Forgotten SeasYou know how you sometimes feelForgotten Seas by camelopardalisinblue
the dead butterflies?
It's winter again,
roses and doves
are one word-spikes,
the power within.
Calico, North of the OceanStorm bringer:Calico, North of the Ocean by camelopardalisinblue
let the rain fall down
a twilight tumble
016. Excuses -- GarbageAsk me to get anything done,016. Excuses -- Garbage by fernknits
and I'll pick you a reason I can't,
probably out of the garbage
I got from my parents.
He hit me, or yelled and yelled,
he drank or rubbed me the wrong way,
or raped me or didn't;
she told me I fucked her dry.
Excuses blow themselves
over the front lawns of my days,
gritty and undesirable.
I stab each one as I come to it.
This is how I get out of cleaning
toilets, going to church, breastfeeding,
buying groceries, volunteering at the shelter
or the soup kitchen, grooming myself.
Instead, I spend my days
and the brighter evenings working
my way across my lawn,
gathering excuses for tomorrow.
your teeth leave different scarswhat they didn't tell me--
Forgive This Grief (Miscarriage)My arms are weighted with her space,
(August 31, 2013; April 26, 2014)
Daily Lit Deviations during 2014
I Am More Than BPDDon't tell me you know me better
10 Myths For 10 Mythics1. To Gaia:
(March 13, September 24)
Daily Lit Deviations during 2013
Your Non-Existent CompetitionMy fingers hover over numbers I have not needed to think about for years, and I urge myself to make the call. Still hesitant, I pick out the digits that still translate to "home" in my mobile, though for years it has been only a house; sometimes mine, sometimes not. It rings once and I hang up, then try again and again and again. Third time might be the charm, but today it takes five of these hang ups before I stay on the line.
(we all are the) monarchwe are not born noble.
(November 17, October 13)
I Am Not Your ReceptacleI am not your receptacle,
Artist Reviews and Compliments
(aka, people say really nice things about me and I don't want to ever forget them):
bloodawni is an incredible ray of sunshine. Regardless of the hardships she has confronted and continues to take charge of, she manages to bring smiles to the faces of so many and brightens our lives just by being here. On top of all this, she has an intensely breathtaking poetic style that holds audiences captive, and strikes straight at the heart.
Great work, Dawni. Please don't ever give up on your dreams. -- by a wonderful deviant who chose to remain anonymous -- dACompliments.
You are a bundle of wonder and goodness. Whenever I see you doing something it's with determination and love. You are bounding and exuding such a positive, lovely energy that is truly remarkable. We've only just started to get to know each other, but I all ready know that you are an amazing person who strives to help others. ♥ -- by the beautiful and amazing IrrevocableFate.
bloodawni has always been a really kind and caring person, on top of being really talented with such moving and inspiring poems. Just as inspiring is the strength and determination to carry on in life rather than get her down. Even in her 'down' moments, she never gives up and never lets its affect her optimistic side, something which takes courage as well as strength.
Thank you for being such a wonderful and inspiring friend Keep up the good work -- by a wonderful deviant who chose to remain anonymous -- dACompliments.
*bloodawni is a talented and modest individual with a heart of gold. -- by a wonderful deviant who chose to remain anonymous -- dACompliments.
*bloodawni is one of the kindest and bravest people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. On top of which, she is incredibly talented! Definitely a deviant you should know. -- by the lovely RiseandBe
"~bloodawni, while a fairly new addition to my own watch list, has ensnared me in the beauty of her words and left me wanting--needing--more. There's a sense of real life to her pieces that is bound to leave readers breathless; the emotions pouring from each word is enough to knock a reader over and make it hard to get back up until the end. With a kind heart and an enthusiasm for participation that can't be beat, ~bloodawni is one deviant you should definitely keep an eye on!" -- by the beautiful TwilightPoetess
Dawniface, you are one of my favorite people here on deviantART. You have so much strength, courage, and love in your heart. You are such a beautiful person and your poetry is almost as good as your pure heart. But, not a lot of things compare to your loving spirit, lovely Dawni. You are an amazing person and I love you. You inspire me to give more love everyday. -- by the wonderful chromeantennae
I've written this several times, apparently writing about myself is difficult. I caved and asked my partner to help.
30s -- female -- Aussie (Caboolture, Queensland) -- defacto -- diagnosed with mental illness -- mother to 2 butterfly children -- crazy/weird/'special' (not to be confused with the aforementioned mental illness) -- cheerful -- loving -- cheeky -- friendly.
I believe in a llama for a llama, but I don't watch people simply because they're watching me & I don't do fav-for-fav trades. Please don't feel obliged to fav my work or watch me just because I gave you a random llama/fav/comment/whatnot. Fav or watch me because you like my work by all means, though!
PS, a million, billion thank-yous to the wonderful SilverInkblot who made the pretty boxes for me.
