ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
As aeons chart the birth and death of stars
Our lives are numbered minutes, hours and days;
The end of time seems far too far away
To try to stretch a mortal love like ours.
To seize the infinite’s not in my powers;
An epoch’s longer than we can delay
Our lives’, our love’s inexorable decay;
As temporal as flowers in a vase.
But if we grasp each moment that we get -
Each cigarette, each kiss, each coffee cup,
Each friendly fight about the washing up,
Each smile, each fleeting bliss - then we may yet
Create a universe within each breath,
Immortalised each second; cheating Death.
Our lives are numbered minutes, hours and days;
The end of time seems far too far away
To try to stretch a mortal love like ours.
To seize the infinite’s not in my powers;
An epoch’s longer than we can delay
Our lives’, our love’s inexorable decay;
As temporal as flowers in a vase.
But if we grasp each moment that we get -
Each cigarette, each kiss, each coffee cup,
Each friendly fight about the washing up,
Each smile, each fleeting bliss - then we may yet
Create a universe within each breath,
Immortalised each second; cheating Death.
Literature
compulsive liar.
once i asked you your favourite
colour, and you said, "the brown
of your eyes," so i put in one green
contact and told everyone that i
came out of the womb as a factory
defect, half-priced, damaged goods.
-
sometimes i am from canada and
sometimes i am from england and
sometimes i am from spain.
i've carefully tempered my accents
and plotted out my stories with
yellow and purple coloured pencils
on index cards. my origin changes
like the seasons.
"why do you lie to everyone?" you
ask.
"why not?" i reply.
-
i wear nametags that read "alicia"
and "liana" and "samantha," because
i want to know how it feels to be
someon
Literature
Before I Can Become a Writer
Develop insomnia. Develop
problems with substance abuse,
nothing serious, but enough
that I can say “write drunk,
edit sober” and mean it.
Drink tea. Write about drinking
tea. Take up smoking, ignore
the thoughts about it being
a slower suicide. Write about
suicide. Don’t mean it.
Write about sunsets and
ink veins. Mean it.
Fall in love with someone
who will never love me back.
Lament. Write a million
crappy poems and two good
ones. Never show him.
Move on. Write a few more
bad poems. Fall in love with
someone perfect. Screw it up.
Fall in love with someone awful.
Call him perfect. Screw it up.
Cry. Cry for the inevitab
Literature
Colorblind
I gave away my name today
and it might be a metaphor, but I think
we only remember the quietest suicides
the walls are thin enough to listen
as the angels try to scratch free;
bloodied fingernails and God says everyone
screws up, sometimes
I'm waiting for a silent night.
I only ever believed in solid ground
and depressions' tides, and sometimes,
those little wounds I nursed deep
within my vocal chords (because
my voice is dying, too)
I can see the beautiful people, now
overdosing on their own opiums of
self-acquittal and dissolution
they ran out of ways to ask for help.
I'm fragile, but my glass ribs
aren't holding much
and
Suggested Collections
A sonnet. A bit Donne-ish, a bit Marvell-ish, a bit me own. Continuing the conceit of Space which seems to more than occasionally come unbidden to me. I like the extra little internal rhymes and words which echo the sound of the end-rhymes. They feel like a good bit of extra stability - like visible beams in an old house.
© 2004 - 2024 101
Comments29
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Nice example of a Bowlesian sonnet.