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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
December 16, 2013
i don't think im alive enough to die yet. by ~PaperNation
Featured by DorianHarper
Suggested by GuinevereToGwen
Literature Text
we used to play russian roulette on dingy street corners,
cigarettes hanging from soot-blackened lips
and morphine running rampant through our drugged up systems.
i remember how i was always shot.
you ran away when i didn't die
and left me to bleed out
onto the cold concrete.
but you don't understand-
dolls and wallflowers are empty inside,
and hearts constructed hastily with broken matchsticks
don't beat true. it's just dull thumping
in a hollow chest cavity.
(and even the best dentists can't fill this one up.)
Literature
the 'd' word
when i was seven years old, my mother, tear-streaks
drying on her cheeks, fingered her wedding band
and told me, “love hurts, sweetie,
that’s how you know it’s a good love.”
two days later, my father came back home.
he was missing his wedding ring
and when he left again,
he left a handprint on my mother’s cheek
that she carried with her even after the bruise was gone.
i grew up without a father influence in my mother’s world
and without a mother influence in my dad’s.
neither of them got remarried.
they had found each other and that was enough.
they had found each other and that was too much.
i gre
Literature
I wanted to grow old with you
I wanted to grow old with you:
turn grey and fade away, subdued.
To walk with you through all the years
and face, as one, our darkest fears.
We'd burn too brightly for this Earth
and share in sorrow and in mirth;
to each the other's soul would bare
and twice the love, at once, declare.
For each would know the other's mind
and there a perfect solace find;
we would be two, though as one known –
discrete though merged & mingled grown.
I wanted to grow old, it's true:
turn grey and fade to dust with you.
Literature
Paper-Thin Promises
the first time I caught sight of your
glistening, marble eyes,
I decided you disgust me.
I hate you the way I hate perfection:
merciless, like the snap of mantis jaws.
every fact of you is pretentious,
held high like you raise a middle finger.
You, the artist, always sculpting things,
tried to squeeze my malleable heart like white clay
and stash it in your pocket to rattle with stones.
paint me an unflinching self portrait, my dear:
this skyscraper of a boy shaking with anticipation
to build and destroy, build and destroy.
you sink in tooth and talon at first mention of beauty,
love-biting Aphrodite as though you were equals.
you're a statu
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This is amazing.