Nonexistent PerfectionShe dreams of perfection
The perfect guy, sitting next to her
His perfect smile, shining down at her
His perfect arms, wrapped around her
His perfect voice, soothing as he speaks
His perfect everything, perfectly with her
His words gentle, loving, genuine
He 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 alone
Hurt, indecisive, and unknowing
Of why this dream can't be real.
She waits by herself for something to happen.
Nothing ever does.
She has been hurt.
Hurt by her own imagination.
NaPoWriMo: Day 7Watch out.
She’s a devil,
Glad for her spine,
& her teeth,
even God hands fear her.
For she has arched her back
for a flower-woman
with sin dripping
from her fingers
-who taught her
how to laugh
like the stars.
NaPoWriMo- Day 5She used to try and catch butterflies
until she realized their beauty
rubbed off on her fingers;
but she will always be loving you
with those digits.
20 years from now
when even the love on her arms
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 cloth
and 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 skin
and our bodies are blades of grass slightly licking each other
when the wind blows over and through us.
Pursuing my happiness
I can feel the rubble beneath my feet
My eyes are clouded with a fog that restricts me from seeing
For now I feel blind, but from a distance I see a shining figure
Though I seem to be in a malevolent environment, I don’t feel like fleeing
With each step I take, the rubble pierces my feet
Though the pain is sorrowful, faith strengthens my heart
I know I won’t be disappointed with finding someone who shines in the dark
All 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 days
She knows all my knowings well.
She is tense and bitter
when I must wear my Brave Face.
She weeps when I may not.
She pours her secrets, vermillion,
From ink to blotted page
So I may toss them aside, and breathe.
She is my favourite,
She who unmarvels me marvellously.
She who whispers in my tongue.