath 8 7
Literature
for her.
it's midnight and I'm writing love letters
on my skin to the woman who raised me. it's midnight
and every limb has a story. all
my collarbone remembers is the frantic
hurry of your footsteps when it broke under the weight
of gravity and mistaken desire to fly and my
broken pink umbrella, long-gone, remembers too. my elbows
remember the firm pull of your hands in the grocery
store. my cheeks remember your makeup and
my clumsy fingers dipping in like paint pots and my neck
remembers all your strands of pearls. I remember
when you were young again and wearing
red and holding cups of tea in hands
that didn't shake yet and I remember hands that knew how
to peel apples, curling skins like red ribbons over
the edge of the blade, confident
in motion, and I remember your voice and I remember
your songs and I remember.
it's midnight and the water is cold and I
am somewhere beyond feeling. but
my love letters are only ink and they are washing
away and I watch them swirl at my feet and I
want you
:iconthis-epiphany:this-epiphany
:iconthis-epiphany:this-epiphany 502 166
Literature
7.34mm
A simple measurement
can make a man
lose himself; a blurring, no more
than a grainy smudge
a scant 7.34mm long
this rice-grain, seven weeks old
with one hundred and twenty nine
heartbeats per minute
—all this, from a mere sesame-seed of a heart
:iconpseudometry:pseudometry
:iconpseudometry:pseudometry 155 116
Literature
q: how? a: romantic.
if ever a bit discouraged
remember
we're all made with worlds inside
and collision
though often unavoidable
need not be unenjoyable
it's a matter-of-fact fiction:
heads
wrapped up in
hearts
wrapped up in
arms
outstretched and
waiting
so
how long can you
really
stay a stranger
when it all adds up
to two too tired of alone
and everything entailed
with haunting themes recurring
and pauses
where our shouts should be
:iconYouInventedMe:YouInventedMe
:iconyouinventedme:YouInventedMe 282 137
Literature
Sand and Salt
Sand and Salt
The ocean stole grains of sand from us
pulled unnoticed one granule at a time,
(wrapped as we were in whispers)
and replaced each with salt
filling the depressions left-
no longer footprints
but lakes and seas of
sloshy saltwater foam
our whorls at their depths
impressions containing us within them
eddies crashing over ridges
drawn by the gravity between us.
As the tempest subsides
cyclones spun from sighs
shut their eyes and
deposit quartzen silt
along the bed.
:iconMahi-Fish:Mahi-Fish
:iconmahi-fish:Mahi-Fish 16 6
Literature
Fading Away
She is looking
out of windows
to sunlit lawns,
fallen woodchips
swept by the feet
of rain. She is hearing
distant laughter rising
from young throats
that have never felt
the cry of loneliness.
Her fingers were bitten.
Ice nymphs have long eaten
the tissue that once held
a young boy's hand. She is mute,
dissolving into whitewashed walls
with hair turning whiter
by the day.
She is aging, wasting away
like yellow patched grass
under the soft fall of concrete dust
stamped over
by creeping cement.
Grey railings, tufts of brown.
She melts into dry puddles
unseeing, unknowing
while life
oozes on.
:iconjulietcaesar:julietcaesar
:iconjulietcaesar:julietcaesar 12 21
Literature
Even Though
There will be no caged fingers,
no tendons finely tuned to A from tension.
There will be no clenched teeth, gritting rosin,
to make the final singing note growl.
There will be unwinding bed-sheets,
hands slowly releasing the tuning pegs.
There will be slowly sliding scales
as the four limbs loosen past playing.
There will be a simple, quiet exit,
not to ovation, but to a hushed audience
who anticipate an encore,
even though it is uncertain.
:iconpretty-yin:pretty-yin
:iconpretty-yin:pretty-yin 146 41

A thing DA just did: www.deviantart.com/journal/Dev… 

100%
33 deviants said Thoughts?
I've been so busy I didn't even realize I was published again until I'd gone to catch up on my new favorite online mag. :lol: Here's a link to the piece, if you're interested: No.

I've also submitted to Cahoodaloodaling's Issue 23: Up Yours! which is all about what makes us angry. And heaven knows there's enough to be angry about these days. Also considering trying my hand again at Up the Staircase Quarterly. The rejection notice I got last time was very encouraging, if such a thing can be said of rejection notices. 

As for the Wix acquisition:

This comment from nervene helps clear up why a partnership with a do-it-yourself site service can be beneficial to the technology portion of DA. I'm still not entirely sure how it will all suss out for the community, but we'll just have to see on that. 

I'm waiting for a reply from staff regarding search protections. I know they're busy, but hopefully someone clears that up as it is my personal concern about the change. 

To clarify - I'm not leaving DA. Even if search protections change, I'll just stop sharing work here and focus on commenting and interacting in other ways instead. Who knows, maybe I'll become a fanfic writer and finally *actually* get popular. ;) 

:heart: Lili

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconkreepingspawn:
KreepingSpawn Featured By Owner Mar 5, 2017  Professional Digital Artist
Also, a belated but heartfelt thanks for having my back in the forums.  ;} :hug:
Reply
:iconpennedinwhite:
PennedinWhite Featured By Owner Feb 11, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
:heart:
:hug:

Thanks for the love, dear!
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconandorada:
Andorada Featured By Owner Feb 11, 2017
:iconhrtplz:
Reply
(1 Reply)
:icongiusynuno:
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
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconhaijinik:
haijinik Featured By Owner Jan 16, 2017  Student Writer
:nod:
Reply
(1 Reply)
Add a Comment: