ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
i've never had a dream quite like this, i was
flying with the wings of a pigeon dipping
through a halcyon haze then i was in
kindergarten again- drowning in a pool
with nothing to hold on to, i still shake
at the memory
some days i can rule the world
most days i can't even rule my body
i poke at the marks on my skin and
i will myself to believe that i am a
constellation, not a consolation prize
her technicolor coat is, technically, just red
hyperboles don't exist in the rain,
happiness is just a chemical in your brain-
but oh, the things we do for it.
flying with the wings of a pigeon dipping
through a halcyon haze then i was in
kindergarten again- drowning in a pool
with nothing to hold on to, i still shake
at the memory
some days i can rule the world
most days i can't even rule my body
i poke at the marks on my skin and
i will myself to believe that i am a
constellation, not a consolation prize
her technicolor coat is, technically, just red
hyperboles don't exist in the rain,
happiness is just a chemical in your brain-
but oh, the things we do for it.
Literature
woodsmoke and fever dreams.
It starts when the pines begin to smoke. Her skin laden with rabbit eyes, curving into the fire away from you, mouth made of ashes, eyes of gasping firelight.
It starts when the mists fall, hunkering under the branches with liquid strangeness, the snow melt of every pearl shaken from the vines of her fingers. She pads bare foot to the kitchen and sets the pot of water to boil, her bones singing, muscles clicking with sleep-stiff artifice. She is not her body yet.
It starts when the foxes call. You watch her from the grip of heavy fever dreams, tracing inhuman shapes over dancing wood. Nights slip into days, the sky cycling from light to dar
Literature
Petrichor
I walk without an errand for the mind.
I must be homeless.
Neighboring enclaves separate our spaces,
belie their builders’ mirthless exhaustion.
Not even necessity can be blamed
for these mud-struck, brittle gourds,
these quick nests of vasculous organs
pulsing with their peculiar tyrannies,
briefly scuttling from their hovels
like sun refugees
darting into gleaming storefronts
waffled in concrete misery
all to forestall the end of their souls.
Where can we go when we only want to breathe?
Sitting in a park bench,
trillion-visioned, crowned with galaxies,
I can rest my weary invention.
I sense the weight of an unseen player,
Literature
It's been four years
When you died, the world did not end.
the tectonics did not collide and crumple upwards
leaving the continents a messy patchwork with mountain
ranges for crooked spines. The oceans did not evaporate
swelling in a heavy July sky, bursting in the wildest of summer
storms, hurricanes ripping through seaside towns like howling
ghosts, looking for someone no longer there. The winds did not
mourn in a wailing chorus, the lightning did not keep striking your
grave, pounding down with angry fists and a desperation that if it
hits hard enough, you will open the ground up and beat back with
thunderclap hands. Plagues did not fester and wars did not r
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
Comments42
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
this is probably gonna sound stupid...but could you maybe post this on your tumblr? i wanna reblog it onto every blog i own multiple times. you'll get at least 10 notes from me alone, lol.
(only if you're comfortable w it, obvs!)
(only if you're comfortable w it, obvs!)