You Have Made a Difference in My Life…
Amber shines not only through her graceful personality, but also in her talents as a writer. You can trust in knowing that with Amber’s writing you will find truth and beauty.
Steven is passionate about his writing and beautifully reveals heartfelt parts of his psyche, and it shows. Every piece he pins will draw you in and leave a lasting impact.
Autumn AutopsyAs lovers,
we were reckless;
Children
chasing fireflies
in a field of mines.
We traded kisses
and carefree caresses
for shrapnel
and blackened skin.
Short moments
stolen pawned
at the cost
of darker afternoons,
the twilight
of the dying season;
We didn't ask,
we never questioned
the interest
of our expenditures.
I shed my skin
in the Autumn of youth,
peeled back
the viscera and
bared the bone --
Rising up,
a scarecrow of worms
and raw meat,
amongst the stalks
of reddened corn.
Tonight
she clings
to dusty artifacts,
shelved trinkets
and
wrinkled sheets
laden with memories
of decaying potency;
The wisps
rising from the cooling wick
will never be
as sweet as
when the flame
burned brightest.
ApostasyA swelling kingdom
of red butterflies
takes flight from the blackened,
singed blades of hair
dangling against the rim
of the freshly blasted cavern
in the back of my skull.
I spit a flashing flame,
scorch my tongue,
exhale dark streams of smoke
amidst the descent
of a lead jacket,
stripped bare
and cast to the floor
with a hollow clicking.
I can feel the light
pouring
into the darkness behind my eyes,
white carpet
becomes a strawberry field
within once dark walls,
freshly made Jackson Pollack
with the daubing
of my scattered emotions,
the dark smear
of my once sequestered dreams.
Pallid limbs become ash,
the dark moon of twin pupils
eclipsing
the fading aurora of light
now glowing dimly,
a dying flashlight struggling
in an empty warehouse,
simulated sentience.
The drum beat ceases,
consumed by the curtain of silence
draped
over the slackened jaw,
the stagnant scream
of soundlessness becomes so
deafening.
All traffic jams,
the tangled network of red and blue
no more than bent straws,
an
InterredI love you, I love you,
but you're dead
and I
am still here
where you once were.
You have gone,
fled this place
and left me
too hurt to move on,
too ashamed to mourn.
What will I become?
Another
nameless black figure
in your
endless procession?
Stuck in place,
like a stone angel
eternally weeping
though
no tears shall come.
Another monument
to the life
you surrendered,
frozen in the pain
of a longing
that can never be
satisfied.
Cold
and motionless --
like you --
your figure decaying
within this box,
sliding slowly
to rest
within the cracks you cut
into my heart.
Darling Bill still influences so many others with his words and in his beautifully heart wrenching stories. If you are looking to be inspired with a can do attitude, look no further.
Maddie never ceases to amaze me in how she weaves her words. Along with her geniality, a great tenderness from within flows freely into every single poetic stanza.
as numerous as the stars under your skinand here I am, reinterpreting the definable universe
in relation to you, the poet, and the gravitation
of your hips (the parentheticals of your sighs, the longing
in your star-ward cries, the vespertine scent lingering
on your weary skin).
I would love every piece of you. I would stay up too long
and watch the night crumble away, to whisper together
the scraps of your misdirected sanity. I would call you perfect
when it wasn’t true, and become the answer
you spent an entire existence
suffering for.
You owe me this, sugartongue; the sweet silence
of your teeth. [this story is like a million others
rejected before it, glorifying earthbound angels:
please]rewrite the world for me.
he's just not that into youlong-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’t call
you pretty and you
don’t question why.
on becoming alivethank god for sleeping pills
and the man who gave me a bag
to quiet my mind.
thank god for boys with open hands
and curious minds and naïve hearts
who make me young because
god, you birthed me old
thank god
you birthed me old,
so I could be the one to
measure the livelihood of stars
while the others made
their childhood wishes
come true.
thank god I have a mind
that runs a million miles faster
than I ever could, because
I believe my heart is an hourglass
of honey and grime, and
I’m slowly running out of
time, and I fear
these days are numbered.
thank god for people
who write the words bleeding in my heart
without knowing I exist, thank god
for beauty and my understanding
that I only exist in relation to it
and in appreciation of what
I can’t become.
thank god for my rebirth
because I spent all those
eye-opening years of my life
sleeping behind the wheel, thank god
someone was there to wake
me up. (thank god that I can
weep for happiness and depression
in the same day,
Stephany’s overflowing positivity is contagious, and this deeply rooted love that she has reveals itself in her gorgeous writing. You will not leave her gallery without a smile.
I Have HopeI have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I have to remember to breathe every time those words come, I don’t want to believe it. I still can’t believe it. I remember the first time my counselor looked at me and told me that my depression and anxiety might be something more. Great, I thought, What could possibly be worse than this?
