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Suggested Deviants

intricately-ordinary

Literature

Justifications and Salted Smiles

"I don't think I'm holding on any longer I'm diving in. I wish that you would see, there's a magical land at the bottom of the ocean where waterproof lungs let you be everything you've dreamed. You can bury underneath the sand and not be found- it's the land that's been promised to me in late night whispers and burnt tears wasted on things that don't matter. I know it's real, broken minds can't lie and I can feel it in my bones- there's something more. What other reasons would we live for? They say you inhale saltwater and exhale enlightenment. The waves pour over you and finally make you clean (pure) No one knows where y

Literature

he's just not that into you

long-legged and twitching like the spiders you watch run down the drain, he doesn’t call you pretty. you remember his hands tracing the ink of your veins, but he doesn’t call you pretty. he doesn’t hold the door, and you think you’re a liar but the truth is quivering naked in your voice (we will name our children after extinct kingdoms; dead beautiful things. i will polish the dull spot in your eye that you developed after a terminal case of unnoticed living. i will never be a cure but damn it if i won’t be a diagnosis) the static of his vocal chords brings you back, martyr without a cause, he doesn&rs

Literature

Your Name's My Best Obscenity

The sweetest curses are sugar on lips If I died this evening, you'd find your name aflame- the words I last shouted in vain lingering on my tongue like a toxic kiss- revenge is addicting, venomous pain, even spent on cries I know are mundane No fixing up this unholiest tryst, forged by two fools who believed in their lies; or maybe it was I, eager for light even in spite of the flaws I had seen Can light be fake? Were your twinkling eyes a mere disguise to make me ignite? Aflame, in vain, impure light fuels my screams

fllnthblnk

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 transmogrific

Literature

Loss

It is more than death: a loved one vanishes into a gathering of ashes, and still they are not immortalized by that lump in the throat, that sense of wrong, that homesickness, that love- sickness--the unnameable, named. Baudelaire, I am an unhealthy man now-- this is past forgetting, past frailty. Age has whitened the crass lines of my hair; apathy has sewn through my thinning lips, has stilled each finger from touching keys, or ink to paper. Although I've shown the eye of each grape, how they watch from a neighbor's unkept yard-- I care no longer about the sweetness of their juice, or the miracle of finding sense and hope in l

Literature

Frailty

I see it in her sinking eyes, the silence of their gaze--a child batting at the final thread of life, nine for nine. Darker days pass with worry tumbling deep in its high-walled pit. I see it: something that says this is the last, when I touch the curve of her back, the rise of spine, the uneven quiet of her response while winter bulks and burns with its oppression of frost. I see it in my brother, the care of each hand as it arches over bone. There is hunger, but she does not eat-- only laps at a small drinking bowl-- and I tell him this is it, it is now: but he insists as love does--wandering dove in the dark cave that is d

Suggested Collections

poetry

Literature

Idle Hands Without Any Plans

Idle Hands Without Any Plans What a way to waste a day, Watching your own flesh decay, How divine, as you may find, Getting lost in your own mind, If I may share, you're quite the pair, That is, you and your despair, This routine, even unseen, Is constant and unfailing, (but) Not to fear, just rest my dear, Tomorrow is another year.

Literature

to the boy who doesn't plan on leaving

how much of me can you swallow, love before you finally purge? I am a cartographer of bad experiences; I can locate precisely where I see our divergence extraordinaire and I can tell you before I have even met you that the skin on my hands is too dry for the softness you plan on caressing me with. let me tell you how this ends; I will show you all the people I have destroyed - flooded to the best of my ignorance, driven wild with jealousy, had whipped with lust and left smoking pot after four promises stating otherwise. let me tell you how this ends; after showing you the blessed catastrophe it is to be human, you will destroy me. you may

Literature

free bird

it’s a need to feel the suns golden fingers teasing figure eights along my back, & the wind on my cheeks. i must have been a bird in some past life, a swallow or a hummingbird. because, i swear on some nights i can feel the growing pains of an atlas ready to burst through my skin like wings. i just want to be free.

ALL FICTION poetry, stories

Literature

Broken

Internal desperation of pain and loss unable to break the emotional and physical impotence to overcome the mental barriers needed to cleanse and heal cry HELP and I will come be silent and bleed away the pain until it returns rampant again and again its bitter conclusion short and satisfying but eternal and broken

Literature

Hangnail

Hangnail, hangnail, Thorn in my hand, What glory shall ye yield? Thorns in the side gain biblical verses, Or are necessary evils of roses beloved. Sand grains in oyster shells become pearls, Rough turned into diamond, Bane into beauty. But what of you, oh blessing of stepmothers? Some fairy tale of plaguing those toiling stepdaughters, Insult to injury? Or perhaps some lore bespeaking the mothers-die of the lace of queens, Or the fathers-die of black widows… But in the end, it shall matter not. For to me, ye shall yield nothing But voicelessness in the jaws of clippers.

Literature

eighteen.

. i. nyctophilia; i'm in love with the night. lips red from kissing the sun goodbye, hands powder-white from holding the moon, eyes drowsy grey because i've been up all night counting how many stars remind me of you. ( 94, 95 because one wears your face, polaris. ) and i fall asleep with a threadbare blanket that twinkles, and i wake with stardust in the hollows of my eyelids and i twinkle- i gleam, and i shine, and i twinkle like the galaxies are accepting new-born beauties. ii. i was born a starchild; indigo in the eye, indigo in the lips, indigo in the heart. i had sunlight hair, and hot-headedness, and a brain of endless summer brea

Favourite Writings

Literature

Thanks for Nothing and Everything [Izark x Noriko]

The world Noriko had accustomed herself to had strange holidays that made no sense to a modern, Tokyo-fuddled mind. Festivals for spring, summer, for winter... they were similar in some ways, but generally based on concepts completely unique to the culture. Especially the fall Harvest festivals rampant the continent over; they were quite kin to the American "Thanksgiving," but still celebrated differently. The thought of "staying home with family" was absurd. Every man, woman and child was out and about in town, hurriedly preparing for a massive celebration; the food, the drink, the fellowship with friends and comrades, the overwhelmingly

Literature

Happy birthday Adrien

Another day, another akuma purified. Like Clockwork almost, Ladybug and Cat Noir worked together to defeat the "Collector" who had wanted to shrink landmarks and people for their collection. After the token fistbump, they prepared to go their separate ways, but before she could swing off, Cat Noir grabbed Ladybug's arm. "Say, doing anything tomorrow, m'lady?" She looked at his hand then back at his face, "Not in particular, why?" Cat let go of her arm, scratching the back of his head nervously. "Well, if you're not busy, I was wondering if we could hang out or something." Ladybug frowned, crossing her arms. "Asking me out on a DATE?" C

Literature

Miraculous 16

Marinette couldn't believe it; she would be turning sixteen soon. A lot has happened within the past year. Meeting Tikki and becoming the hero of Paris, Ladybug. Gaining a fantastic, albeit annoying, partner in Chat Noir. Meeting Adrien and forming the biggest crush on him but having a hard time speaking to him. It did get better though; through her best friend Alya's encouragement and a few partner assignments, they have a more comfortable friendship but she still was afraid to tell him her true feelings. Well, that will come when she's ready. Right now, she's trying to decide whether or not she wanted a party. She went to Chloe's Sweet 1

-Purty purty-

DarkGoddessK

Published: Mar 3, 2011

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