This Deserves a Feature On Its OwnBecause the reception it's receiving now is actually becoming really, really surprising and I'm so damn happy to see this. All of you guys are inspiring me and I thank you all for being fearless. Thank you all for being so freaking beautiful and honest and amazing in your own perfectly imperfect skin. This is why I called myself chromeantennae because I want to spread my message and I never expected anyone to listen, but now that people are-- it's so humbling. This is exactly what I want to do with my time here. I want to inspire creation and right now this is exactly what is happening and I couldn't be prouder.
With suggestion, I've added my own deviation so you all can see what prompted this to begin with:
And here all of the pieces (besides mine) that seemed to have stem from one another in some way and I will add more every time someone writes a poem or response on this topic that was directly inspired by this:
The Bare All projectNullibicity's Bare All project
Hi! My name is Kelsi!
I wanted to try an experiment--a project. It's purpose isn't to depress or trigger--rather a reminder that you're never alone in this world.
Maybe it's a stupid idea, but I feel that if we spread our stories, people will realize that our thoughts and feelings aren't so different after all. It will be known that we are all capable of change, and growth, and recovery, and that the bad things and traumas in our life do not define who we are capable of becoming. To raise the dA love, and the awareness that we can (and will! ) be each other's support nets, if needed. So! If you'd like to participate, I want to thank you for being one courageous human being. (Maybe letting me link your stories here, if you want to join me, will help create a complete world of pain, healing, and recovery, casting away the isolation that people feel. I can't change the world comple
cosmic lattesilk oasis in the pulsing,
will you hear my song?
if your shirt had a flavor:
(may i sip?)
(may i flip?)
(may i rip?)
your spanish-chinese ankles
make me want to
climb the stripped shelves in the
country of you
dear moonface with the
ticking of a clock,
will you let me unravel the
infinite prism facets
if your shirt had a flavor:
the summation of cosmos
the gap when you walk
three coats and terribly coldjust friends,
we sit opposite each other
at a coffee table.
you begin to lose your voice,
blathering over matters
of zero consequence.
there are bigger things, i say,
worthier of the degradation of your throat.
love, for instance.
you say derisively.
lovewho needs that?
only everyone in the world, i say.
everyone except me,
you say pompously.
you are shaking your head no,
and as if taking a cue,
your body follows in a shiver.
you're wearing three coats,
all of which you've bought
i watch your trembling hands,
wrap them around my coffee cup.
everyone including you, i correct.
coffee cup steaming,
we breathe together.
for a moment there,
my hands linger on yours.
wanting to snatch them up and rest them on my chest
my heart is fluttering too fast for
melting poti knew you since ancient history
tornatrásian blood and tortilla
chips crackling with the
mumble jumble of
you, witch doctor
malunggay, munggo, and makahiya
cupping to the touch
vein curtains drawn in
cacao beans and gunpowder
clanging in melting pots
my banca buckles with offerings of
god, gold, and glory
tip the ship
i can't keep
them on the way to your
in case of revolution
that one stranger who
took bed and board in your
let me be the
language to your
let us build
LostlessLess than lost. Lostless.
Time doesn't exist between the stab of pavement
on your back and the pain in the ass.
Life became a stream of blues after the first drag,
once the cup of money was drunk.
I've a cocoon tarpaulin,
woolen womb to hide from the cars in.
But I still get reborn every day, gritting,
a new doorway to "mother" me horribly.
This city is dysfunctional, a dangerous factory.
My moon is a urinal,
a public toilet pissed on with graffiti.
In its shine I grip on to the last
drips of sleep.
Sunshine? Streelamps. Fake.
I get thirsty in the burning gas balls
of society's eyes. Their paranoia brings
in insomnia, and I have no door to open for her
so she gets straight to the stabbing.
Stomach growl after stomach growl entering my conscience,
jerking me into the synthetic dawns
of prostituted neon again. Again. AGAIN.
I lie on the street like an atheist Lazarus.
Faithless, hopeless, lostless. No messiah but the ones
who preach through unread pamphlets. Useless.
I already have a
she's a grey emberburn slow;
call absence to your knees
and kiss its bruises
free from greed
until your hands are stained neutral
olivearmies march in time,
shouting and stamping
into Vietnam swamps
with booming voices
and dirty boots.
a soldier can't keep up,
falls to the side in tall jungle grass
and vomits out his homesickness
into the damp shrubs.
while the American girl
giggles and taps her nails
on the grimy paint of the bar,
chewing the toothpick
of her martini.
outside, leaves curl into mulch,
and summer shrivels
like a rotting pea pod.
The Rower's MateSpinning endlessly to this point, my life has been a sad song never composed nor sung, yet thought up tirelessly by a lone boatman with a single oar. At sea, he's been stranded since before he can remember. And as if he doesn't know that using only one paddle clung to one hand cannot lead forward, this spiral has lead him nowhere but to confusion.
