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About Deviant Core Member MoonbeamsFemale/United States Group :iconunrealists: unrealists
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Deviant for 14 Years
11 Month Core Membership
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Considering Percy Bysshe Shelley
every now and then
i feel a chill breeze within;
a haunting west wind --
the october in my soul.
leaves ride the zephyr away.
:iconpassenger-27:passenger-27 6 4
night school
inside this crowded room  
buzzing like a beeswax dream
we slip stitches with sideways  
hybridizations, and expose
our ankles to see which snakes will bite
yet we rarely leave smelling like venom
only the stringent stink of a long
controlled aestivation
ever follows us home
but back in the room (stacked to the rafters like meat)
we’re unraveling the labyrinthine
myths that last night’s
ancestors left us
and still talking in tongues
in the same sorry brand
of contrived glossolalia
from when we were young and
dumb and unstoppable
now here in our room
with no view, stewing stale
histrionics and sinking old ships in a bottle
and taking all offers
from diaphanous strangers or reprobate prophets
or whatever plush, revisionist
adaptation of the truth
can obviate these needs and teach us
how to unmake soup
:iconthesquareroot:thesquareroot 6 2
stud double
my coat is saffron, and sires double my name.
frightening the hairs covering our three backs
i squat in the underworld dug behind us.
Melanin over my hide and ghosts riding
the rim of the whip, i straddle pretending
to be good with delicate answers.
in tending two gardens
i find it hard to stay hydrated.
my mother is spring and offers
the first cool fruit on the first hot day.
:icon007-seriously-serial:007-seriously-serial 2 0
it is a pretty shimmer
you champion,
it dances like
we would all expect.
it completes us
for a moment,
it enraptures
every eye.
stature bold enough
to not threaten,
like a harmony
of disguise.
and impossible
to detect as it moves
serration across
the neck.
:icongliitchlord:gliitchlord 3 0
speech splatters
unfurling with the march of eons;
i have been unrighteous.
i can't keep on in this mention,
hold my breath and wish it be gone.
write a lead-on into history
and hers, i make the blender switch
and curse, i am no better if
i swallow all the misery.
latent fissuring connects
the cracks in my tectonics,
without purpose my admonishments
will sever my own neck.
in sections, i appear as whole
but when collected show invalid.
face so deathly pallid
it's a wonder that you didn't know.
:icongliitchlord:gliitchlord 6 0
City lights 2 by GreeGW City lights 2 :icongreegw:GreeGW 216 32
my life is after
ridged into thin wishes
dots splattered from trauma
onto canvas, concrete
whatever surface near
an edge,
I'll ignore it
like the blank pages of the book
I said that I would write
the honeyed skin that covers
your shoulders, neck
where my fingers haven't traced
the plain walls, patched
and unpainted
no pictures, art
or photographs
like a thread between the points
on a timeline,
a lifeline; mine
is flat and
:iconnawkaman:nawkaman 24 5
had eyes like her name;
clear as an empty Coke
bottle, sharp as the broken
fragments crunching underfoot.
The screech of trains whistling
in the depot burns like citrus;
the falling snow tastes
like ash. She hefts the leather
bag into an empty boxcar
and pulls the wool scarf tighter,
waiting for the jerk
that will take her to warmer climates.
:iconsilverinkblot:SilverInkblot 7 2
engraved on the inside
she was a writer, all right,
and she spent the time with the back-alley
bricks and cracked glass of those people
with a flair for rhyme and touch for time,
cauterizing all the cuts she came across, and
in the bitter nights when the ash was her only blanket
you could see the blisters working across her skin,
the bursting platelets on her teeth,
the blood red taste of cinnamon on her eyelids
she left the ice on her toes to let you know
that it won't burn her anymore, a naive attempt
to say she's left naivety behind, tattoos on all her fingers
saying, "let me out".
:iconcreativelycliche:creativelycliche 7 0
there's a touch of unreality in the feel of my fingers,
the atoms that make them up tiny bits of a million miles,
and if you folded them they could wrap this planet a thousand times,
and that is why we never really fade -
we are larger than we know, a home to more than you, and
it keeps me up at night, but not as long as it used to
I need a smaller bed to keep my sadness, nowadays,
the similarities to my decline are clear,
but the air seems lighter now, the places 
where the air once weighed me down a little brighter -
and I can't quite formulate the realities
of light, how the speed at which it moves
is a measurable means of our greatest limits,
peeling like a rose the space inside me
is exponential,and much to small to grasp
:iconcreativelycliche:creativelycliche 12 3
lie overgrown, abandoned
the slabs of the West
lie broken, forgotten
ballrooms wait, forlorn
dilapidated, moldering
swords slowly, slowly
slowly close their eyes
as chivalry dies  
county lines on pine bog roads
recede into the beyond
into the dust lanes
behind God's throne
butterfly girls
dainty in blinding white
hand-in-hand they ran
as grassy billows rolled
beneath blue-marbled skies...;
their bones yawn
asking why
does goodness and truth
have to die
silver-grey planks
lean in the wind
old straw lies across the floor
its fragrance gone;
one day the haymow
shall bend the knee
before the gathered oaks and hickories  
gardens lush, cool and deep,
meandering brooks their voices keep
lazy bees and dragonflies
Queen of Hearts and diamond brides-
striding down
rain clouds into
cool shadows of porches
and the cricket call of afternoon stillness
when pirates and voyagers
roamed the sea lanes
and country roads
of deepest South to farthest North
we were all there
:iconblacksand459:Blacksand459 6 0
Mature content
This is Not a Poem About Suicide, But- :iconlightsonamara:LightsOnAmara 24 30

