Nonexistent PerfectionShe dreams of perfectionThe perfect guy, sitting next to herHis perfect smile, shining down at herHis perfect arms, wrapped around herHis perfect voice, soothing as he speaksHis perfect everything, perfectly with herHis words gentle, loving, genuineHe would never lie to her.He would never cheat on her.He would never hurt her.He would never stop talking to her.He's perfect, remember?She sits aloneHurt, indecisive, and unknowingOf why this dream can't be real.She waits by herself for something to happen.Nothing.Nothing ever does.She has been hurt.Hurt by her own imagination.As usual.
NaPoWriMo: Day 7Watch out.She’s a devil,that one.Glad for her spine,& her teeth,even God hands fear her.For she has arched her backfor a flower-womanwith sin drippingfrom her fingers-who taught herhow to laughlike the stars.
NaPoWriMo- Day 5She used to try and catch butterfliesuntil she realized their beautyrubbed off on her fingers;but she will always be loving youwith those digits.20 years from nowwhen even the love on her armsis unrecognizable.
My Greatest PassionMany people think that writing is as simple as putting words on paper or on a screen. They think, "all I have to do is think of some words, and write them down." But to a true writer, to a true author, it's so much more than that.Even here on dA, many people seem to pass by literature deviations as if they're not worth the time. They don't feel like taking a few minutes to read the stories, poems, and fan-fictions, for some reason. Do they not think it's really art? Do they think that written works shouldn't be on an art site, and therefore they needn't waste their time on them? Or is it just laziness? Possibly, all of the above. Or none.But regardless of what anyone else thinks, I know how I feel, and surely, how many other true writers feel. The things we write and post here, or anywhere, really, are like our children. They mean everything to us, because we created them with love and devotion, and tried our best to make them the best they can be. All we want is for them to be recog
'metaphorically speaking'you're tumbling with me through a sea of clothand our bodies are waves crashing into one another.lips crushing together, our waists whisper their longings.tracing your collarbones with kisses,i giggle, you shiver, you smile.you're atop a forest and i'm down in the valleys.grasping the arch of my back, your fingers like torches,i shiver, you giggle, we moan.i'm tumbling with you through a field of skinand our bodies are blades of grass slightly licking each otherwhen the wind blows over and through us.we shiver.
Pursuing my happinessI can feel the rubble beneath my feetMy eyes are clouded with a fog that restricts me from seeingFor now I feel blind, but from a distance I see a shining figureThough I seem to be in a malevolent environment, I don’t feel like fleeingWith each step I take, the rubble pierces my feetThough the pain is sorrowful, faith strengthens my heartI know I won’t be disappointed with finding someone who shines in the darkAll of this will be worth it; this will be where my happiness starts
My FavouriteShe is my favourite.No siren song marks me deeper.There is nowt but dust between us.She is the herald of my thoughts,The anthem of my daysShe knows all my knowings well.She is tense and bitterwhen I must wear my Brave Face.She weeps when I may not.She pours her secrets, vermillion,From ink to blotted pageSo I may toss them aside, and breathe.She is my favourite,She who unmarvels me marvellously.She who whispers in my tongue.