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she was a stormcloud, and you loved her,
and the two of you took walks and wore
nothing but promises,
broken chains and
strands of pinkish pearls.

and the two of you kissed under trees that attracted silver lightning
(metal branches scraped the sky, and you, always faithful,
tipped your coat over her head to keep her dry.)

but she never stayed that way.
in an instant, she had whirled into the rain
and danced without clothes,
without cares,

without you.

and she left you
with the pain of frostbite on your naked skin
where you trusted her to kiss you warm,
and you thought you heard her laughter
when the sun came out again the next day,

and the next.

but
she was a stormcloud, and you loved her,
and you didn't know it at the time but

stormclouds lie
(and they never
love you
back. )
...

Not revised, due to inability to focus for long periods of time. I hope this is readable. :X
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this is how we rule the world,
       the underclassed
       the uncapitalist
          (uncapitalised)
the forgotten, lobotom-ised,
                       relics
            of a long lost dystopast.

not with a SHOUT,
     we do not argue.
         we do not even unsheath
         our mightier-than-the's.
we whisper in your children's ears
    the memories of what should have been.
                 the life we all crave.

                 the death we all crave.
    WE do not discriminate
              or obstigate
                 our opinions onto others
     pressing the side of the blade
              down onto the flesh
 until
all are bitten
with the fever of our belief.
            no,
               not us.

this is how we rule the world,
       we tell stories,
       recite,
       incite.
   we incite a generation
                   to think
                      to love
                         to breathe
    with their own scar/r/ed lungs

with a whisper.
Some new words for my dictionary...

underclassed; of the hidden class. often artists think of themselves as their own special class, outside of the existing class system.
uncapitalist; not capitalist, or materialistic.
dystopast; dystopic in the reflective past tense.
mightier-than-the's; pens (obviously)
obstigate; obstinately insist despite evidence


I was writing reviews for some people here on DeviantART who I think of kind of like kin. Most of them were around or had just joined when I was originally on DA so although I've been away whilst they have grown, I do still feel like I have been able to watch them grow as writers and as people - even if they aren't people who I would call my friends (because I haven't really engaged with them not because I don't like them!). I feel theres a small group of writers on DeviantART who are revolutionists... a lot of them can be identified by a tendency to use little i's... but thats not their defining feature. It's their voices.

...and I couldn't shake the feeling that this little group, including me I hope, are touching peoples lives, young people, people who are alone and in need of knowing they aren't the only person who feels the way they do... so very quietly, with a whisper, we tell the younger generations our stories and that it's okay to feel, and to live however you want to... this is how we rule the world.


To the undeniably wonderful: *DearPoetry, =TwilightPoetess, *ohsostarryeyed *0hgravity ~A-Lovely-Anxiety, *intricately-ordinary, *glossolalias, *IAmPoetry, *Scarlettletters, ~Snow-Machine and *TheAutumnCrocus. Just some of those people, quietly changing the world.
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you asked me for a poem.

sometimes i fall in love with words
and wish that words
would fall for me.

you want a poem? how about the darkness of the morning
when the sun still rubs the night from his eyes,
the dew on the grass and how your feet jump from the itch.

how about the laughter of a creek or the roar of the ocean,
there, that's a poem.

you want a poem?
ask me about watermelon kisses
or how a blackberry whispers love to the backs of my teeth.
ask me how my lips know every curve of my knees
and my spine knows the unyielding wall,

ask me about sunsets and the giants who paint them,
who gave the frog his croak, and why,
why the ravens never seem to cackle
'nevermore'
on those dark and maddening nights.

how about the way the muse and i do things
that make her a saint and i a sinner?

how about the soft hiss of my breath when my mouth falls open,
the crust that sleeps in my eyes until i scrape it away.
this too is a poem.

you asked for a poem?
the way honey drips off a spoon,
the taste of raindrops,
long nights in the darkness mouthing words to someone,
anyone.

pain.

aching, longing,
the hurt that wedges itself behind the brain.

the way tigers' paws make you tremble,
the way her fingers make you tremble.
trembling for something,

having something worth trembling for.

a poem is just some words
worth trembling over.

and over,
and over.

