ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
you bleed like a fountain
when the tides aim for saltwater sky
& all you want to do is drown-
i wonder how long it’ll take for you
to stop writing like that.
once upon a time, you were blue
train tracks rolling down cigarette
addiction and soft metaphors.
your mother had no way of recognizing you
from the sallow skin
and crevice-deep wrinkles.
you were a cliche
romanticizing the evenings,
wishing you were dead
on paper.
a beating heart floats for
30 years in stagnant waters,
fragmented like glass windows
& diluted bottle messages.
you were polluted rivers,
deadfish-the
flow of words
gone
as you sit there with your
computer static
electricity
yeah, you and your click-click-
clicks in that blank, blank space.
your typewriter doesn’t exist
but you press the keys too hard
as if it shows some promise.
you read book after book after book
trying to declutter shit.
nothing comes up.
this goes on for a few more years
until you pile dust &
every bottle you drink has
a burnt out cigarette
like a message to nobody.
it’s 4 in the morning.
you’re bleeding like a fountain, again.
you didn’t want this
but it sells.
your couch is a sludge of paperweight
& ball sweat, but that’s all there is
to it.
it’s just metaphors
& your agent kills time in
a bar next to a priest
looking for a
break.
sludge. funny how you
never used that in a poem.
how it just rolls off the tongue
like your shoddy words-
but who knows?
put it in your next chapbook.
it could be your break.
it suits you. you’re a landslide
of shit & you know it’s true.
or you could just spend forever
talking about that empty space
in your ribs
& how birds stand on moonlight
with their heads cocked to one side
like a big ‘i-told-you-so’.
spend another decade picking daisies
& walk around like a deluded
15-year-old.
just cut it. fuck it. write.
don’t give a shit when you
don’t sell a hundred copies in that book
launch. punch the world in the face.
it already has for so many years,
return the favor.
be brutal sex. talk about
machinery taking over the world.
how a big wall could
overthrow history.
come on.
don’t sit there.
don’t type about flowers.
Use Caps Lock.
or don’t. it’s your fucking poem.
but you sit there, 3 minutes into
wine, downtrodden
in every word that comes
out of your goddamn mouth
& you write about her-
even though she never existed
(or maybe she did. in the subconscious)
fine. write about ribs.
write about bones.
write about flowers.
cry me a damn river.
you bleed like a fountain
when the tides aim for saltwater sky
& all you want to do is drown
when the tides aim for saltwater sky
& all you want to do is drown-
i wonder how long it’ll take for you
to stop writing like that.
once upon a time, you were blue
train tracks rolling down cigarette
addiction and soft metaphors.
your mother had no way of recognizing you
from the sallow skin
and crevice-deep wrinkles.
you were a cliche
romanticizing the evenings,
wishing you were dead
on paper.
a beating heart floats for
30 years in stagnant waters,
fragmented like glass windows
& diluted bottle messages.
you were polluted rivers,
deadfish-the
flow of words
gone
as you sit there with your
computer static
electricity
yeah, you and your click-click-
clicks in that blank, blank space.
your typewriter doesn’t exist
but you press the keys too hard
as if it shows some promise.
you read book after book after book
trying to declutter shit.
nothing comes up.
this goes on for a few more years
until you pile dust &
every bottle you drink has
a burnt out cigarette
like a message to nobody.
it’s 4 in the morning.
you’re bleeding like a fountain, again.
you didn’t want this
but it sells.
your couch is a sludge of paperweight
& ball sweat, but that’s all there is
to it.
it’s just metaphors
& your agent kills time in
a bar next to a priest
looking for a
break.
sludge. funny how you
never used that in a poem.
how it just rolls off the tongue
like your shoddy words-
but who knows?
put it in your next chapbook.
it could be your break.
it suits you. you’re a landslide
of shit & you know it’s true.
or you could just spend forever
talking about that empty space
in your ribs
& how birds stand on moonlight
with their heads cocked to one side
like a big ‘i-told-you-so’.
spend another decade picking daisies
& walk around like a deluded
15-year-old.
just cut it. fuck it. write.
don’t give a shit when you
don’t sell a hundred copies in that book
launch. punch the world in the face.
it already has for so many years,
return the favor.
be brutal sex. talk about
machinery taking over the world.
how a big wall could
overthrow history.
come on.
don’t sit there.
don’t type about flowers.
Use Caps Lock.
or don’t. it’s your fucking poem.
but you sit there, 3 minutes into
wine, downtrodden
in every word that comes
out of your goddamn mouth
& you write about her-
even though she never existed
(or maybe she did. in the subconscious)
fine. write about ribs.
write about bones.
write about flowers.
cry me a damn river.
you bleed like a fountain
when the tides aim for saltwater sky
& all you want to do is drown
Literature
Absolute Scum
You know, most people think of revenge in such a planar manner.
It is gauche, to be frank...
I prefer to do things with a little more flair
to go as far as the sadist inside me would dare.
For you see, my target is quite an ugly man,
who loves his daughters more than most can stand.
I also happen to know that they are lonely ladies;
lonely, ugly and perhaps a little gross.
So I found a few lads, both handsome and willing,
to take them out for a fantastic spin!
I already knew that they would stick it out,
because both those daughters are rich as sin...
And I watched them dance with the devil in the moonlight,
clapped at the altar when th
Literature
Edge of Emptiness
At times you will be powerless.
You will be unable to do a damn thing
To stop the wreckage you see unfolding before you
And the consequences will come in blood.
Those moments are bitter
And they fill you with hatred
So much so that you'll wish;
You'll wish for everything around you to simply die!
And when it has, when all around you is blackened dust...
Finally, finally, there won't be anyone left
To ever see you cry.
- Written by Word of Chen, Masquerade series - Poem 2
Literature
brutal honesty
Have you described y o u r s e l f to the thousands -
Hesitant, but completely honest? W h o I think I am
and what I s o u n d like are t w o different things.
S T O P and think for a second and say,
who are y o u, are you happy with what
you d e c l a r e yourself to be? W o r d s -
you t h i n k they describe w h o you are;
but are they enough?
Be h o n e s t.
are you w h o
you want to be?
O R are y o u,
j u s t y o u ?
False declarations lead to malicious truths that w o u n d.
It burns - hurts like a k n i f e to the flesh, but you know
in the end h o n e s t y
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
It's been awhile, I guess. Glad to be posting after some time.
So I just got out of a job interview for an English tutoring gig and honestly I hope I did well. I've stopped studying for a sem due to financial situations so I'm hoping to kill time with some money.
I posted this in my new blog, realizing that I've turned my blog into a poetry space xD
This was one of the most brutal things I've ever written to myself. Seriously. If it hits anybody, apologies in advance.
It's nice seeing you guys again.
So I just got out of a job interview for an English tutoring gig and honestly I hope I did well. I've stopped studying for a sem due to financial situations so I'm hoping to kill time with some money.
I posted this in my new blog, realizing that I've turned my blog into a poetry space xD
This was one of the most brutal things I've ever written to myself. Seriously. If it hits anybody, apologies in advance.
It's nice seeing you guys again.
© 2016 - 2024 brokengod--veins
Comments14
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
How is it that you described exactly what I've been feeling. This poem is the best I've seen in quite some time. Thank you! It is good to see you back.