Facesi am bewildered by your lipsFaces by saevuswinds
which are the shape of
autumn dogwood leaves
which curl upon calling my name.
you say the blemishes on my face
guiding yourself to the vastness
of my dark eyes
but still we gaze in
the growing soil
beyond the exosphere.
Trudymy mother was one whoTrudy by saevuswinds
felt warm and ashamed;
her hopes were the
least of her concerns.
fifteen, too proud
and had no real parents;
one day I’ll ask,
and my mother will
tell me nothing;
just the dream
that woke her up.
she was captive.
disasters come in all agesAlthough you, my dear are adisasters come in all ages by saevuswinds
Covered in so much tragedy,
Digging out would take years.
Even now, as you sift through your life,
From the time you were born and
Gulped for your first breath to
High school, just trying to fit
In, you were
Jumping for attention,
Loving people would get you
Nowhere but you had to try
Over and over, because
Question people who
Revel in the chance to be different.
Sometimes you wish
The metaphorical rain would cease so your
Umbrella could finally be closed so
Very slowly you could finally stop
Watching your back, and believing everyone had
X-Ray vision, because no one will know
Your every secret unless you let someone enter the
Zone in your heart you have blockaded for so long.
CF#13: Writing On AsphaltI have written my childhood on paperCF#13: Writing On Asphalt by saevuswinds
exploring the beauty of places
that were nothing close to lovely:
city slums, five tree forests, broken homes
you were probably
accustomed to believing there was nothing
in such disappointing places
they were hiding gems under asphalt
so a child would see life in-between the cracks
and so she’d say, “they were there.”
|DLR awarded on July 17, 2014.|
|Awarded a DD on 4/16/2012~|
Thank you so much you guys!
I still remember.I still remember the SpringI still remember. by Kizin-of-kaplumba
You didn't grow.
Your father carried bruises
Under his eyes,
While your mother's became
As if to prove
That they still bled
Into the ruins
Your brother lost his voice
From screaming on the inside.
I don't think I've ever seen
Someone grow up that fast.
Your name became taboo
So as not to encourage
Your ghost into speaking,
But we saw you everywhere.
You should have seen it,
Your face filling whole streets,
Your voice whispering on the wind
Too quiet to make out words
But we heard it anyway.
I remember the Spring
Where the sky felt like
A slap in the face.
How dare it be so blue.
How dare the world move on
I still remember that Spring,
And all the ones that followed.
But I don't remember
When I stopped feeling hollow,
When my smile didn't feel
Like a betrayal.
And I don't remember
When life started again.
But I remember you,
And I remember your smile.
Your pictures are still on my wall,
Dr. EditloveLit Basics WeekDr. Editlove by neurotype
Or, how I learned to stop worrying and love the edit
It's a common misconception that the end result of writing is a finished product, which can then be sent out to magazines, nailed to a door, read aloud to your prisoners—whatever it is you usually do with your work.
The end result of writing is editing. And the goal of editing is to produce a finished result you can take pride in.
What editing is for
Resolving big errors, e.g. continuity, plot holes, inaccuracies, and other problems that will dampen the overall effect of your work.
Fixing details, e.g. grammar/spelling, ambiguous wording, and other technical issues.
Producing a polished work.
Editing gives you the opportunity to take your work and bring it up to scratch.
Why don't we do this on the initial write? Because getting the ideas down in the first place, and getting them all the way to completion, is a demanding process. Maybe you've written a piece about an improbable goal, but
PE Lit Basics: What is Creative Nonfiction?Literature Basics WeekPE Lit Basics: What is Creative Nonfiction? by Beccalicious
What is Creative Nonfiction?
Creative nonfiction is a popular category choice on deviantaART, and its one of those forms of writing we're exposed to on a much greater scale than perhaps we realise. Creative Nonfiction doesn't mean exaggerating, but making real stories well written. Examples can be found in news articles, biographies, literary journalism, travel/food writing and even personal essays. The scale of what Creative nonfiction covers is large, but its all about good execution that makes this form of writing effective.
I sometimes find it easier to start these kind subjects to discuss firstly what the subject isn't. In a generalisation, there are many people who assume that creative nonfiction is a chance to rant about your real life in an informal way and consider it as creative writing. It is also not technical writing, which falls into its own genre. However, Creative nonfiction goes into a much deeper style of writing, turning those
I'm a writer who also has a mild interest in photography and various other art-forms. I'm still learning, like all artists are, but I really do hope to become a professional one day. |
I'm an avid DD and DLR suggester and I encourage others to become the same!
