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meetings“Hey. Are you alright?”
Summer was buzzing in his ears when he turned towards the voice; a chorus of insects was accompanied by the flapping of wings overhead and, somewhere not too distant, a stream gurgled. He saw a girl with black, unkempt hair – there were holes in her jeans and her t-shirt was splattered with mud. His gaze travelled to her jaw, bloodied and grazed.
“I think,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “that you should worry about yourself instead.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
HitchhikerI stood at the side of a
dusty road, thumb raised,
sun shining on a reddened face,
and when the car came to a halt, said that I
wished to journey on eastward.
Compliance: she was headed the same way.
Her radio crackled tuneless songs
and the seatbelt was too tight.
I saw a creaking apple tree
but she would not turn; her orchard grew
more fruit than she could ever
care to eat.
I saw a sculpture of ancient stones
but she would not turn; in her room she had
a corkboard peppered with pins and a
postcard of the same scene.
When – at last – my feet touched ground,
I could not speak with sincerity.
She tapped her nails on the steering wheel
humming that if I yearned my own route,
I should not sit
in the passenger seat.
You have sewn stars to your sleeves.I talk about stars quite a lot (do I not?);
I’ve described them as stitches and grains of salt,
I’ve written of distance and said with a smile
That travelling through space
Takes a while.
I don’t need to go that far.
You, dearest, in the stretch of one stanza,
In the breadth of two heartbeats
Can dazzle the world.
Love and compassion thread through your verse:
Your sunshine brightens your words.
You have sown splendour where cracks used to meet.
I want to watch gardens grow at your feet.
the miracle isAnd I do not know this feeling in my lungs
only what it resembles:
nostalgia, creeping up from the depths
of a yesterday
(forgotten / lost)
tapping on panes with
seeping beneath the door.
But hardships pass
become embraces – fleeting,
trapped between the pages
of books with gilded sheets
and spines so strong that they are
The smoke disperses.
We are left with emotions
which heal and cleanse;
we wrap ourselves in golden love
remembered / found.
you're very dear to methey are not words that I speak often
but ones I carry
in the core of my chest,
and with you, I am grateful
that there are never those questions
about which of us loves more
or which of us loves best;
there were days
where I felt so fragile
that even a smile
made me stammer and cry,
yet you extended a gentle hand
and with the simplest strokes,
taught me to fly
upwards, into that peerless blue:
on the cloudiest days
my sunshine is you.
You do not know what it is to feel love so deep that your heart contracts in the centre of your chest. You have never experienced your organs inflating at the first thought of another; I say this, Dearest, because you do not love You and thus know nothing of my pain.
I want to seize a star and trickle its dust from my hands into yours. I want the clouds to paint your name on the sky’s summit.
But for now, I shall be content with dreaming of you. I hope that incense sweetens your sleep. I hope that the rain soothes your spirit.
declarationi studded my fingers with glitter
and trailed stars across your brow.
because i want you to know
while it matters
that this is my love.
that i cannot climb mountains
or traverse oceans for you
with a fleeting touch,
remind that i am here:
i am near
and will not dissolve.
my words are never grand.
i pray they are enough.
CardigansWhen the world slowly rolled towards evening, I leant over the balcony railings and watched her stand in the communal garden, flat face uplifted, eyes closed as she basked in the sun’s last warmth. It could have been like the sinking star in storybooks – a brash vermillion – but it was always golden. Once my mother heard of my disappointment, she scoffed,
“Life is rarely like a storybook.”
Those words did not leave me. In autumn, it brought me no delight to look for squirrels carrying fruit. In winter, I did not waste my time with searching for identical snowflakes. And in spring, which was the heaviest with folklore, there was no hunt for fairies.
Summer arrived. My mother returned to her old pastime. She stood outside, pale hands clutching her thighs. Her cardigan sleeves had frayed. The hem of her skirt swept the concrete floor.
It finally occurred that her words had been a warning. She
homecoming.i cannot escape the irony
of loving the words listen and
i’m overflowing with thoughts.
here they are, stuck to grooves in my lungs
twined around bones
i drink them and i give them away –
they drain me, all these
they clamour and
beg to be heard.
i will fill myself to the brim.
bucket thrown into well
drawing from spring;
i will take them
let them trickle through
for verse qualifies me
rainfall revives dry plains
i am quenched:
watch as i dig a trench and
line it with verbs.
She's a WriterShe sits at her desk
Her headphones in,
The world shut out.
She bleeds for others
As words fly from
Her mind to her fingertips.
She stares at the screen,
At every little comment,
The good and the painful.
She forms her emotions
Into books and poems
To throw away the hurt.
She's a writer,
And her best weapons
Are her mind and her pen.
Evil or kind?Negativity makes me smile
My poses and laughter
Suit the best villains
But I care so much about my friends
About their emotions and well being
And I always cheer them up
Am I evil?
Am I kind?
Maybe a little bit of both...
Do you know what it feels like...To be lonely?
To be bullied?
To be called ugly?
To be unattractive?
To be compared to other women?
To be considered unnormal?