(when the ravens cease to cackle
nevermore.')
And there you have it.
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once i spoke to the balding forest,
hushhushhush cried the wind and he
knifed through my jacket
like flames lick ice like
lovers find reasons to peel off clothes,
and

i stroked the branches
of the sycamore and
felt its long, smooth trunk and the letters
wayward lovers
scraped dreamily in the bark, and
they said

let someone else grow up with our regrets,
let our names stretch and bend
and remind us
that once upon a time we didn't cringe at
warm wet breath on the
backs of necks,

and

at least i was innocent as i
lumbered back and forth over frozen ground
like some lost and lonely stormcloud,
like some flame guttering before dying out,

at least i was as many cupfuls of insanity as i could swallow
before my stomach
tricked my brain tricked my heart into thinking
"this is all okay,
everything's okay."

(and at least my name is not expanding
somewhere in a forest,
carved lazily into trees that
grow and grow in spite of
all their broken love.)

palsied branches and the forest and the moonlight, and

I spoke to the balding forest,
hushhushhush cried the wind but i
howled until my lungs dried up
and my chest filled with all the sighs
that the earth and the wind and the trees couldn't hold,

and
i felt somewhere the aching of the sycamore,
whose branches sway and hurt
until its grown:

a canvas for someone else's love

and still
very
much
alone.
Oh lookie there, a deviation! 

Don't carve names into trees, darlings. ;)
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It permeates everything
It is the cells. It is the cell
in which I am rotting.

The sheen over my eye,
the flesh I rip from the side of my nail,
the teeth I grind it with.

The tears, blood and sweat.
It is below carbon and hydrogen,
embedded in the air I breathe.

It is sleeping under my fingernails,
It is the undeniable, genetic, atomic truth.
Oh, my oxygen permeates everything.

It is the cell.
This poem is about depression... about wearing misery in every molecule in your body. It is what you are, it is what you think, say, do, taste, smell, hear... it is everything.

I'm freaking out because I feel so low and I am not off my meds. That is a worrying development.


Icon for Hire - Iodine
"Depression's like a big fur coat,
it's made of dead things but it keeps me warm"

"I think I'm just in love with the feeling
Break my bones so I can feel them healing
"Crazy"'s, I believe, the medical term
When we wanna recover, but we don't wanna learn
Keep breaking what's been fixed a thousand times
And gimme some more of that iodine"

"But if we want to wake up,
Why we still singin' these lullabys?"
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Some small curl of smoke,

across a mess of sheets;

a tilted query masked in breath...

...perhaps someone just spoke.


Cold fingers against moist skin,

blinking at those floating protein strands,

back and forth into breathless silence...

as they say..."better out than in."


Rolling that curl around your tongue,

while my mouth goes numb with cotton;

because that ceiling is falling...

...with a twilight that just won't come.


And the onyx is as sweet,

as the darkness beneath

laughter dances....finality drenches the tips

of weary wandering feet.
to expound a tad. this isn't about too much of anything except when you're in complete or partial darkness and silence. alone or accompanied(as in this case)...falling asleep...when hypersensitive of those semi-formed thoughts and mental murmurs....of skin on skin and heartbeat...kinda loopy but greatly significant to me
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One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Inhale. Hold your breath. Exhale.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Inhale. Hold your breath. Exhale. Eyes focused on his chest.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Hands crossed as if you were praying.

Inhale. Hold your breath. Pinch his nose. Lock lips. Exhale.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. "Don't give up on me now!" Dizzy feeling.

Inhale. A tear falls. Hold your breath. Muffled cry. Exhale.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Shoulders in agony."Please! Breathe!"
Written for 100 themes challenge. Variation 2 challenge 10.

Please tell me your thoughts on this piece.

Cheers!