Newest Deviations

Tearing Portals
The surroundings of the sink,
and countertop
elongate in their shadows
grow to spires  
over a harbor in the marbled tile  --    
strokes of sky in a tread of water
into which I dive two-fold
past where a window frame
doesn't end
but begins a row of buildings  --  
an amalgamate of cities ventured
and unventured;
sketch a boat, and dock somewhere  --  
the edges, and surfaces of things
remaining safe in the mysteries
of their soft focus,
in the space
where curtains and tables
are never sure if they really touched  --  
the obfuscation behind which heaven has always lived
resting just on the other side;
home, just a place visited along the way.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 2 0
Our silhouettes are ink,
chipped and faded,
parting an inch a year
after the hand
has long stopped turning us
into the napes of each other,
contours cracked  --
my wrist, veins white-washed with sun
half a life young
still ferrets its first perfume,
legs, a child half wrestled in sheets,
eyes weighted
in the light of a window.
How long can an interior hold
with all that it's come to hold  --  
outside, the frayed and faded edges of us
bleeding into day.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 4 0
In A Street View
I incidentally stumbled upon the haze of things dated.
It has its own mind
synchronized with the desire to see gradually
the pixels gathering greener,
pavement blacker
not by any means of shading,
but the familiarity of a layout.
Here are the clouds
you once wished you could lose yourself in
cradled by the grass  -- &nbsp
wings granted to the wrong time
as a window buffers
with your landing, dust left
in the air  
would-be finger prints plied from old pictures
that seem to know the secrets of slow connections,
how we'll never discard of our filters,
why our holograms have been made portable.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 5 2
What if love, too, are the worlds we leave in orbit
as we run parallel to each other
stringing peripheries along;
the echoes of gatherings  --  
the talk that is a kitchen, or a den
hanging on to obliviousness
even late into the hour,
a television long since switched off  --  
the laughtrack and chatter still lingering
in the walkway between rooms, cater-cornered
where time slows
like stations skewing, and switching across borders
left to static when no distinction is made  --  
sound suspended, and slipping outside your door
like the humming of a heartbeat in a nest
waiting to be let go.
How will we arrange our spaces
in a world of personal screens
when the silence is deafening.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 6 0
To Anywhere
their palms press together like leaf and ground,
shoe-sole, and rain
glowing, and swaying
to disappear with the sun  --    
lifted to some exalted place,
some random spot
as if any print or cast
lucky enough to be found
told any story so unique at all  --   etchings in doorways,
gilded invitations, frames recycled.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 7 1
Inner Light
Beneath the thaw
there'll be everything that lies
within the stitched inlay of your sleep  --  
the perforated roof,
and home
holding it together;
paved, and bowered roads
slowly thinning to stucco
straddling the light
to white ovations
on your window ledge
as everything that once shone through you
yields itself to wires
and distended metal
as you slip from your blanket
your bent gait
into the green,
and you must remind yourself
of the nostalgia
of rust  --
not to be able to close your eyes again,
but to know that love is love
even as it unravels to redundancy,
the importance of forgetting to remember again,
the need for seasons.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 7 0
Some days when she pauses
I imagine she's more adept at comparing
how the sun lingers
in the spaces between dishes,
or pools left on floors
to the empty spots left in the mind
drawing upward
from faucet to clock
as slow as prayer,
and suddenly she is young again
whiling the hours away as she moves about
between the cracks in the floor
she avoids to save her mother's back,
in the hours as told through the venetians
as light strobes the room
like bits of photon to memory  --
a prism
that speaks in its spinning
of how maybe it could be like walking
into the peaceful posture of saints
in the courtyard; the testament
in the hopeful sight
that for a moment
catches how shadows encircle us all the same,
joining us to the stillness.
It's as though knowing
the next moment might not hold on to the memory,
she keeps it waiting.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 7 0
For Your Next Life
These corridors. These walls torn down.
These columns
as they lean in, and pull the ground upon their lap  --  
pottery left still in its place; tablets
whose inscriptions will mute themselves
as pale and opaque
as any holler finally fallen silent.
These stars through broken ceilings.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 9 4
Passed Along
Things becoming sacred as they pass through hands
is to almost live for so long as a stranger  --  
seashells found in a pocket
from when the water was nothing really flanked
by any sky,
or the sand by waves at any distance  --
why do they conjure a beach
at a distance;  
the sunset having been nothing more than half circles
drawn over oceans,
the moment we'd first think it beautiful
nothing to ponder;
not as a backdrop, or something to ride into,
only coasting away
down a telephone wire
like something we lost at sea  --  we are still at sea.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 4 3
To The Earliest Eyes
the roof of a train passing through a country
so sun-faded it has turned to grayscale
means that all shadows splayed across it are a part of the treetop, and bramble
as the train sinks, as the pavement sinks  --
the sidewalk, buildings,  
this whole idea of us.  
I couldn't imagine any such discernable shadows
in the huddles of forests, as leaf mirrors leaf,
and sun-glares repel everything.

