i heard it first when i was four. the sentence—death sentence—what set me
to shaping silence in my space to prove you wrong, when you asked:
"don't you know how dumb you sound?"
even now i carry the muscle memory. my teeth touched, my lips bit,
my mouth shut. inside me i kept myself, sitting shivah while the gibberish got clogged up
where teachers and toothpicks dared not tread. because of course i hadn't known,
and of course i would learn nothing, come monday morning
with me all full of weekend words, the problem
just kept getting worse. you all laughed then—as you would laugh now
—and the cycle began again.
for
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Artist Credit DanielaUhlig (https://www.deviantart.com/danielauhlig)
Welcome.
Many of you have been in this community for a long time, but whether you’ve just joined or you’ve been a member since day one, this is your first impression of the new DeviantArt.
Change is not something that we take lightly, because it affects our collective identity. It was important for us to define who we are and what we’re made of at our core before we changed anything. We all have our own understanding of what that means, but the process of getting that core story down on paper took almost a year.
The result is “Bleed and Breed Art.&
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Abstract Art
By techgnotic (https://www.deviantart.com/techgnotic)
Emotions Abstract by zampedroni (https://www.deviantart.com/zampedroni)
The earliest known artworks of humans, found on cave walls dating back about 40,000 years, tell stories.
Usually the stories are of amazing hunts for enormous wooly mammoths and other food sources. Others suppose they were plans for hunts, no different from a coach’s football plays.
Today we are learning of abstract artworks on the cave walls, seemingly deliberately hidden, and much farther back, painted by medicine men huffing hallucinogenic herbs. The purpose for these totemic abstracts is unclear. While native art worldwide retained its abs
in the next life you were a phoenix
a fiery resurrection
songbird of ash & second chances
when you flew south for the winter,
you made it every time
see for you, the universe was an olympic mountain
jutting out of the ocean, a temple you would never set foot in
an elaborate maze you'd been lost in for too long;
the only love you'd ever known was from the coalfire
of your father's hands in the dark, they were the most angelic
monsters, they were beacons
his mind was the gears of a clock that never stopped spinning
but the light,
the light was a promise to be seen
the fire, a dancing enchanter that never leaves
the future was an echo on t
never become a writer by littleblueraccoon, literature
Literature
never become a writer
i.never become a writer.
you will become a perfectionist,
picking life apart
with a magpie's eye,
hunting for the beautiful bits
until you can make yourself
a sparkling throne
in the center of a junkyard.
ii.you will write when you're sad.
you will write when you're happy.
whenever you feel something,
you will vomit the emotion out
into some sort of literature.
when you're finished,
you'll be empty
and surrounded by
pages and pages of
everything you once were.
iii.you will try to make
pain sound delicious,
painting over the ragged wounds
with pink paint
and candy-coat lies.
you will learn
how to decorate graveyards.
everyone will play
People Living in Tunnels Under Las Vegas by Drastic-Afterthought, literature
Literature
People Living in Tunnels Under Las Vegas
The newspaper headlines told me so.
As I was reading the article in my bed,
eating a handful of Oreos, I thought
about being wet.
Not the kind of wet (slipperyslidyfuntimes)
you want to be,
but the kind of wet you feel in your bones.
Wet like the time my grandfather left me and my sister
watching his tackle box by the side of the road
in Toronto in six inches of slush that
was slowly seeping into my socks,
while he bought cigarettes from the man
in the oversized poncho at the gas station.
And there are cities full of dreams
and cities full of dirt,
but Las Vegas is neither of those.
It’s a city instead with no name or face,
nothing re
october poems and cigarette ends by littlemoonboots, literature
Literature
october poems and cigarette ends
i. where are the metaphorical cigarettes when you need them, augustus?
ii. the poetry fell through the cracked riverbanks of my mind and slid off to elsewhere
iii. so still, i continued to breathe the lovely mindfulness, the unconventional endlessness of consciousness nothing’s.
let’s call them dreamers.
iv. the poetry written on my bones fading with all the sleep i drank (till the drunk of November mornings), the dreams melting off like the stars which ate away at my skin and left me bleeding—dying.
v. so, this is what writer’s block feels like
the eradication of sweeter thoughts and dreams
vi. (i think i finally