ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
- we'd lie in the snow
and he'd ask me if i knew what the northern
lights were made of --
of course i did. i'd start spewing science
and he'd sigh, real deep,
before taking my hand
and pointing my fingers to the sky.
no, he'd say, what they're really made of,
when real wasn't real, but whatever
he thought up in his head --
whatever he could dream the night before
as he slept among the nighthawks.
no, i'd say, what are they really made of?
when real was really just
the smile on his face
as he made up concoctions
he wouldn't remember tomorrow --
he would laugh and call me child
and say oh how much you need to learn,
my love, before spinning me a story
with starlit lips.
well, he'd say, those lights are fire, if you see them right,
but not just any fire; no,
they are fire from the ocean
lifted into the sky,
children of the moon that won't fade --
he would kiss red curls with butterfly-shut eyes,
and say, they're liquid fire, love,
and they flow through your veins.
Literature
Seclusion
Seclusion
Sometimes you need seclusion to reclaim your mind.
Blacken your vision and close your eyes,
Plug your ears from the outside,
As you fall back, back inside of “I.”
And not “we,” “he,” “she,” but me.
Sometimes to find myself,
I must lose everyone else.
Literature
Winter Tries To Remember
Perhaps it was the way her delicate crystals would soak and shudder as they touched the earth. The first few times the flakes fell they would wither and die, but they were laying a foundation for the ones to follow. Maybe it was her hushed movements that could bring the busiest streets to a standstill. Each snowflake formed piles of white petals on windshields as the storm carried on. Maybe it was how she would string subtle wreaths along windowsills by the break of dawn. Or it could have been how, even in a frosted rage, her beauty shone through to him.
Winter shifts in his seat, causing a small blanket of cold air to sweep across part of t
Literature
Writing
I am a writer
I write what
I wish I could say
Trapping my feelings
On paper everyday
I am a writer
I write what
I see around me
My eyes; wide open
Have set me free
I am a writer
I write what
I need to do
Clear and confused
Just give me a clue
I am a writer
I write what I feel
And I feel what I write
But when I stop feeling
I stop writing
And my little world
Starts reeling
I am a writer
Who writes to find reason
And maybe even some treason
In this world
Where insanity rules
Behind a piece of paper marked:
"Here are the fools"
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
Comments22
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Sweet, simple, and beautiful. 