Thama
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i.

our backs pressed stories into the hillside.
mine was short and deep
and yours grew long and crooked .
the grass died beneath us when the sun sank below the hill.

    ii. "when the clouds change shape,
    that's when i leave you,"
    and i cried as they shifted with your breath.
      "don't forget me."
      iii. "i'll be back in the springtime.

      try not to miss me."
        iv. i missed you in places i never knew i had, and the night fell down around me and it was all i could do to hold up an end of its black blanket to let the moon pass through. and when the morning came, i ached for you.
          v. you telephoned, "babe, don't miss me."

            "you say that as if it's easy."


          "we're dreamers, babe. everything is easy."
            
            vi. winter. this bed is full of dream-husks. they keep me turning until the morning. i am unrecognizable.
              vii. spring. "listen, babe.
              i'll be longer than i thought.

              the nights are cold here
              but i'm more alive than ever.
              don't worry about me."
              black shadows stole your memory, bit by bit until i couldn't recall your face.
                viii. summer. "the woods are dark.

                i'm coming home."
                  ix. fall. "did you miss me?" your lips on my cheek burned and stung. "no."

                  "you lie."
                  a laugh, a kiss. "forgetting me wasn't that easy."
                    x.
                    "we're dreamers, babe. everything is easy."
Commissioned by :iconlucain24:. Topic was "dreamers." Not one of my best, but meh. I can't complain, I guess. I hope you like it!
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You're slick in my veins, and
Slick on my skin
And boy, you move so smooth
For a man made out of tin

The curving of your lips
When they travel down my spine
The warm acceptance of your arms
And how our fingers intertwine

Yes, you're so slick
And so eager to please
And I'm so young
And so easy to tease

It's not hard to make me shiver
Tracing my skin beneath your thumb
Your real art is wrecking me for others;
Their soft caresses leave me numb

Oh yes, my slick tin man,
You got me where it hurt
Make me wonder endlessly
While I'm lying in the dirt

Wonder what it is in you
That keeps you seeming sweet
Wonder how, if you're so heartless,
Your chest still has a beat

The gentle words I slipped into
Were lines from a mouth that plays
And the beat I once thought I heard
Was the trick of a body that preys

So, tell me, tin man
How it feels to take a heart
Hold it beating in your hand
Make it stop and help it start

Is it familiar to you yet,
What a pleasure heartbreak is?
Or is the only thing you remember
How to kill a girl with a kiss?
Submitted to 100 Themes for "Man".
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Four year old Keaton gripped a green crayon in his tiny fist, pressing it hard against the paper.  His parents fought beneath the sound of the tv in the background.  Scribbling in rhythmic circles, he furrowed his brow.  His mother came into the room, a dishtowel in her hands.

"What are you drawing, Keaton?"  Her voice had the tremble of someone forcing their words to sound happy.

"Money," he said, then glanced up.

She came closer, examining the pages scattered around him from behind.  All contained a dollar, done again and again in various sizes.

"You've drawn a lot of it."

"Yeah," he said, "we need a lot, so we can be happy."

She put a hand to her lips, standing there,  then bent down beside him.  "Money can't make us happy, Keaton."

"I am going to draw so much that you and daddy never fight again."

His mother sighed, putting a hand to her forehead, and was silent for a moment as he continued to color in green bills.  Then she reached out and stilled his hand.  "Daddy is going to move out, Keaton."

"Why?"

"Because it's better that way.  But you'll still get to see him."

"Will you see him?"

She propped her chin on her thumb, fingers curled into a fist around her mouth.  "No, not as much as you."

"Why not?"

"Because daddy and I just don't work well together."

"But you love him."

"No, Keaton, I don't.  But don't worry.  Nothing is going to change.  You will always be a part of my life, and your dad's life."   She stood up, carrying away the scribbles.

- - -

In some ways, his mother was right.  Breakfast was still breakfast, school was still school, and buzzlightyear macaroni and cheese still boiled in a pot Keaton wasn't allowed to touch.  But there was a hole in Keaton's life, in the space between his mother and father, and he was right in the middle of that hole.   

