My deviantArt Story

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And also, at the same time, my second official feature journal!

First of all, I'm sorry that I took so long updating this journal and my deviations in general. I've just been going through quite a lot of personal turmoil and it's been hard to read poetry, much less write it. 

That brings me, though, to my real deviantArt story. I started here on a recommendation from my best friend lizilicious because she was putting art here and I was just beginning to find my voice as a writer (which was thanks to her as well) so I figured I might as well join in the fun. I didn't know what I was getting into, but I have never regretted a single moment of it. 

deviantArt has helped me grow as both a person and a writer, has shaped me into this whole new being, someone who has a voice and is no longer afraid to use it. I've watched people grow in their poetry and sometimes in their paintings, I've watched people leave and come back, I've watched them stay through everything. I've learned so much about the world and about myself and my words, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

So here's to deviantArt, and to those who've found their voices, and those who are still looking. I salute you. 

1:10Glacier-fed, you could have been
my final destination
an early grave waiting
to swallow me up.
I got caught in your rapids,
your eddies, your current,
like a cold electrocution
that had me hyperventilating:
asphyxiating on nothing
but air.
But I fought the Reaper
in your waters,
scratched and clawed
for blood, for purchase,
grasping
for dear life
with fingers stiff
and cold
from premature
rigor mortis.
And as hypothermia chased me
downstream: a piranha
or a shark
smelling blood,
you taught me a lesson
in self-preservation,
and the mindless struggle
to survive.

Gripping from its very first lines, 1:10 takes you on a thunderstorm of emotion and doesn't let you go until the last words. 

Never Fall In Love With A WriterNever approach a writer
They live 
on the backbones
of untamed metaphors ;
picking wildflowers
in their free time
the way
they pick words
in order to
describe death.
Never speak to a writer 
They have X-ray eyes
that will look through you ;
picking at every scab
until it bleeds
something beautiful. 
When they speak
you will be mesmerized
for it seems 
the universe’s secrets
are hidden
under their tongues.
Never accept a writer
They will cut open
their ribcage 
letting their black butterflies
flutter free ;
you will cup them
in your hands gently
and keep them
in your gut 
as they knew you would.
Never kiss a writer
You will taste 
the melancholy 
on their lips
and their hands
will mark your skin 
with stardust.
You will never
feel this beautiful again.
But most of all,                                                

Lovely not just for its imagery but also its formatting, Never Fall In Love With A Writer is a perfectly written piece about how much it costs to love people like us. 

circlesmy dad is a watch collector who never knows the time & i & i & i am still run run running from the past.
your kaleidoscope colors bleached out my eyes and now i'm a blinded butterfly.  my wings are snipped and i am flying in circles just so i won't hit the ground.
i never meant to scare you i never meant to meet you i never meant to burn you up inside my warm cocoon.   these things happen and they trail behind us wherever we go.
i sometimes think my shadow has become yours.  it's far too tall and wide and brave to belong to me.   i must admire it's loyalty; nothing else has stuck with me this long.
run run run i'm carving circles into the air i'm caving roots into the ground i'm pushing stars into the sky.  

The rhythm stops and starts and keeps you going, and circles never for a moment lets you down. 

thank you, Max Brodlast night I slept in a closet
with my coat made of tangerine desires
and visions of distant permafrost
last night I remembered
white noise in her voice
buried hopeless in bureau of disdain
the apartment on rue Fontaine
has fallen into disrepair
embraced by anarchist movement
embraced by emerald seaweed
embraced by quicksand swirl
embraced by golden doll hair
and transformed itself
into roar inside the hourglass
last night I slept in a foxhole
with ace of spades stuck in my teeth
with joker hidden in my sleeve
last night I woke up to the music
of orchestra playing at riverbed
I woke up to cry from the valley of rivets
there is no time for purple parables
as rocking chairs bring eyes to my tears
they bring the winds of mortal gestures
they bring the equations
they bring the reveries
while my co-existence
remains a mystery

thank you, Max Brod combines a quietly aching narrative with brilliant imagery to give you a poem worthy of reading out loud.

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Raw and beautifully vivid, And Bridges Burned touches you to your bones and leaves you with emotions you're almost afraid to feel. 

Hungerdiscard these clothes like the bones of a meal well eaten.
braise the skin
let the flavour soak in
savour it like the taste of a favourite dish
eat it with a well seasoned bliss
the plate licked clean
appetites sated
we tilt our chairs back in satisfaction

Hunger is perfectly succinct and spectacular, recreating a banal feeling with powerful imagery and word choice. 

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24. Hard Facts makes use of bullet points to drive a stunning concept home and leave it with you for the night. 

HoneyBearshoneyfurred and longclawed,
your skin is buttermilk bliss.
I want to live in a bearcave with you -
ribbons tied to stones,
sinew tied to sinew:
bloodbond
heartsong
rubystone
amberglow.
I want to dream with you for four months
curled into the soft cream of your fur -
blueberry dream,
strawberry cream,
safe.

I just want to curl up and listen to someone reading HoneyBears out loud to me; it's that tantalisingly good. 

WonStalk me in the tall grass
like you did the summer
I was eighteen.
I remember how I liked
your smile and the way
you could whistle
the July heat through
lips heavy with wine.
You said you liked girls
who made homes
wherever they went
and wore too much perfume;
whose legs tanned easily
and rustled under their skirts
as they strolled through the city.
I liked how your hands
were masters -
how they reached
out to grab anything
in their way,
owning what they touched
and making me believe
I was not a woman
to be won easily.

Won is magnificent in its portrayal of love and implicated loss, in that feeling of want and wanted, in the imagery that drives you to taste the words on your tongue. 


Powerful, eloquent, and lovingly brief, Pacific gives you reality in one line, easily haunting you with only seven words. 
:tighthug:
© 2014 - 2024 neonsquiggle
Comments13
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SylviaVeir's avatar
Sorry for being so slow to reply to this amazing feature. I am so incredibly honoured by your kind and powerful words about my humble poem. I am grateful that you think me deserving of being among such talented writers and that you yourself like my work - because your writing is truly incredible! Thank you also for adding it to your favourites!