This is a weekly feature of amazing literature that I come by during my
travels across deviantART. This is only a small sample of a vast amount
of wonderful pieces of literature written by absolutely fantastic
writers. Each deviation was carefully selected from a writer's gallery
based on structure, impact and word usage. I will never feature the
same person twice, so check out these wonderful writers now while you can!Please this news article so it will reach a larger audience!
The White DesertDawn broke the day
like an egg
on a canvas.
And her eyes
bled a trail
Coming from the arabesque land;
with her ivory skin
and mute screams,
she wrapped me
like their bitter fruit.
And bid me farewell,
pollinating my lips,
then waning in my vase.
I could see her
amongst the frigid flowers
on the windows,
as I entered the white desert,
where people reminisce
of the deaths of other people.
Ocean EyesYour skin would be lace
Between my fingertips,
Tangling with streams
Of golden sunlight that
Button you up,
Leaving intricate patterns
That tell your secrets
With every thread.
You'd breathe like a mermaid,
The scent of the sea echoing
In our veins,
Like teenage hearts
Pumped full of lust.
Like heels on marble floors,
But you're so
You're blood in my lungs
And air in my heart,
But I live only
Off the raindrops
That fall from
Your soft, sea-stone eyes
When a smile curves your lips.
(I carve you in the sand,
But ocean tears
Wash you away.)
you can fly me to the moon and back, if you'd like,
just to show me the view,
but it's really much too cliche
and i'd rather have milkshakes when the stars come out
in an old diner with pink plastic booths and a worn-out jukebox
and think about maybe going out to dance
in the middle of the deserted street
but i want the option of deciding not to move,
of deciding to curl into your shoulder,
the feeling of safe that lingers in your musky-soft scent
guiding me to sleep.
and options always change, but
you'll be right beside me,
smiling at my crazy impulsiveness in a way that says
you wouldn't want to be beside anyone else.
maybe you'd like me to sum myself up in a word:
are you happy now?
i hope so;
you've just lifted me into the most beautiful hug
and spun me around until the world is nothing but a kaleidoscope-blur
and we're all we can see.
i have sun dried tomatoes and questions,
but the latter doesn't matter much;
it's quiet in the lo
and I still keep running into parked carsMama,
your baby girl's swimming
in dead of the night
hair, scarred knees,
overgrown weeds, and
orange and yellow wheels
that hug my toes
I'm running into
trying to get
my kite to fly
and hiding under
listening to you
I'm rummaging through
boxes of secrets
that Daddy tried
solving puzzles with pieces
I'll never uncover
in these thoughts
Thirst of a Poetthe bards have bumblebees in their mouths,
for language is babbling,
a brook in a bowl, joy brimming;
billowing, rippling, surging
and spilling; sashaying down,
with a swaying sound (oh-so wistful, oh).
language is burbling,
an impish kiss of mouth from mouth;
bewildering, baffling, bemusing
and tricking; tumbling round,
to touch a fellow Fool and his nought (so wistful, oh),
and disturbs a Poet, who slips
into a dream of a vagabond
"where are you calling from?" he murmurs,
in his sleep, and the newspaper flutters
with a snore; then rests on his chin (just so, oh),
and language sidles past him up to me,
and places a river upon my lips,
Merry Christmas and happy reading!