"Keaton!  Look what I got for you!" his dad said, holding a buzzlightyear costume up, his face alight.

Keaton looked at it.

"Here!  Try it on!" his father laid it on Keaton's lap.

Keaton pushed it off.  

"What… I thought Buzzlightyear was your favorite!"

"No."  Keaton stood up, and began to stomp on the costume.  "No!"

His father stared, eyes wide.  "Keaton, stop!  If you don't like it, I'll take it back."

Keaton crossed his arms.

- - -

"What do you want?  Ironman, Batman, Superman?  Or you could be a doctor, they can heal people," his mother explained in the costume aisle at Target.

"Doctor?"

"Yeah!  They have these neat stethoscopes that you can use to listen to other people's hearts."  His mother disentangled one from a costume and demonstrated, putting them to her ears and to Keaton's chest.

"Could a doctor fix you and daddy?"

His mother sighed, took off the stethoscope, putting it back on the hanger.  "No, Keaton.  But they can fix broken bones, tummy-aches, and all kinds of boo-boos."  

He stared hard at the costume.  "Okay."


- - -

Keaton pushed off the pavement with his foot, sending him shooting down the hill.  He was fourteen and the skateboard was last-years Christmas present.  He flew down the hill, speed accompanied by the sound of concrete and wheels, chalky and dull, a sound he could feel buzzing inside his legs.

He soared past the bum who always sat on the corner of Eighth street and skidded to a stop at the park, where a little boy stood licking an ice cream cone that dripped all the way down his hands.  Keaton strode up to the little boy, knocked the ice cream out of his hands, then gave him a good shove.  The little boy tumbled back and landed on his rear, tears already forming in his eyes.

Keaton raced back to his skateboard and pushed off, disappearing around the corner, where he hopped off and peeked through the bushes.  A mother and a father rushed towards the little boy, forming a protective circle around him.  The father picked him up and the mother cleaned him up, kissing him on the forehead.  

Scrunching up his face, Keaton stuffed his hands in his pockets and kicked his skateboard, following it down the street.

An empty building with a window stopped Keaton, the surface reflecting the entire street back on itself.  He popped the skateboard up to his hand and caught it without looking, his eyes trained on his reflection in the window.  Furrowing his brow, he studied himself, straightening his t-shirt and messing with the direction of his hair.  

When he put his board back to the pavement, sneaker scuffing as he pushed off, the frown stayed on his face.

- - -

The bottle of vodka Keaton put to his lips was empty.  Disgusted, he tossed it aside, staggering down the sidewalk.  The sound of breaking glass followed him as he wove his way down the concrete towards home.  A motorcycle puttered around somewhere in the distance, roaring to life and then fading away.  He reached his house, suburban plainness shrouded in the darkness, and stumbled inside, feeling his way up to his room, where he collapsed into bed, world-numb.

The world was too bright when he woke up, stretching, sheets tightening around him.  He winced, then wrinkled his nose and opened his eyes.  There was dirty laundry on the floor and vomit.  His vomit.  The stink of it triggered flashes of the party.  Pulsing music, pretty girls, and alcohol.  He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut, and rolled over, pulling the covers over his head.  

Later, when he found his way downstairs, his mother greeted him with, "Well look who decided to sleep the day away."  

He rubbed his eyes "Did not, it's still light."

"Did too, it's five.  Dinner time!  I made a casserole.  And there's a letter for you."

"You know I can't eat anything like that when I've just woken up… the letter from dad?"

"Nope, from Harvard."

He yawned.  "Really?"

"Yeah!" she grinned, her hands going up and then coming back down, holding the edge of the kitchen counter.

He grabbed some cheerios out of the cupboard, a bowl and spoon, and the milk.

"Well?  Aren't you going to open it?"

"Eventually."

"Keaton.  Open the letter!"

He rolled his eyes, grabbing it, and used the other end of his spoon to slice it open.  "Dear Mr. Young, Your application to Harvard University has been accepted."

"Yes!" his mother said, popping into the air like the cork of a wine bottle.