Firstly, PTSD is not a disorder that only affects our war heroes, though that is what it’s commonly associated with. My own first thoughts were: “isn’t that a disorder for war veterans or someone who witnessed war first-hand?“ The truth is there are many causes for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, for example: witnessing or experiencing incidents, such as mugging, rape, child abuse, drug abuse, illnesses, car accidents, plane crashes, or natural disasters such as hurricanes or earthquakes can all trigger PTSD.
However, not every person who survives a traumatic event develops PTSD, as we all
SorrowbirdI watched him flap helplessly between the teeth of a barbwire fence, screeching for help.
"Papa, look Papa! A boy!"
My papa stood dazed for a moment, dust billowing at his legs, his eyes teetering along the field. It wasn't until later that evening he told me he hadn't understood what I had seen. What he had seen.
With grass tickling the backsides of my legs, I bounded toward the boy, "What are you doing? Are you okay?"
As I approached him, I felt his skittish eyes rake across my every movement. With his ten-year-old arms slung inside the gaping maw of a fence and darkened feathers pasted along the creases of his face; he looked squarely at me. I could hear his bird-bones quaking at my voice, he pushed harder against the fence. I winced for him.
"Hold still, we'll get you out," I turned back to my papa who stood alongside the road, "Papa," I pleaded, "Please! Help him!"
Reaching out, I touched his shoulder, "Don't be afraid. We're going to help you."
He didn't pull away from me. I thou
Oceanic Love Does Not Mean ForeverI do not want you to tell me
of crooked smiles and offshore
moonbeams woven with nightingale
words. You are living in
after memories. You have forgotten
I will live in a way that's unorthodox.
I only want for you
to be lonely and small,
but it's for your own good, you know.
Breathe it in, hold it in, hold yourself
between each of your heartbeats.
Change because some things are
like estranged runaways caught between
the tilt of the earth.
I was the ocean in you
and you didn't understand.
Kate ignites DeviantART with her breathless writing. It has a raw, emotional quality that always invokes influential thoughts and soulful feelings. She never fails to inspire.
StitchesHer name is Stitches and I love her.
She doesn't believe that - she says it is an improbability.
She doesn't say impossibility and that gives me hope.
No one but me knows why she's called Stitches.
I've run my hands over her soft white skin,
Flushed with the fevers of midnight.
I've touched it.
I've let my fingertips explore the hitches in her skin,
Where her body couldn't quite heal itself.
Old memories of gaping holes and vicious lies.
From her shoulder to her wrist,
From her knee to her ankle,
Any where she can negotiate a knife - she is Stitches.
It makes her cry sometimes.
She says she doesn't like being a rag doll any more.
They're old scars, robbing her flesh of its innocence,
Betraying her old soul - etching it out - a tally on her skin.
IIIII IIIII IIIII IIIII IIIII IIIII IIIII IIIII IIIII
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LiliWrites
Lili willingly shares beautiful parts of herself in her well-crafted stories and poetry. She amazes us all with her determined spirit, while striking powerful chords.
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Jay has a down-to-earth personality that shows in his wonderful ability to write a fantasy tale that is so realistic and hardcore, that you’ll want to dive in head first to be a part of his phenomenal worlds.
VerdigrisThe sun was red the day Slicker died. She watched him fall a hundred levels, to shatter against a fat, reinforced gas pipe, shards of him breaking across archways and supports and cables, plummeting into the foggy void below. His blud drenched a cluster of backup valves. It dripped from the nozzles, thick and syrupy.
Slicker was unsticking the gears on the Bigtime, with such focus that he paid no attention to the approach of the Quickhand, making its minute-long journey around the Bigtime's face. He had clamped safety cables to the supports, but was careless. The Quickhand caught a support line, and dragged him off the gears, sending him plummeting. The Bigtime was in such poor repair that the other clamps had torn free, sending scraps of rusted steel along with Slicker to his death.
Shine had tried to shout a warning, but Slicker couldn't hear. Or wouldn't. Slicker loved his work, loved the way things ran smoothly when he was finished. Mostly, he loved it when things worked, as
Bagger LemSometimes Lem wondered how they saw him in the moments just before. An old girlfriend, an ex-husband maybe? Their mom or dad, or maybe a long-dead Army buddy. They saw what they wanted to. All Lem knew was the look on their faces when their gaze met his, when their minds told them he was something other than what he was. They always wore this beaming smile, an expression of damn-it's-good-to-see-you. They kept that look as Lem ripped their throats out with his teeth and slopped up the blood with his tongue.
He could tell himself they died happy, that the last thing they saw was the person they most wanted to see. It was comforting. He was lucky in that respect. Some of the others left theirs with looks of stark terror, or sadness. Lem never wanted to think about it.
