PLEASE this feature and these wonderful works of art, thank you!

The amount of artistic talent here on dA has always amazed me, I feel like it should be a privilege to be able to feature such amazing pieces as these. Therefore, without further ado this Sunday's Specials


Literature



Poetry

Mature Content

  messages on the moonthe moon had been full yesterday
and she looked up at it
nestled behind some trees
with clouds draping diaphanous
patterns across it
like lace
and she wondered just how many people
had sent love notes on
the moon
for their lovers to collect at a later date.
it swelled with the beating of
a million hearts
and glowed with the love
of a million eyes
and as she stood there,
staring up at it,
with the night breeze twisting
around her ankles,
she sent a message to someone she hadn't
met yet
and hoped that
somewhere
he was standing alone in the night
staring up at the sky
listening.   :thumb296052643:   Perhaps people laughi.
Perhaps people laugh,
standing under broken things.
(Perhaps gravity is an affliction,
someone once told me that a man could
have wings, but
I only saw an equation.)
Maybe, your faith is misplaced?
perhaps God knows,
perhaps God knows.
ii.
Perhaps feeling is a number;
Perhaps the world is made of parallel lines
Perhaps our degrees are just
Tangents of my value over yours
Perhaps our feelings cannot be deduced
Through words but only through numbers;
You're a fraction and I'm the whole,
But to you I'm only a decimal.
iii.
Perhaps people laugh, under
dissociating skies;
Perhaps, through tears,
God laughs along too.
(there was a nebula collision,
but our instruments shorted out. We could only
watch the faint, pulsing light from the dust
as it crept into our depths.
for the first time
there were no viewfinders.)
Perhaps there are angels.
  
iv.
Maybe there is comfort in knowing that
if no axiom exists,
  
then God must exist too.
(The number you have dialed is inv
  ConfessionLips met in clumsy haiku,
against each other, pressed,
the way the earth touches the sky,
soft and whimsy as the dusk.
Tongues painted passion-
          sunset colors,
          halcyon atmosphere, infused,
-upon every awaiting space offered.
Metaphors dotted the hallows of limbs and tasted like the seasons-
          a bursting and vibrant spring,
          a hot and passionate summer,
          an adventurous and teasing autumn,
          a cozy and comfortable winter,
-all at once.
Skin smelled like Frangipani, an offering-
          blossoming with intensity as the sun draped itself in twilight's shawl,
-and felt like a brick wall crumbl   Soak My Feet In WineWhen the sun and the earth were in love, ever young
I was born on a full moon with silver clarity
I'm that woman who sleeps on olive groves
Who makes angels fall in love with men's daughters
And lets herself be tricked by your sweet spells
Who obeys the very impulse of her  heart
Do you know who I am, where I came from ?
I live where stars grow bigger on a light breeze
Where butterflies were once flowers
Where God blessed my garden in Eden with peace
There, I lay on a cloud softer than foam
When the day splits into two halves, you see me
My steps are as light as those of a chamois
My hair running wild; wings of an evil crow
My mouth has the roundness of a precious ring
Cheeks, two fields of roses blooming again
Under my feet grow trees, and remain ever green
You need my palms, you seek my blood and fear
Before you crave for more, grant me what I wish for
Kiss the ground before me, show me your loyalty
Borrow the devil's wings, bring me bouquets of stars
I want that purple flo  
The SculptorBefore he would have harvested a tree,
hacked off its limbs,
skinned it,
torn it from the earth,
shaved one by one its cells - its outer core,
until it was what he believed it was,
no more a tree.
Wiser, he walks deep in to the wood,
underneath a forest giant he stops,
looks up in to the leafy branches, sighs,
climbs and sheds his tears upon its boughs.   :thumb302431402:     :thumb209447748:
The Sistersi
Two sisters sat on the edge of a cliff –
and one was old, and one was young
and their mother was not yet born.
They watched the sea below their feet.
The waves chewed at the rocks
as they had built the cliff through ages,
and green weeds flowed with the tide
like the sisters' hair on the wind.
The sisters sat for many hours,
their fingers twined with strands of yellow grass,
their eyes like chips of ocean glass,
fixed on the far horizon.
Without a word, they sang to each other
and rivalled and warred in silence
as siblings do
without a real reason to fight.
And the grass became a violin
beneath the elder's hands.
Her pizzicato challenge lost itself
somewhere between Dover and Calais.
The younger never heard it,
trapped as she was in a book
of her own invention
with half a reality against its spine.
So they stayed, forevers in the hours,
inside an opal fog, so thick they could see everything
except one another,
but no eyes were needed for that.
ii
Two sisters sat on the edge of a     flameslost loves  
we call them flames because we burned  
we were oxygen  
we were fuel  
and when the fuel was gone  
we were ashes floating  
rain took us down to earth  
mushed remains together  
and when the sun returned  
the dry remains  
piled into something that had never been  
alone as something new   flotsamwe crash seafoam
when my bones are driftwood,
breaking.
i dive for pearls in your hair,
lose my breath and realize that
i don't need it;
your sighs suffice to fill my canvas lungs.
our bodies carve castles in the sand.
("you've practiced," you whisper.
"tongues in tidepools have taught you to love.")
the moon swells the waves.
your kneecaps remind me of
dolphin noses,
your fingertips are hermit crabs
that scuttle on my skin.
(we howl like seaside wolves, and then)
when morning comes i can't help but see the way you
sprawl like yawning waves in the early morning tide.
you are a shipwreck.
between sailor's-knotted sheets
we sweat the ocean,
you, a siren,
i, odysseus chained.