"Cool," Keaton said.

"Keaton!  This is your dream!  At least act happy!"

"I am happy.  I'm also half asleep, and I have a headache."

"It's amazing, it's absolutely amazing.  I'm so glad that I can send you there for free, you know they're not doing that for new employees, it got to be too expensive."

"Yeah, I'll be sure to count my lucky stars."

"You better, young man.  This is an opportunity people could kill for."

He nodded to his cereal.

- - -

"Excuse me," Keaton said to a girl standing between him and the trashcan.  "Excuse me," he said again, holding his lunch tray.  

After another moment she turned and saw him.  Her eyebrows shot up and she made a gesture of apology, stepping out of the way.  

"That's okay…" he said.

She turned and touched the arm of the person she was with, another girl, and point to Keaton.  They exchanged what looked like a conversation in sign language, and then the other girl said, "Hello, this is Jess, she's deaf, that's why she didn't respond."

"Oh, that's cool," Keaton said, his eyes on Jess.  "Nice to meet you," he said, putting out his hand.  

Jess glanced at the other girl, who signed.  Jess turned back to Keaton and signed something to him, reaching out her hand.

"She said, 'nice to meet you.'"

- - -

"How's it going?" his mother said after he picked up the phone, plopping down on the couch.

"Well, pretty good, except for the fact that I live on mac and cheese."

"Buzzlightyear shapes?"

"Always."

"You're in a good mood."

"I met a girl," he said, putting his feet up on the coffee table.

His mother laughed.  "That's great, just don't get too distracted…"

"I won't."

After he hung up, he grabbed a library book that sat on the couch beside him.  Learn American Sign Language.

- - -


Keaton opened the front door, carrying his briefcase, and walked into the house.  The voice of an opera singer cranked to max volume blared from the kitchen, setting him on edge.

Jess stuck her head out of the kitchen, and broke into a grin, running towards him in an apron that was designed to look like a giant flower.  She threw her arms around him and kissed his cheek, then beamed into his face.

Wrinkling his brow, he walked into the kitchen and switched the music off, and without stopping went to his office.  He sat in his chair, hands on his face.  His wedding band pressed against his cheek.  Reaching across his desk, he lifted the phone and punched in a number by memory.

"Gus, it's Keaton."

"Oh, hello Keaton.  Something happen since our last session?"

"What kind of deaf woman blares opera music on the radio?" he said.

"Well, that's the only way she can feel it."

"Surely it doesn't have to be that loud."

That night, as her chest rose and fell and he stared at the ceiling, her hand came up and draped itself over his chest.  He turned away, closing his eyes.

- - -

I want a divorce, he signed.

A shadow passed over Jess's face, leaving her expression pale and hollow. Why aren't you happy? she signed.

I don't know.  I thought our love could be bigger, could make everything okay.

You never let me in.


He didn't know what to say.

I love you,
she signed.  You are a good husband, you provide for me and take care of me.  And you are a good man, strong and honorable.  But this is a coward's act.  Don't shy away from the possibility of happiness!  Embrace it!  You fix people for a living, but you're still broken.  Leaving this marriage will just make that worse.  Look at your own family.  Your mom is always so proud of your accomplishments because her life is empty.

Don't talk about my mother.


Jess looked at him, the color in her face again, an emotion bearing down in her eyes. I'm talking about you.

Keaton's face relaxed in stages, releasing the clenched muscles in his forehead until another emotion entirely rose up into him.  He fell into her arms, sobbing.

When he pulled away, he signed, I'm afraid.

I'll be here with you.
Very, very rough.

Not sure I should even be submitting this. I just don't know. It had a very rough conception, and I'm not sure I pulled it off.

Bildungsroman for #Writers-Workshop

I want to add that I've never really written anything with such a long timeline before. The danger is, will it work as a story or does it resemble more of a character profile?

Additionally, sustaining conflict over that entire period was difficult. I'm not sure I succeeded in linking the conflict, either. I'm not even sure if the characters have motivations and are interesting! haha.
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