To be unloved even though you give love to others?
To face issues that you don't in reality know how to fix?
To think that your goal you're reaching for, is unattainable?
To feel like the cause of many people's problems?
To be held up on a high pedistal that you can't get down off of?
To realize that people don't like you based on your personailty?
To at no avail, keep up your happy and upbeatness for others?
To look at happy couples and wish that you had someone to be happy with?
To stop fighting for anything anymore?
death of a sweet sixteeni found my house on
the market the
other day -
- it was 2011 again,
but the sun had set
on my nights of terror
nose to the barstool and
two black eyes, a dish
towel caught in my throat.
i keep trying to find
pieces of myself that
no longer exist - a dead dog,
baby blue walls, whispered
it sold for six figures,
and i can only wish
that i could sell my pain
for that much, but no
one would be willing to buy
it, as i am it's sole host,
the only one who
one of these days i will
drive by that sad eyed
grey house before we are
gone for good, and i will set
up with my camera, snapping
photos of my whitewashed hurt.
and if i linger too long,
so be it, as i've spent so
many nights ruined,
scraped away like the stars
once stuck on my
the bank may own my house,
but it will never own my heart.
A Cup of TeaCome on in and
Take a seat,
Sit with me a while
What you are and
Where you're from
Have a cup of tea,
Stay a while
To learn about you,
To know you
Your pain and
I will listen
Reveal to me
Your origin and
I will accept you
For you are me
You are my demon,
A part of myself,
I will never reject you
Care for a second cup?
By the LakeSat beneath a Christmas tree in late-March.
The ground is damp but pliant, it pretends to accept me
and then sneaks its cold fingers through my clothes
to dampen my spirits further with its chilly undertones.
I stare at the river, plump with soon-to-be April showers.
It does roly-polys over the smallest of obstacles and goes on.
It reminds me of what I should be able to do.
It runs as I grind to a full stop, and consider my life sentence.
The sky is blue; not like me, but bright and crisped;
Its been blurred by an amateur around the edges with cloud
But they don’t threaten me with rain just yet so, for now, we are friends.
The sun is missing. No one knows where she is.
She could be dead, by now. At the bottom of the lake.
Could have slunk there in a midday sunset.
She could of drowned her sorrows in the ricocheting tides
of a man made dam and its loosened throat. She could be.
She is not, she is hiding.
The sun hides from the world but leaves a blue sheen behind
to let everyone k
ConfrontationI shed a tear
The damage will be severe
Run away in fear?
I'll fight until the coast is clear!
Reasons We Love Homestuck“Reasons we love H O M E S T U C K.”
Why do this love this web comic, you ask?
Maybe it’s just the way the fandom rolls,
or how mean Andrew Hussie trolls.
It could possibly be Eridan’s accent (WWyeh?)
or even Feferi’s keyboard trident. (---E)
Some people say it’s Equius’ broken bows and arrows, ( D →)
but what about Nepeta’s meows and roleplays? (:33 <)
We really do love Sollux’s lisp,
and also when Karkat’s pissed. (FUCKASS!)
Including Kanaya's fabulous lipstick,
it's also Rose's amazing magic.
How about when Dave starts rapping
and Jade Harley begins napping?
We love Vriska’s eight-pupiled eye,
and how John is such an adorable guy.
Or maybe it’s with all the sprites
or how prospit glows bright.
Can’t forget about Derse’s darkness
or Gamzee and all his soberness. (WHOOPS.)
There’s also this thing with Tav and stairs
which he t
How To Not Break Your HeartHow to
not break your heart
Make sure to quickly
let go of hands
that refuse to hold you
and pretend it was
just a simple accident
(And, oh god, please,
please don't open
Admit that things
can't be perfect
when you can't convince
yourself to believe
that it was worth
the days you stayed
up until 5 AM
play your cards right and
don't love anything with a pulse-
They'll make you crumble
like a house of cards
Fall for the ones who fell
like shooting stars and
left imprints in the concrete
when their times were up
Fall for the ones you
can never touch whether
they are black-and-white,
colored, or just in another
Sculpt them to suit your needs
Fall for figments of your imagination, too
because they'll move their pieces
according to you and only you
and always you
always make sure to
love things that aren't alive
They'll never betray you
recuperatemaybe the world isn't so frail that it'll break
the moment we touch something;
and maybe there's a little part of ourselves
(deep inside, perhaps, or close to the surface)
that's stronger than what we give credit for,
because, after all, we burn with the vision
of growing stronger.
i enjoy watching pretty things
like kerbs where teens sit with knees pressed together
feet in the gutter --
stitched to their sleeves.
i relish a name etched into a tree
and boats folded from leaves.
little things, which whisper that people still love
even when purses are emptied of coins,
even when patience
like flowers surviving monsoons;
like ants who carry huge crumbs;
the way the moon is so far
but still blushes at the light of
i want to tell all who tread on hard soil
that even stones soften into the beach,
that the lullaby-cry of seagulls is soothing,
and clouds, now distant, were once of the water
that's cupped in your ha
Keep in Touch!
Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More