ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
i. You aren't the ruins of Greece.
You don't combust into fascination when the black
rose you planted years ago finally bloom and poison
your veins and stop your heart beat in black splotches
and dirty grenade. The Earth won't mould trees or
ocean or clouds into your image when rust seeps into
your wrist, turning you into a sculpture of grey hands
and silver blood. You won't smile knowing a spider is
creeping up your throat, spider webbing your tongue and robbing your voice away.
ii. You can't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails.
You don't have to get why your wounds rot like
the speed of a full-on hail storm and why others
have bowstring smile and pretty eyes all the
damn time. You don't have to know why your
musical box blasts in gunfires and thunderbolts
while other have rose tattoos exploding in fierce
fireworks and adrenaline-rushing stage fire. You
can't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails and
scraped metallic heart. You can't love yourself if
you keep whiplashing yourself in high-speed
collision with a gale storm and expecting yourself not to vomit fire.
iii. You aren't the crying wolf who needs to howl for attention.
But the inked tide in my mind will never subside with
you knocking on my birdcaged-bones. My graphite
palm will still reek of your words ramming into my
mind cave and I will still leave bite marks on your poetry
because I don't want to admit I crumble like a mimosa
plant burning in bonfire - flinching, shrinking, collapsing.
I don't want to coat my skin in your echo like a maniac
chanting your last words. I don't want my cheeks to turn
into the colour of the ocean squall and engulf myself in
monotonous grey and black whirlpool.
You don't combust into fascination when the black
rose you planted years ago finally bloom and poison
your veins and stop your heart beat in black splotches
and dirty grenade. The Earth won't mould trees or
ocean or clouds into your image when rust seeps into
your wrist, turning you into a sculpture of grey hands
and silver blood. You won't smile knowing a spider is
creeping up your throat, spider webbing your tongue and robbing your voice away.
ii. You can't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails.
You don't have to get why your wounds rot like
the speed of a full-on hail storm and why others
have bowstring smile and pretty eyes all the
damn time. You don't have to know why your
musical box blasts in gunfires and thunderbolts
while other have rose tattoos exploding in fierce
fireworks and adrenaline-rushing stage fire. You
can't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails and
scraped metallic heart. You can't love yourself if
you keep whiplashing yourself in high-speed
collision with a gale storm and expecting yourself not to vomit fire.
iii. You aren't the crying wolf who needs to howl for attention.
But the inked tide in my mind will never subside with
you knocking on my birdcaged-bones. My graphite
palm will still reek of your words ramming into my
mind cave and I will still leave bite marks on your poetry
because I don't want to admit I crumble like a mimosa
plant burning in bonfire - flinching, shrinking, collapsing.
I don't want to coat my skin in your echo like a maniac
chanting your last words. I don't want my cheeks to turn
into the colour of the ocean squall and engulf myself in
monotonous grey and black whirlpool.
(G.L)
-To you who write until you bleed and cry and die
-To you who write until you bleed and cry and die
Literature
What have you said at 3 am?
Eyelids are heavy,
thoughts heavier,
feelings heaviest
and they say-
many fears are born
of fatigue and loneliness,
maybe this starlit conversation,
you'll discover
the thing he fears most,
with those sandbag eyes
and train wreck sentences,
is losing you.
Literature
The Girl Who Was Afraid To Be
She speaks to me fondly
of passions and talents,
of guitars and stars,
with such breathless intensity
then stops short and
apologises
for speaking at all.
All because somewhere in her life,
someone she loved broke her heart
by ignoring
her beautiful words
and telling her to
shut up,
keep it down,
nobody cares.
People aren’t born sad.
We make them that way.
Literature
on unlearning how to die
the space between intention and
inaction has been redefined. they say
the first step to sadness is
to be happy. the second step
is learning loss. they tell us
depression is an abundance of emotions
but everyone here is a balloon
deflated with time, a sun
dimming as years eat away years
and everything changes but
nothing's really different at all.
we drowned before we even saw
the sea, dreaming of that cemetery
a million miles deep; and still,
I cry for the people worth forgetting:
the girl who couldn't take enough
sleeping pills to live her dreams,
the boy so doped out on an inability
to live that he told us about his trips
to Jupiter and
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
I attempt a harsher style than usual. I hope it's okay.
Don't glorify your sadness as though it will bloom into a beautiful sad story. It won't. It will paralyse you and kill whatever that is living inside you. Don't abuse yourself while trying to love yourself. That won't work. Know that someone out there loves you. And if they don't, love yourself the way you want to be loved.
Thank you so much for browsing, feel free to leave comments (that would be nice), and have a lovely day!
Don't glorify your sadness as though it will bloom into a beautiful sad story. It won't. It will paralyse you and kill whatever that is living inside you. Don't abuse yourself while trying to love yourself. That won't work. Know that someone out there loves you. And if they don't, love yourself the way you want to be loved.
Thank you so much for browsing, feel free to leave comments (that would be nice), and have a lovely day!
© 2014 - 2024 Milk-and-Pie
Comments62
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Devious Rating
Vision:
Originality:
Technique:
Impact:
I am amazed by how many different angles were used in this poem to describe the absurdity of romanticizing one's own pain. Every metaphor was incisive, and every imagerial description gripping. Well done.
What might make this a more effective piece would be more syntactic line-breaking. As it currently stands, the poem breaks at unnatural points within clauses, which helps create harshness, but detracts from the reader's ability to understand each message in the context of the whole poem. For example, the opening stanza:
You don't combust into fascination when the black
rose you planted years ago finally bloom and poison
your veins and stop your heart beat in black splotches
and dirty grenade.
Can be reorganized so that the sentence is easier to read, like:
You don't combust into fascination
when the black rose you planted years ago
finally bloom[s] and poison[s] your veins and stop[s] your heart beat
in black splotches
and dirty grenade.
The other potential gain from this kind of reorganization is that it adds variation to line length. Generally, big blocks of text are a turn-off, even when each line of text is five or six words long. It makes it easier on the reader's eye and concentration when line length differs from stanza to stanza.
All in all, this was a fascinating poem; I had a lot of trouble coming up with suggestions for improvement. Keep up the great work.