They must've been the eyes that came with the ability
to spill with all views to their farthest reaches;
that could pick off sundowns and sunrises like weed  --  ,
gather thoughts like twigs for nests, and sleep in them;
that were made for threading time
so that there's nothing between the moment
from the moment that matters; they must've been meant to tell us
how the part of us that lives
falls asleep with that life  --  wakes up to new skies.
But even the absences we bear have gathered shadows  --  the empty spaces holding them dense,
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 9 7
Not A Machine
Even as a prototype,  
amateur ducts expelling the dust,
and dander  --  
a landfill of memory
with the rheum of a tear
by even the intangible
prodding continuously a program
its weight  --  
this constant brush across unwantedness.
You could wonder at the idea
until hours, and nights have passed,
and you're lodged halfway between night and day
unslept, unsustained;
the darkness hanging around you like the crown of a tree
blowing replays,
antagonizing every receptor,
every sensor,
conspiring in neural pathways,
the rain welcome.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 10 4
The haunted house is somewhere now
in the bamboo breathing,
the wooden floor, and door opening,
the steps behind  --  
the slow careening down the stairs
of its creaking, bowing banister.  the ghost in efflorescence
of windowless walls, and cold fog
continuing to whisper amidst the trees,
and warmth of an ersatz moon
swimming in its humidity
too large to be real  --   the witch's cape
somewhere in the vacillating stars.  
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 3 2
It's as though it were a hip that joined us,
set its movement to the metronome
of our tosses and turns,
an early hour stroll
conjuring a somnambulist roam
of the other half of us
turning the bend like the trail of a train
massaging themselves back into the other
as if the pull
burrowed its weightlessness into the vacant spot,
the joint and socket
an invisibility that was never meant to be known,
to be named, or know of itself,
to bore its way into breakability, brittleness;
a hip
to stride,
to remain tethered in stillness,
but always afloat.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 4 3
The Seasons, Broken
Autumn has its warmth, a kindling for paths
safely contained in pigments  --  a showcase
I can run my finger down
as if the sun had once scanned us  --  
registered how often we're prone
to pore over the contents of a desk or drawer - tap a snow globe;
it can rupture too, leaving the recesses of us
like rows of rooms ransacked  --  
the floors in us always wide to scatter,
ceilings high to flood. Can make
a lover a vandal as cushions flip  --
corners left searched and strewn.
I walk into a place sometimes
where foliage meets  --  leaves brushing against each other
like hands loosely held, where peace always lies behind;
it is our words worn away like karst ground,
gone with the distant echoes of thunder
as if I'd foolishly forgotten that green here had never stopped being green;
the local tree, always dressed, a constant  --
those posts and pilings that remain,
and I'm reminded of how remembering for us is more like losing keys or click
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 2 2
The Recluse's Home (Slinky)
The lightning loses its composure from behind the cloud,
leaving the flit of a brief aurora light enough
to light the corners neglected in her home, shading her in
to a modern cave of chandelier, and lamps just light enough
not to expose the stains in the upholstery  -- light enough
to ride the light to a brighter shade of itself
for the daytime, as the sunlight never fails to find a fault,
and keep the hours lit with nagging, and pointing
like a foe who kills the light inside,
and yet comes ever so lightly as the Spring  --  
forcing her to sing along with hymns and praises with no light in her eyes,
offering each candle-light to storms as routinely as counting it out.
And so she hasn't opened a window to the light in years;
her eyes wouldn't recognize her if they caught her in any lighter shade
than the shades of light she's come to know  --  
pellucid in her place of worship, her true bleeding is of lesser and lesser shades of light.
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 9 13
In Mist, Attrition
the corridor to waking extends itself,
and there is everything
before the culling;
the ghosts of you
from times passed, of ghost moments  --   of dreams
that might not have been dreams, memories undesignated  
sweeping the stair in reverberations of you
in the waltz of a slow stride
phasing out in the archway;
the window is pregnant with
a swing set, steps to
solitude in a path  --  schematics,
the having to do away with one or the other
staved from the serrations
of silence between you,
and another, or another room --  
or what lies at the bottom of bottomless mugs.
As you turn home has always been a streak of paint
held in static, weather worn --
built or unbuilt,
occupied or abandoned,
yours or not yours  --  
the green of the blade of a plant gnawing through;
where it all ends an uncertainty,
the road to the road away
has never even really known
holding on to landmarks until they fade
and they never fade.
You are, for the moment, the state of
:iconmoonbeams:Moonbeams 30 20
They can be negative or positive, but either way they have a pretty revealing nature about them, don't they?  They can provoke a maelstrom of fear and anxiety, or intrigue and pleasure, on the tails of specific events in our lives, however major or insignificant.  When they have a negative impact you can either embrace more magical thinking in countering them, or attack them with logic;  there's never a dispute in the latter.  When they're of a positive nature there's no dispute in embracing them for all that they're worth, fallacies included  --  but there shouldn't be for reasoning their magical nature away either.  For some the act itself is treated like writing life away, but is it really?  Isn't it the unnecessary, and excessive worshipping of the positive that drags us into the undertow of the negative?  Why can't we learn to take things for what they are, assure ourselves of our reality in times of uncertainty, and simply appreciate surprises for their serendipitous nature when times are more plentiful?  
  • Listening to: Sad Songs
  • Reading: Text Books
  • Watching: My flickering screen
  • Playing: Nada
  • Eating: The thick humidity
  • Drinking: Burnt Coffee