More about DLR suggesting: litrecognition.deviantart.com/
More about DD suggesting: help.deviantart.com/18/
Mama and the FlowersI'm always dreaming about the flower garden. Back when we had that big house in the province, Mama and I would play there every day. She liked to hide there from Papa, who was always raging like a rabid water buffalo, so to cheer her up I'd make her garlands from fallen blooms to wrap around her neck or to weave into her hair. Mama loved that garden more than anything. More than even me. She'd work at the soil, digging it up, patting it down, and very soon pretty fragrant things would pop up as if from nowhere. She said she had a Midas touch, but instead of gold, everything she touched turned green. She said I'd inherit her green thumb someday. I laughed and clapped my hands. There was nothing in the world I wanted more.
Papa did not share our love for all things green. Whenever he'd come home from overseeing the rice fields and bossing around the farmers, he'd prowl the house and look for Mama so he could start bossing her around too. One day, Mama had ignored his screaming for too lo
I still have nightmares of your bones in my hands.
You left me for the ocean with five gray pearls in my palm, heavy things that left my hands dirty with soot and pieces of you. I gave you away, gave you all to the water except what bits of you lay dead on my chest, heavier than what you left in my hand.
This weight has never gotten lighter.
I wish I could tell you your little girl has learned to breathe carrying the weight of a dead woman, of the lies she's told you, of a locket just bigger than your thumbnail but, her heartstrings simply snapped under the strain. With the press of treacherous fingers against my stomach and down my throat, I killed her just beyond your reach, right on the other side of the wall. That night, I spilled her down the drain, with dinner and yellow bile. I bled her dry, wasted her away with my bones until those dusty bits of you around my neck were more alive than I was. I stood at five foot five, seventy two, the space between my
anyway.there are things i know too well about you, and most of them break my heart just remembering them. i knew the look in your eyes right before you would cry, or how it would snap and change from a look of swelling tides to unfiltered rage, aimed directly at me. cause i was the closest thing that you could bruise or throw your words at that wasn't a wall, or yourself. it wasn't damaging you, and as far i was concerned, that was worth a few flourishes or a swollen eye.
the alternative just wasn't worth mentioning or comparing.
there was something not right in your head, maybe the vodka or whatever you drink dissolved a synapses or two, because the notion of cause and effect didn't seem to make any sense, and empathy was just completely lost on you. i did love you, the best i knew how to, the best i could with the cards you gave me. i don't know if you returned those feelings when you were sober and weren't forced to be honest. drunken words are apparently the truths we can't admit when we'
poor arielyou asked me why
i lose my voice for periods of time,
casting me as a seasick ariel,
unaware life was my ursula.
you don't understand that every word spoken is
breathing under water;
it feels as if i'm sinking
to the bottom of the sea when
all i want to do is surface.
anxiety, like wet sand,
sucks in my newly-made toes
and clings to my ankles.
i find out what drowning is for the first time.
you are my thunder, now you are gonei.
you will never understand how much i
miss you and your perigees. you will
never comprehend how your orbits and
the way you would loom over our
shoulders would make me flicker ever so
brighter. at first, you were an illusion of
menace and sharp commands issued from
sharper origins, but it seems i was the
only one to see through your layers to
your core - i was the only one to stare,
glassy-eyed, at all of your craters, and
stretch out my arms and see the same ones
carved into my own skin.
there used to be a day where ouija boards
and crickets rustling around amongst bits and bolts
pounded in our heads and skittered through
our veins and lured the goosebumps on our skin
to raise their faces towards the sky, where a moon
tinged dark red would hover over us and tear us all
to pieces. you told us to howl at it, to bound out
of reach of the pull of gravity, ever lingering,
and scratch the ground with gleaming claws. i smiled,
because we are both wolves, and you are eleven strides
tigers and wind chimescoffee smells like coming home
but this time there is no home
only cheap, styrofoam cups
and a boy whose eyes do not
remind me of a supernova or
the tidal pull of the moon or
wind chimes in september.
They are not poetic;
they are tiger-sharp, jagged
razor wire promises inscribed on
a storm-cloud sky:
i will hurt you. i will destroy you.
and then i will leave you.
i tell him i am not afraid
and for the first time
i am not.