ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
Sad
is such
a small word.
Pedants try to
expand it. To
puff
up
their
sadness
with crammed letters; lugubrious,
melancholy.
But sad
is such
a small word.
You
could slip it
in your pocket.
You
could slip me
in your pocket too,
something else
to be
forgotten.
is such
a small word.
Pedants try to
expand it. To
puff
up
their
sadness
with crammed letters; lugubrious,
melancholy.
But sad
is such
a small word.
You
could slip it
in your pocket.
You
could slip me
in your pocket too,
something else
to be
forgotten.
Literature
scraps and sacraments
you,
beautiful siren girl with melodies
entangled in her hair: you are
shell-shocked and sea-struck
even though you cannot stand
the sensation of sand beneath
your toes.
you have fingers for prying, picking,
pulling at your skin and nesting
in that hollow space between
your bones. and if anyone asks,
you will swear there are monsters
sleeping in the concaves of your ribs;
there are ghosts beneath your tongue,
embittered, and you are not the words
you speak.
they say there is an answer, little girl
(sometimes you begin to believe you are
a scarecrow on the border of reality
begging people to turn the other way;
and the mirror will agree)
Literature
just
i am everything i never wanted to be.
it's funny to realize,
five years ago i would've looked at me and thought,
"you
are the worst kind
of lost because you don't even know it,"
and now,
i see that's what i was before.
but i'm still just a fraction
of an idea
that tries so hard to show itself.
others say
i should
speak louder,
sing louder,
just
be
louder;
but i was born with vocal cords covered in
bubble wrap.
my fingers curled in,
with my arms pushing against my chest
in an x
because it marked the spot
i often fight to fill,
while
everyone else was armed with pitchforks and shovels and i clutched tightly
with my fingernails
and screamed
Literature
He doesn't write poetry anymore.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore,
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.
The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.
But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white a
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
I've been reading Bukowski lately and I just wanted to try something to play around with his line breaks. Does the simplicity work?
Comments68
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
that last stanza. Holy crap. You give me heart attacks! The fact you are saying "sad" can be put into your pocket was just lovely, and then you go further by saying you could be, too. That you would both be forgotten. I just absolutely adored this. What a neat idea and what a unique view, which you expressed (as always) so wonderfully!I really wouldn't worry about the simplicity: I think it can make a piece simply astounding. Here, you've worked the line breaks in a way I feel is perfect. It's refreshing and fun to read! The fact that everything is so simple, too, just gave this so much more power, in my opinion. I feel simplicity allows more interpretations and feelings to burst forth and then play off of each other. It was a delicious detail that I ate right up!
Just fantastic job from a fantastic writer! Your words never disappoint, and I'm so very glad that I had the chance to discover and to read through your pieces. I've been left speechless almost every single time, and what a pleasure it has been!