He leaned back against the dumpster as blood steamed on his chin. His latest was in a heap at his feet. Some teenager, probably a runaway, selling himself on the street. He looked like hell even before Lem got hold of him.
Mature Content
Ruby’s unforgettable experiences shape a large portion of her loving personality. Her passions to inspire hope radiates everywhere in her literary gallery.
Love Letters On the TrainDear Stranger,
I'm leaving this post-it tucked in the side of the train-seat. If you're reading this, you've seen it. I've seen you sit here every few Monday mornings, sometimes tapping a bent, unlit cigarette against your thigh, sipping from your tea (who brings a tea cup onto a train anyway?); sometimes staring at the rain outside, or reading your well-worn, beaten copy of Jane Eyre (I hate that you fold the corners down - it's bibliophilic abuse. I wish the book would papercut you to defend itself a little, but I digress).
You seemed so sad this Monday morning past. Please smile again. I love it when your eyes catch the light of something I'm unaware of, something silently and intimately your own; a secret from the world that makes everything all the more meaningful to you.
- The Passenger
Dear Passenger,
I'm not in the habit of reading post-its from strangers. I found a love-letter hidden in a newspaper once, that the author forgot or was too afraid to send. It made me sad to think
UntitledThe hours are slow in the white corridors
but you are with me when the hands strike fear
and the clock whispers twelve.
You hear my voice echo down the halls
a half-empty ward
a clear glass of psychotropic drops.
You crush my ribs
and rob my lungs of tears.
You kiss my wrists
and strip the bone
The silver constellation of scars,
the scarlet mouth of screams
softened by the gentle murmurs
of bodies creased with love.
You breathe the poetry I cannot speak,
you hold the fragile shape of my skull
like a bruised eggshell
as the nurses hold me down
You feel it in your lungs
when the needle slides through,
and the drop of blood is yours too.
You feel the medicated sleep,
the sweet lull of seduction
as sedation pulls at the hull of my veins.
Long hours spent visiting your daughter
While doctors tell you she's insane.
You lie awake each night as the weeks pass
for me
and I feel it in my chest,
in each breath
The hurt I crease into the faces
of my sweet family.
I ache and I am hollow
but you sli
1000 Paper CranesI.
We whispered prayers into the corridors
while I spoke into your ribcage,
telling lies to our skeletons
to help you understand.
you said they loved
watching me wax poetic
while I dripped candlelight into your hands.
we watched the dust motes
cover our skin
while I taught you how to fly.
(you were always too afraid to fall
and too afraid to land).
II.
It wasn't lovesongs we sang;
it was half-forgotten hymns.
we never wanted to believe
but you said ghosts exist
without compassion,
and without sins.
I told the doctor
his medication clipped your wings.
III.
I fed you sweet words
tucked in between
candy-canes
and licorice
While I cried in secret every mo(u)rning
pressing tears beneath
the fragile scales
of angelfish
The doctors said
we needed to prepare.
I told them I was kissing
dandelion flowers;
hoping for a wish.
IV.
we counted every soft bruised bone
with lover's temperaments
as your temperature rose and fell.
The doctors crushed them in their hands
when they spoke of vital signs
and
Dee is the embodiment of selfless love. Her poetic words overflow with earnest warmth and sincerity. She inspires me and countless others to write from their very soul.
bulletproof loneliness, at best can you hear my muted, mutant screams?
it is in a form of cry shriveling up my lungs
leaking foam from my parted lips and panting tongue
drying up my eyes and making me collapse
(in the coal mines of my mind, all the goddamn time)
you once said that you had heard my voice
being whispered in the evening winds
carried by the cooing doves
like my name was your song
(forever calling to lost loves)
until the last stretch of its infinitely looped three-minute play
i held unto false hope, every step of the way
I wanted to say yes.I wanted to say yes.
I wanted to take your hand in mine and like a couple of idiots, run through the heavy traffic and pouring rain, and keep at it till our feet resign.
We'd find a tree with branches wide enough with leaves broad or plentiful enough to take shelter under, and there, you'd place your head on my lap as I'd sing you my favorite love song. The song I'd always wanted you to sing to me.
If only I hadn't found out the hard way that your feelings for me are but as thin as an onion's skin and that I could never accept and bow down to no matter how suave your courting style may be. If only I was stupider than what I really am- maybe then I would have reciprocated to your efforts all my yearning I've kept sealed tightly, maybe then we might have had a chance.
When I told you to make things clear and to stop teetering between the fringes of my hopes and dreams and the cruel loneliness that awaits, my blood was already thinning and I was gagging from my silent yet continually flow
rock bottom, ocean floorhalf-past a different kind of broken
on sadness, she wrote:
blind fool in the umbra
bury yourself in me
on the other side of lonely
and by god, i love you
(maybe i will be a landfill)
everyone i meet looks for a place to stay;
out of the woods, on wet roads
under wind, under rain
-i'm so far away
no wonder it took him 1455 pages
waiting for her to come this way
tramps like us-
in lieu of emptiness
in absence of a poem
wander, wander
(pour a little salt, we were never here)
your heart was a broken sailor
fishing for hearts with lace and not netting;
into the deep end of our story
i saw god leaving the shore
Elizabeth’s giving nature reflects in her writing, as she reaches out with her striking words. Her talents stretch far across the board, as do her supportive arms to all those in need.