Prose

:thumb183377733:   The DoctorWhen I was seven, I was diagnosed with emotions.
"Poor girl." I heard them say. "She'll never survive this one."
I laid with my face towards the ceiling on the cold examination table, listening to them discuss my fate. I felt something breaking in my chest and something burning inside my throat. A small tear slipped down my cheek.
"Doctor! Look at this!" Shrieked my mother, "Something is coming out of her eye."
The doctor rushed over to me and wiped the tear from my cheek. He touched the top of my head as he whispered, "I am so sorry." And then he turned to my mother. "It's a tear. It means that she is sad."
"Sad?" My mother asked inquisitively.
"It's one of her emotions. This doesn't attack the same way that normal diseases do, there are all sorts of different symptoms. Right now, she is sad and the only way that I know how to explain it is that she is feeling down."
"What do you mean by down?"
"Her emotions can best be described as ones that are up—when she is feeling good, and    
human hibernation.i wish i could say it rained the day we gave you back to the earth, that even the heavens were crying for you. it didn't though. it was 28 degrees and our black coats of grief were heavy in so many ways. it felt unfair, and i wasn't ready to let you go just yet, if i could have put myself in the wretched box i would have in a heartbeat. the cliches were in full force that day, and i didn't care for a minute. all i knew is the earth, or god, or whoever took you from me better be grateful to have you back.
there was something in my stomach that day, a knot, a twist, something that felt wrong and out of place from the second i opened my eyes that morning. my boots were heavier than usual, and i just couldn't shake this shadow that seemed to be following me. my mind sorted through the usual excuses; is the oven off? did i lock the cat in accidentally? oh shit, the garbage that must be it.
i wish now it was just the cat inside the house, the worst thing i would have had to deal with then wa   Dear StrangerDear Stranger,
I hope you are reading this letter before you have gone outside. I imagine you will have a few questions on your mind when you see how things are out there. Luckily, you happen to have this conveniently placed "doggy-door" through which I have slipped the letter you now hold in your hands.
First, I would like to apologize for the state of your mailbox. By this point I imagine you have ventured outside and seen a few things worth the raising of an eyebrow or two and I assure you, all will be explained. The mailbox. I am deeply sorry for the condition it is in. You may notice that the box itself is hanging askew, the flag seems to have disappeared(I searched high and low, I promise.), and the post seems to be broken in several places though I have done my best to repair it with duct tape. It might also be worth mentioning that it has been moved several feet to the left.
You see I was driving home late last night from work (They have me working another man's shift while     One ChanceElliot is four. He watches his grandfather breathe out cigarette smoke in his creaking armchair. The living room is small enough to be heated by the portable radiator near his grandfather's slippers. When the old man realises his grandson waits for him, he begins.
"This is a ruined world, son. Diseased with hatred and war before you were born." He takes a drag on his cigarette and Elliot breathes in the coming smoke. "This world is dead, but I know there's another. We could go to it if we only knew the way." Elliot's grandfather smiles at his thoughts. "There's another place put aside for us. I'll find the door one day."
The radiator splutters to its death and the old man curses his misfortune.
Elliot is ten. His hair is in a ponytail because that's how his brother wears it and his big brother's the best. Nick Ward and his friends from the year above don't think so.
They grab Elliot as soon as he leaves the cubicle in the little boy's room and pushes him face first into a wall, holding
The Waste WorldShe said create the world, so I did. I made it dark and dusty, coughed up from my own black lungs. I gave the trees an ashen hue and the ground a color to match the starless sky. The creatures were murmuring oozes, globs of drying acrylic that inked across the orb of my bubbling imagination.
Repulsing, it was in fact the product of an industrial mind. I was born from man's smog goddess and, if memory serves me, her breath was laced in exhaust which I inhaled nightly with her songs. She was soothing and complacent, her voice smokey like a hazy bar. No one could deny her features were hideous beyond belief. Her skin dripped pollution like morphine into veins, into deep red rivers to turn them ebony and clogged. Her eyes glistened obsidian, sharp and cold if you didn't know her at all. I knew she was lost and ashamed, as her mother, my grandmother, would often remind her of the destruction her presence caused. I loved her like grandmother nature never could.
Grandmother was ,indeed, a gra   i find myself talking to you when youre not aroundand that's what's wrong with you. clarity is gone for me and you are the most unrealistic thing i know. somehow i think to myself that i'm nothing to you and the bones in me crease a little, cringing, waiting to break.
my torture is more private: i lie in bed with a dark piece of glass tilting in my fingers. like a broken beer bottle shard, only it's a prettier green and looks positively oceanic. the whole room glimmers with warm splotches of blue-green light from this glass on my palm and i feel that i am the churning center of some incredibly small moving world. 
you bite the inside of my thighs. crescendoes of laughter reach my ears, headlights pass through the windows and scan the parking lot listlessly. the light shines sadly over our naked forms, inquisitive flight of white translucence.  my eyes are open, staring over you, staring at nothing. you kiss my lifeless
mouth, swollen and dark. what comes now is silence. waiting for someone to love you again must be a te   innocent[dear december]
my neighbor lights cigarettes, stands on her porch and smokes them as the dawn spreads, pearly grey and simple, over us. the embers are a small sun, burning in the stratosphere of her interwoven fingers, and i wonder if she likes the bitter taste, the sensation of smoke staining her lungs black.
you carry the scent of it down the road to me, wrapped around your fingers like ribbons. it reminds me of my great-grandfather, a man who smoked cloves every sunday after church. the last memory i have of him is the chirstmas service, his head haloed by the weak winter sun, smoke trailing from his lips.
his skin was beautiful and delicate, fanning his eyes, showing the dusky threads of his veins. he touched my temple with slightly trembling fingers and whispered an irish blessing.
i don't believe in god anymore, but i remember the way his faith felt. i remember the way his words curled in the air on the plume of his breath, physical proof that he loved me.
-
[dear january]
you l