One lonely midnight, this seemingly limitless self-created whirlpool ceases to exist as he lays down his instrument atop his lap. Another voice has come to him. Many have before, each bringing with them a plea to cease this mutalative degredation of the mind. They asked only that he would consider alternatives. Yet no practical means to achieve these goals were presented, a fact that always invariably leads him to continue his spiral. Always, they asked for his tale. He would attempt to provide an explanation, but would fail to proceed past the introduction, as always their response was the same. They would stop his speech, cutting him off a
Power WithinOur hearts shattered, our minds broken, eyes in tears
A world which has been bringing us down for years
Following the times of great sorrow and grief
Moments of happiness are quite rare and brief
Clinging to reality, that silent thief
Has left us robbed and showered in disbelief
You see there is no secret to contentment
Joy comes from compassion, and not resentment
A word, a prayer, a trinket of a kind
In times of true despair leaves the addict blind
The luck does not come from the object indeed
But reminds a person to keep calm in need
I tend to keep trinkets for times quite frantic
Never forgetting that they're not mantic
Recall, when everything seems out of control,
The power hidden within your heart and soul
An Anthology of FlowersYou see things. You keep quiet about them. And you understand.
We've all heard the word wallflower but very few of us know what it truly means to spend your life with your petals pressed to a wall, quivering in the largeness of the world and the people that run wild within it.
Instead of shaming these flowers I ask you to stop and look at the curves of their petals, the collection of pollen in their hearts; I ask you to open your mind and understand, if only for as long as a breeze lasts.
nobody ever texts her first by BittersweetObsession is a beautiful, if sad, portrayal of how quickly one wallflower fades out of the minds of the people around her.
love letters to introverts by sylveda is a simple, elegant series of letters to wallflowers of every creed from a self-confessed flower.
How to Love an Introv
Perspectives - Black and WhiteAugust 31, 2014 - Black and White
With the appearance of social unrest tearing through cultures all over the world, it is important to explore different perspectives to paint the truest picture of the situation. The pieces featured here explore race, specifically looking at relations between black people and white people.
Identity by TurboTracks
"I live with dispersed hues that run at the sight of me
because my science-history says it must be so."
This poem takes a white perspective on this issue, exploring the guilt of history as well as the daunting dream of cohesion. What makes this interesting is the rarely-explored idea of hope for white people - that this state of oneness can be possible despite history.
Something Borrowed :icondivider1plz::icondivider1plz::icondivider1plz:
The pieces that I've selected for this feature all have something in common: they've taken other people's material and made something new from it.
In this first poem, the poet has taken a snippet of conversation overheard at an art opening and shaped and framed it - turning it into a poignant work of art itself. It's quite brief but gives you a lot to think about.
This piece deliberately attempts to imitate the style of some of Edgar Allen Poe's poems: it takes the form of a love poem to the late writer himself, weaving in references to his life and works. I find AzizrianDaoXrak's use of colours here rather delicious; they transform a mildly disturbing theme into something beautiful.
Gay LoveAnthology Theme: I recently had a long, painful conversation with a new friend from work. We'll call him Paul. Paul is 24 and married less than a year ago. His husband, we'll call him Pat, recently admitted that he's been cheating on Paul. I hugged Paul while he cried and cheered him on when he raged, and offered my couch if he wanted somewhere to crash - and was incredibly proud when he said, "hell no. The cheating bastard can find a street corner for all I care."
Love is heartbreak, sometimes. And it's pain. And it's kicking a sorry excuse for a partner to the curb. And that's true no matter who you are or who you love.
So, inspired by Paul and his amazing confidence in who he is and what he deserves, this mini-anthology is focused on gay love. I tried to find a bit of it from every angle. I hope you'll enjoy these personal, powerful pieces of literature. I sure did.
You know you’re in love when you sound li
5 Stages of GriefFeature time! This is an entry for DailyLitRecognition 's Create Your Own DLR Feature contest. More information can be found here. The theme I've chosen is the five stages of grief. It was time-consuming looking through some Deviants' galleries, but 100% worth it.
Blue-Gemstone 's didn't want to see. explores denial as the first stage of grief. Similar to a grieving individual, the speaker denies the nostalgia of days past and instead is content on focusing on anything else. The speaker's personal tone expresses her refusal to accept the truth as reality.
BloodshotInk 's The End is tense, fractured, and carries a sharp tone. Much of the poem's screaming motif is a cry for help, accompanied by cold and shattered diction. Words such as 'shards', 'cr
SnapshotsPoems can tell a story, envoke emotions, inspire people to do something about a problem, make readers consider the world they live in in a new light, and much more. One of my favorite things a poem can do is produce an elaborate or simple image using only ink scratches or pixels. The writer delicately and carefully chooses words and phrases to conjure a specific image, painting a beautiful, breath-taking picture in our heads. However, it may not be an elaborate nature scene; sometimes the best of poems describe the simple things we see daily, never noticing that there is beauty in the mundane. In these "snapshot poems", the imagery is not explained, but instead it is left there for your interpretation. It is a snapshot of the world we live in and the people we see, and nothing more.
"Tangerine" by Personghost demonstrates the snapshot poem perfectly. Upon reading, I could taste the fruit and feel the skin bursting under my teeth. Instead of r
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Feel free, also, to start up a random conversation!