you are all lovely.

Mar 9, 20136 min read

Deviation Actions

Published: Mar 9, 2013

1.5K Views

_{thank you all so much for 9,000 page views and over 300 watchers! it's amazing to see how much i've grown on this site with the help of every one of you. i just wanted to make a watcher appreciation journal to remind you guys that you all mean so much to me, whether you've been with me since the beginning or have just recently browsed my gallery. you guys are special, fabulous, wonderful, and amazing.

as such, i realize i never do features (because i am lazy and there are way too many great artists out there) but i thought i'd do a small one showcasing just a tiny amount of the great work coming from my watchers. thank you for all the love

sea bones.some day in winter,
we woke up at the beach.
it was a dizzying, bleary-eyed
wake from velvet sand
and sea-foam blanket
to smell like sunrise with
our salt-tipped noses
freezing.
we laughed a tsunami,
not even recalling our blue adventure;
like the absence of our footprints
from the beach, from the dunes
from the coves in our hearts.
and as you lift up your face
for prayer
perhaps for a thank you,
(for a morning like this,
what is there not to thank?)
,
i fell in love to that part
in the human anatomy
that is the two bones
at the back of the neck.:thumb345059039::thumb302426330:
walk to the piershe's taking a long walk
off a short pier
just like they told her to
with rocks tied to her feet
in hopes of finding a new world
deep at the very bottom
unless the sharks catch her first
ripping her apart with teeth
sharper than the razorblades
she used on her arms
creating new scars for each harsh word
but either way her soul
will find its way home
far above this wretched planet
back among the stars
where her thoughts always dwelled:thumb340817647:
A Poeta poet
is a prism
of chameleon color
over a boy blue sky
a poet
is a drum
persistent repetition
of simplest sound
a poet
is a heart in half
felicitously torn
years, in carmine and violet
a poet
is a song
caressing clenched
lyrics in pen onto raw paper
a poet
is stuffed
two worlds
in one mouthful
a poet
is inanimate
yet wide-eyed
pretentiously alive
a poet
is a bird
set free
for nothing
in return
HistoryIt's easier to generalize a century than it is to generalize a day.
we marchwe march;
hailing from cavities filled with determination
and fruitless dreams shaken, not stirred
into our very own resilient rhythm,
comes our transformation from insignificant individuals
to "virtuous, momentous" society.
we march,
thriving with courage and dead chivalry, pike-eyed;
we live in servitude, fortitude for every day
is a new day, a new sun rising,
a virgin horizon to conquer
and put to test the palpable promise of our familial ties
we march
and, as we sizzle in sweltering heat,
we stay busy keeping course,
bearing in mind that our fertile goddesses labor
alongside us, before us, for us;
birthing and binding almost every bit of this terra firma.
we march;
with our deeply dug out raw, ruby nails,
we set forth working from dusk to dawn
with every ounce of ourselves,
with our invasive trust in our collective working where
not one has ever escaped/gone astray.
we march
along, mound minded as we push forward
till completion of our life cycle, we live each day;
minding no one:thumb356698703:
Barren BranchesAutumn's breath dances,
barren willows frosted with
a layer of fresh dust.:thumb327033989::thumb358068297:
daedalusi. we are like birds,
birds without the wings
but with the song.
(icarus did not want for wings)
We did not want for chains we did not
want to flee
We did
(he did not want to fall
he did)
we did.
I am without fear, and you are without blood,
and we could never hope to scratch the sun,
but perhaps we might endeaver to suspend it.
it's the hollow beat of bones on drums
it's a steady throb of pins on thumbs
it's a simple truth that
nobody wants to fly
ii. but they do.
tragiclately, she's been running out of words,
like a violin whose strings haven't been tuned
but somehow survived the seasons.
yet, unlike an instrument,
she can't tune herself back up,
and remember what it feels like
to create something.
she's looking for a family,
strangers with no relation to her,
except a story written in cuts.
there's no salvation in self-
destruction. yet, she's searching,
looking between the scars for
answers.
for some reason,
she's got herself convinced
if she could hurt more
than wildfires and weapons
then she'd be worth
more than her desperate attempts to
tell her truth.
for some reason,
she thinks she can tell the truth.
even though she's been rewriting her story
since she was old enough to hold a pen.:thumb355901809:
Star ManI once knew
a man
who went to
the moon
on a unicycle.
He's still
there now;
pedalling
between the stars.}