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Literature
i let myself become a candle one cold, windy night
I thought I killed Poetry---
but Poetry killed me. Left for dead,
now I don't even know how to write
anything resembling good literature
without resorting to sex-jokes, bad
puns, or half-wit metaphors. I am
a half-wit metaphor. I am
the shadow of a poet, but
my candlewax-poetic cry
for attention burnt out. I
extinguished the Sun, so
the remaining silhouette
of my former conscious
vanished into the night
like a doused flame.
Gone, forgotten. I am
a fallen chunk of rock
from Earth's Sky, now
Sunless. The kindred
soul I once let bloom
freely in Innocence's
Garden lay bef
Literature
Never Away
My fingers running,
Down...down...down...
Nothing but pale skin,
To be found...(To...be...found...)
Hair...swept across the pillow and your face
Throat...bare...and I lean in to taste...
And it feels so real to me,
I swear, this cannot be a dream,
Because it doesn't fade with the day
But if this is a dream,
I never want to wake,
I never want anything to take you away...
Never away...
My fingers tracing,
Little circles around your mouth,
Teasing your tongue,
When you let it slip out...
Legs...caught together, tangled as one
Arms...holding on so strong, never to come undone...
And it feels so real to me,
I swear, this cannot
Literature
Reddist
Before you, there were women
with full breasts,
breasts with perk tips and beneath them:
hips wide as my hand spread,
but never love.
Athenas before you,
my eyes only followed the apples;
and then, suddenly:
A wild brook unleashed
and I never knew I was a basin
meant to be filled.
A woman sewn
from the smile of Coyote,
from the same hands that bent time
and created life for a laugh-
Apples became
the sweetest fruit; be my reddist-
I will love you madder
than a hatter and brasher than a miner.
Wilder for a gypsy.
Suggested Collections
i want summer.
i realise i have probably been difficult to relate to lately. writing style has changed. trying something new. don't know if it's more professional or just more insane. there are so many inspirational writers around on dA these days - trying to keep up with them seems nigh impossible.
what do you do when your muse is imaginary?
me, i wrote this: i wrote this from lovelongago, dreaming of a treehouse after being caught in the rain halfway out to sea in a kayak and i was so cold i was burning, so cold i couldn't breathe, and he held me til i could, until i wasn't shaking any more, and now, when i think about it, the world just goes grey because that moment is still so full of colour and life and youth and glory nothing really compares.
these days i just feel like i'm falling apart
i realise i have probably been difficult to relate to lately. writing style has changed. trying something new. don't know if it's more professional or just more insane. there are so many inspirational writers around on dA these days - trying to keep up with them seems nigh impossible.
what do you do when your muse is imaginary?
me, i wrote this: i wrote this from lovelongago, dreaming of a treehouse after being caught in the rain halfway out to sea in a kayak and i was so cold i was burning, so cold i couldn't breathe, and he held me til i could, until i wasn't shaking any more, and now, when i think about it, the world just goes grey because that moment is still so full of colour and life and youth and glory nothing really compares.
these days i just feel like i'm falling apart
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Comments18
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Just wanted to let you know this wonderful piece has been featured!: [link]
Keep up the beautiful work!
Keep up the beautiful work!