Colors of a Sunflower--C.Her name was Sunflower, but it didn't suit her; she had black hair and blacker eyes and ink-stained fingers. Everything about her was dark and shadowy. Sometimes she found herself envying anything with color - when she looked at the other girls with their sunlit smiles and strawberry lips, she started to ache.
His name was Kirk and it didn't matter that it didn't suit him because everyone knew him as Hamster. He spent his mornings peeling the sleep from his eyes; his afternoons were dedicated to deciphering the codes of a cheerleader's walk. He used to beg strangers to read his fortune in the dimples of his cheeks; his favorite line used to be, "So...can you see yourself with me in the near future? Please say that you do." Usually, he'd leave them breathless with his name on their minds and their numbers in his pocket. But her. He couldn't even get her to blink. She became his obsession. His Iwantsomethingmore tune.
She frowned at him from the bench she was sitting on. He
Anthropomorphism for BeginnersI found Grandma on the street today
reborn as a rock.
I didn't recognize her at first
without her turquoise-rim glasses
or her always-falling-out-in-public teeth;
she was standing in the gutter on her bald,
lopsided head.
Mom tells me Grandma's gone to nag God into slaughtering spiders
and taking the farts out of vegetables,
but if you squint your eyes and tilt your head,
you can see Grandma's crooked nose--
the one that she broke
playing badminton last year--
and the way her eyes crinkle at the corners
when she talks about cheating
to beat me at checkers.
And it's just like Grandma to come back as a rock;
Mom's always called her a stubborn old crook,
and it looks like Grandma's holding a bag of stolen money
under her billowing Hippie-Days shirt sleeves
if you turn her just slightly to the right.
I think I'm gonna keep her in my bedroom.
Just in case.
Hinging TimeAutumn's diary
dances in the breeze--
pages ripped from barren branches.
My father's father's blood
was the same color, once--
an angry, untamed flame.
My own blood is an oil-spill
chasing the metal of my joints--
each move creaks.
Trevor is a hardworking deviant who truly possesses a heart of gold. And, his consistent literary prowess continues to capture the imaginations of those who have a true appreciation for his work. His growth and finesse are always evident.
Lightbringer“We’ve got about half an hour until daybreak. The light panel is up and running, so you can begin, lightbringer!”
Kenta closed his eyes to the stars and breathed in through his nose before exhaling sharply out of his mouth. His hands were trembling. When he breathed in next, the stars came with it, pinpricks of light jumping to his fingers, toes, arms, legs, and even his face and hair. Every part of his body seemed to be engulfed in blue light, except his closed eyes. Once the light had gathered, he exhaled through his mouth once again, and the light throughout his body shifted to his left arm until it was contained between his fingertips and his elbow. When he opened his eyes, the sky was only slightly darker than it had been. He did not look at his left arm.
Turning away from the stars, he faced a small white pedestal that came up to his waist. On the top of the pedestal was a small black panel, and he placed his left hand on it, closing his eyes and breathing ou
The Day You Drowned- to Oswaldo, my first friend
I could hear the ocean that morning, some
thirty miles from the coast, in that way
the waves always break down without anyone
around to see the waves break down
and it made no sense that I would wake
to the sound of the waves breaking down that
morning, but there I was, awake, ocean
in my ears, and alone. I learned what happened
much later, bike tire treading water at our
park, a sign hung in the rain. You were
alone, skirting, dancing with the shore
the way you always would, the way you always did
until then, when the ocean danced with you
and led you onward, your favorite music with
your favorite partner leading you on, foam
stepping forward, you stepping back. When
the false step happened, the ocean cradled you
because you were its favorite partner
and it never wanted to lose you, to be left
alone. You, being gracious, went along.
The ocean was in my ears this morning. I hope
you're still dancing in the ocean's arms.
I Didn’t See My Name!
Is there a special individual or group of deviants within your respective community who have made a difference in your life? Wish to see them spotlighted in a possible future article? Send LadyLincoln a note, and include three of your favorite deviations of theirs, and a small sentence or two as to how they have made a significant impact in your life here on DeviantART.
This News Article Was Inspired By…
In part by betwixtthepages’s Undiscovered Gems, and PoetryOD’s P.S: I Love you… series. Both are wonderfully inspiring friends, who, along with so many others here I cherish – make such a difference on DeviantART today – and everyday.
With love and gratitude,
LadyLincoln
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