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 SpecialsLiterature
Under DreadThe winter, the whole winter
is sitting on my head, nesting its fingers
in the little hairs over my ears.
Its friend, the great and unnamed doubt,
is leaning against my collarbone
in a most familiar fashion,
and I fall in and out of balance
I have a beauty waiting, warm, willing
on speed dial, but the phone--
where did I leave the phone again?
Beauty is as elusive as
the car keys, which, I swear,
were just in that pocket. I
had my hand on them. The whole winter
keeps coursing its little nails
up and down my neck and taking
all my breath away.
There was a dream I had that
I almost remember, almost r
Wonderingin a bed full of empty
i stare at the ceiling,
wondering when i stopped having any meaning.
every day is monday,
every hour noon,
every moment wasted,
tomorrow won't be soon.
simple questions i want answered,
simple dreams i keep close by,
when will it be my turn,
not to have to lie?
who am i to pretend that i don't see the end?
who am i to feel?
who am i to decide whether or not any of this is real?
am i alone, like i a
Undressing PoetryShe clothes herself in poetry,
seals her skin within the verse.
Each line becomes another garment
that conceals her fixed form's curvature,
but peels away when read.
Last night I dissected a stanza,
clamped it tight between my teeth
and tugged it down her legs.
Her body breathes warm and sweet,
speckled red like a summer strawberry field.
I sucked the juice from her lines and
spit the punctuation like seeds.
My lips mouthed the shape of her words
as my skin grew more sticky with
every splash of imagery dripping down my chin.
I peeled apart her soft pages
with sticky, pink fingertips that left them
clinging to my skin.
Of solace sleeping in today was the essence,
waking up the process of becoming singular
I want to end it
but I can't stop associating you with these images
: a season being flung onto the ocean, making a mess of color
there's an insect caught in my poetry,
trying to mend its broken wing
the exhaustion's relative & it never comes too late
: blinks of cartoon sunrises & twenty-pointed, starry eyelashes
CherishedI want you to worship this love
I write poems about
I tore it out of a virgin womb
just for you,
and I bear to you now, naked,
shivering in the nervousness of flesh
exposed to a cold world.
It will suck on the breasts
and kiss the lips of small-town drunks
with their whiskey-tipped breath
and hollow eyes,
and I will touch my fingers
to its precious little mouth
and feel the warm saliva
bathe my skin.
I want you to put your ear
to its unguarded chest and listen
to the murmur
of its shriveled heart,
pulsatingthe warm, lively core.
A tempest, the Red Sea succumbing to Moses.
The fall of the tower
there is a war zone
in our veins
(you are the cartridge
and i the bullet).
it's a wasteland out there
but we're reckless
still has its charisma
though i've forgotten what
we're fighting for.
we are the young guns and
the acrid scent of ammunition
clings to our skin
(i pluck at my shrapnel fingernails
though you tell me to stop
"everything's jagged now,"
and i swallow down
the taste of iron
lingering heavy like empty shells
on my tongue).
sometimes i imagine
we never shot the sun out of the sky
in a burst of misguided ambition
because when it's dark outsid
awake, still in bed1.
i had a dream of finding my aunt
in a grove of golden edged oaks
and at the grand center was an
apple tree with fruit soft as eden
and surreal as being thrown out; but
large because, she told me, she
would pluck them and dig to the cores
where we had to find the child.
the apples were mostly sarcophagi for
the ones who hadn't survived, whose
curlicue bodies we set aside gently
and continued the search,
i've never put much stock in friendship, which
usually ends in either accidents or stalking.
jealously, i guard the few who jump over
my crumbling cliffs and somehow make it
to the other sid
and then, you changed.For years, you used to ask me what you were to me.Traditional Art Digital Art
And I would always say, "Nothing," until you finally understood that there was nothing you could do that could ever hurt me.
When we were children, there were no monsters under your bed. Just dead frogs and lizards from the pond on your doorstep.
You asked your sister, "Why do things die?"
"Because death is a part of life," she told you with a loving hand in your hair and a calming hug waiting for you later. But her eyes pinned me over your shoulder.
She never told you it was because Erik wouldn't stop killing them.
Flowers die, too. So I flattened them in your schoolbooks f
IN OTHER NEWS...
My group is in need of new admin. If you are a dedicated, literature-loving, team-spirited and generally cool person, apply now by noting me (=Sammur-amat) or ~learningtobefree
I CAN'T WAIT TO HEAR FROM YOU! THANK YOU SO VERY MUCH GUYS!
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