United States

What Should I Put Here?


Everything you do in life is because. . . 

16 deviants said you desire to leave behind an even slightly better world
5 deviants said You desire to express yourself, and you choose the venue that suits it best
4 deviants said You are sure you will have lived a life with very few regrets when your time comes
3 deviants said Of a deterministic universe
1 deviant said You're a slave to your biological gene and at the mercy of precarious whim
No deviants said Society has conditioned you to do so


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LadyLincoln Featured By Owner 1 day ago  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for your recent +favs darling one, I appreciate you! Heart
YouInventedMe Featured By Owner Feb 1, 2019  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the :+fav: on let's just talk about the weather.
Tiger--eyes Featured By Owner Jan 21, 2019  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the :+fav: on “find us in the waves” :rose:
YouInventedMe Featured By Owner Jan 19, 2019  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for the :+fav:s on becoming and given up by ghosts.
Tiger--eyes Featured By Owner Jan 16, 2019  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the :+fav: on “Amnesia Smiles” :rose:
Thank you for the +fav+fav's!
YouInventedMe Featured By Owner Jan 15, 2019  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the :+fav: on From November Until March.
shackell Featured By Owner Jan 14, 2019  Student Writer
thanks for the watch and the favourite
Tiger--eyes Featured By Owner Jan 11, 2019  Hobbyist Writer
And for the :+devwatch: :heart:
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