little lullaby i'm lost without you,little lullaby by Sammur-amat
lost within the hues
of your grayish blue irises
and your skinny angel kisses
that bring me to my knees as
i plummet from all grace
i wish that you could be
the one i die with,
the only skin and bones that
from this day on i'll lie with,
the pair of hands i'll hold as
i laugh and cry with
Flora at the PassHear me read itFlora at the Pass by BloodshotInk
I will never write of the cherry tree,
or think again on its impermanent beauty;
its delicate and breakable bones
or the pale flush of it's cheeks. I will not.
I will never again be pleased
to see its arms outstretched to embrace.
I won't call it my favourite,
or dream of it's presence at the momentous;
but at my wedding, there will be spring-bloom.
In my bouquet, my hair, my heart.
Enthralled in every quiet bud
of every quiet moment, cherries will be.
At my funeral, similarly,
entwined through my white coffin,
there will be the soft reflection
of its frostbitten petals. Even then.
For no matter what I am, or who,
there will always be blossom in spring.
There will always be cherries in my life;
and there will be flora at the pass.
4.14walls press us into4.14 by rachel-rhapsody
one another, we love
the hours blur and
we are taped
to the sky, growing
380the night does not belong on a west Texas highway,380 by thetaoofchaos
the stubble of 1960’s mobile erections
glinting off the headlights
through blockades of wire brush and cold, naked toilets,
the gut of old houses and giant tractor wheels
brimming in prairie grass like ancient portals to the Hells.
i am different on this road.
what comes across my window sill,
of raging shadows,
quiet horses nodding at barbwire,
barn roofs squeezing into splinters,
opposite travelers colliding with my reflection,
i let them pass,
the world passes me.
i left you in a dirty tub of leaves
just before New Mexico.
I’ll drive another hundred miles
before i stop to stretch my grief.
nothing really happens.
snapped."you willsnapped. by back-bones
be my books
open on my bed
with freckled words
bound to your
with stories tucked
into the chapped areas
of your lips, open
your spine crooked
holding your body
to a collection
of sodden bones, like
the soggy pages
of all the stories
you once told me
in the nights so dark
we couldn't read,
above the beating
of the paper and ink
in your chest
where you said
the thing about
what you see
and feel and be
does not have
and the best part
is the stories
will be there
into the pages of
A Little About Me on DeviantART:
I have been writing since I was about six years of age. I write for my own enjoyment, a sense of inner fulfillment, and I judge writing that I read on the heart and soul of a piece that speaks to me in that fashion only. I write how I desire to, and what I desire to...I have always had a rather personal rule of thumb that I live by: write to please only myself, and for the sheer enjoyment of doing so. I do not expect to earn a "quick buck," or even to "change the world," I just want to express my feelings through the hearts of my characters. I enjoy writing and reading novels of all sorts, but my favorite genres are Historical romance, fantasy, and suspense.
Away from DeviantART, I work daily in an Emergency room. Not surprisingly, there is always something exciting going on there. I do consider it my life’s work and love every minute of it. I also deem myself as a rather serious Abraham Lincoln scholar, and spend a great deal of my free time when not working studying, reading, learning, and eagerly collecting all things Lincoln.
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As a former Literature Community Volunteer, I am very familiar with the community and will happily offer support to anyone who has questions or concerns at any time. I continue to strive my personal best to do whatever possible to make everyone’s experience here on DeviantART and beyond the absolute best that it can be.
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