ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
I fell asleep once with my memory caught
in tadpoles and roses and water and light,
in the mausoleum where bloodshot eyes
And paper meet (where ideas drop from nubby pencils,
to splay, stillborn, across a sea of white).
My pen bled circles
through my desk that night.
When I woke, you were standing
on the edge of my sight,
your eyelids trailing ink.
I watched your hands fold in and out,
The smell of words too strong to think.
You smiled at me and let me fall
into the promise of your face.
There I read snowflakes, sea-foam and angels;
flashes of of glory and splinters of grace.
I asked you in, and your words behind -
'Sing, muse, of roses and water and light,'
I was fool enough to call them mine -
My pen bled circles
through my desk that night.
in tadpoles and roses and water and light,
in the mausoleum where bloodshot eyes
And paper meet (where ideas drop from nubby pencils,
to splay, stillborn, across a sea of white).
My pen bled circles
through my desk that night.
When I woke, you were standing
on the edge of my sight,
your eyelids trailing ink.
I watched your hands fold in and out,
The smell of words too strong to think.
You smiled at me and let me fall
into the promise of your face.
There I read snowflakes, sea-foam and angels;
flashes of of glory and splinters of grace.
I asked you in, and your words behind -
'Sing, muse, of roses and water and light,'
I was fool enough to call them mine -
My pen bled circles
through my desk that night.
Literature
I Call Him Compulsion
Three. Four. Five. I like five; it feels complete. Okay, one more time. Six
Seven. Done.
"How long does it take to get a glass of water?" my husband calls from the living room.
"Sorry, I'm coming." I resist the urge to rinse the glass a few more times. Cleanliness is not a factorit's the numbers. The completion. The habit. I take a sip of my water and force myself to stop asking if I should just run the water one more time.
I join Sam in the living room and sit in my usual spot: the center recliner. He always lies on the couch to watch TV. It works.
He hits the play button, and we watch ten minutes of reality before the demon
Literature
toothpick trees
i have trees in my head
tiny toothpicks in my brain
poking and prodding the inside of my skullcap
the leaves tickle and the branches scratch
i don’t mind though;
it’s a beautiful forest.
during the autumn, the leaves fall to the ground
millions and millions of thoughts
fragments piling together and becoming one
very few are understood individually
so the gardener clumps the siblings together;
i thank him for that.
where do i get my ideas?
the answer is simple; it’s the forest in the fall
where there’s toothpick trees
and a quiet gardener with a rake
the Sun remains static;
but the leaves hardly do.
Literature
Latreuophobia
I wash off sick-sweet orange lipstick in front of a mirror as dusty as gothic romances. It tastes like oblivion, that is to say, like nothing my tongue can detect.
The door opens with a creak no private restroom could emulate. Some chick with blue bobbed hair and smeared eyeliner. I looked like that once. Ten years ago.
Getting the beer out of my hair is harder. Some men just can't take it when I'd rather they not kiss my feet or call me an angel or-
“Dayum girl, you look like a goddess.”
I gulp, taste of acid.
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
A poem written for 's contest:fav.me/d6l3gbu The theme was 'a creature in my house,' and I chose the Muse. Not my usual style, but I think the form fits the subject.
© 2013 - 2024 hallosse
Comments10
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Wow, this is amazing - so evocative and the poem flows so wonderfully!