ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
I
a woman can fracture open under
unspeakable violence. skin can
tear like the voice can break
and go silent.
a poet can speak of radical honesty,
carefully document a life, and hold
a secret
without believing she broke
her vow,
but in the end, to have grace,
she can speak the words because
another woman stands at her back
and only then is she safe
to say, yes, there was blood
and emotion, but in the end
there were fourteen stitches
threaded through her animal self
that remade a woman who could speak
for herself.
II
a woman can choose to allow
her own destruction.
her body becomes self-obsessed
in an ocean of pain and she gives herself
over, pushing against the waves.
another woman stands beside her,
only then is she safe, and says,
reach down and feel your skin open –
she's coming.
no longer a poet,
or simply a woman,
as her skin splits, again,
she is her own fierce self,
her fingers feel the rush,
the arrival of life,
not simply an animal, despite
twelve stitches, not a woman who
can speak, but
a mother, listening
to her daughter's
first soft cry.
a woman can fracture open under
unspeakable violence. skin can
tear like the voice can break
and go silent.
a poet can speak of radical honesty,
carefully document a life, and hold
a secret
without believing she broke
her vow,
but in the end, to have grace,
she can speak the words because
another woman stands at her back
and only then is she safe
to say, yes, there was blood
and emotion, but in the end
there were fourteen stitches
threaded through her animal self
that remade a woman who could speak
for herself.
II
a woman can choose to allow
her own destruction.
her body becomes self-obsessed
in an ocean of pain and she gives herself
over, pushing against the waves.
another woman stands beside her,
only then is she safe, and says,
reach down and feel your skin open –
she's coming.
no longer a poet,
or simply a woman,
as her skin splits, again,
she is her own fierce self,
her fingers feel the rush,
the arrival of life,
not simply an animal, despite
twelve stitches, not a woman who
can speak, but
a mother, listening
to her daughter's
first soft cry.
Literature
mad house
you are a moan that
crawls like a tarantula
down the hall to my room.
papier-mâché girls dance
in the garden, wild women, burning
with their dreams of becoming
skeletons, and through their
parchment skin i can see their
wasted hearts struggling to beat.
a dead boy visits me at night.
i lie rigid in my bed, paralysed
while he stands by my window, white
as the underbelly of a fish,
still dripping with water
from the ocean that stole his life.
and i can still feel their hands
on me,
as cold and rotten as the hands
of a corpse,
the prick in my backside while
they fill me with their venom.
they rape me of my life
a
Literature
One Left
xi.
I saved all my best words
for you.
(You deserve so much more.)
x.
You were angry
before I could have a chance to explain.
Had you stayed, I could have told you;
I only meant that you were a puzzle.
(I just can't figure you out.)
ix.
You've been where I have,
but you were never in this deep.
Or at least you never told me about it.
(So please;
don't pretend to understand.)
viii.
I write about space
to fill it with all the stars
you never look at.
(Stop watching your feet when you walk.)
vii.
If I'm holding too tightly,
it's only because I'm afraid.
(Everyone leaves.)
vi.
It's a cliche;
but it's not me.
It reall
Literature
just
i am everything i never wanted to be.
it's funny to realize,
five years ago i would've looked at me and thought,
"you
are the worst kind
of lost because you don't even know it,"
and now,
i see that's what i was before.
but i'm still just a fraction
of an idea
that tries so hard to show itself.
others say
i should
speak louder,
sing louder,
just
be
louder;
but i was born with vocal cords covered in
bubble wrap.
my fingers curled in,
with my arms pushing against my chest
in an x
because it marked the spot
i often fight to fill,
while
everyone else was armed with pitchforks and shovels and i clutched tightly
with my fingernails
and screamed
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
For Bella, who reminded me to never be ashamed of living.
The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.
- Stephen King
My scream got lost in a paper cup
You think there's a heaven
Where some screams have gone?
Cause sometimes
I said sometimes
I hear my voice
And it's been here
Silent all these...
Years go by
Will I still be waiting
For somebody else to understand?
Years go by
If I'm stripped of my beauty
And the orange clouds
Raining in head
Years go by
Will I choke on my tears
Till finally there is nothing left?
One more casualty
You know we're too easy, easy, easy
Cause sometimes
I said sometimes
I hear my voice
And it's been here
Silent all these years
I've been here
Silent all these years
- Tori Amos
The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.
- Stephen King
My scream got lost in a paper cup
You think there's a heaven
Where some screams have gone?
Cause sometimes
I said sometimes
I hear my voice
And it's been here
Silent all these...
Years go by
Will I still be waiting
For somebody else to understand?
Years go by
If I'm stripped of my beauty
And the orange clouds
Raining in head
Years go by
Will I choke on my tears
Till finally there is nothing left?
One more casualty
You know we're too easy, easy, easy
Cause sometimes
I said sometimes
I hear my voice
And it's been here
Silent all these years
I've been here
Silent all these years
- Tori Amos
© 2012 - 2024 sunshinegypsy
Comments27
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
so beautiful, so powerful <3 it takes hold of the emotions and wrings out every last bit of compassion and hope LOVE IT