Shop Forum More Submit  Join Login
About Literature / Hobbyist KelsiFemale/United States Group :iconunrealists: unrealists
 
Recent Activity
Deviant for 7 Years
Needs Core Membership
Statistics 477 Deviations 10,515 Comments 42,620 Pageviews
×

Newest Deviations

Hello, San Francisco by Nullibicity Hello, San Francisco :iconnullibicity:Nullibicity 5 0
Literature
Love, Misery
Miserable people are everywhere.
The dental hygienist sees my tattoo
and launches into her couple’s therapy.
A 45-minute check up crawls
into the skin of a toddler
who continually stops to stare and stare,
its fist falling down its throat.
“What does it mean?” She asks.
“It’s a reminder,” I try, 
licking the vowels from my teeth.
There are too many people
in the room, and the ceiling keeps 
spelling "company" as I swallow
down my blood.
The window becomes an eye
that never blinks, 90 minutes
finding all its eyelashes
pulled out.
:iconNullibicity:Nullibicity
:iconnullibicity:Nullibicity 9 6
Cerulean by Nullibicity Cerulean :iconnullibicity:Nullibicity 5 0 Brea(d)th by Nullibicity Brea(d)th :iconnullibicity:Nullibicity 10 0 Reflect (Inner Mountains) by Nullibicity Reflect (Inner Mountains) :iconnullibicity:Nullibicity 10 0
Literature
Senses of Proportion
I walk over dried worms, the day after rain, and wonder if their lives (defined by these last moments) were courageous or moronic. I wonder if I am the splinter or the lion—and who would be the splinter? Doesn't someone have to be?
I crawl on my hands and knees to find the river. Trees grow from its overflow. There has been too much rain this week. There has been too much rain this week. Where are the silver linings—the tree in front of me grows proudly as the water laps around its thighs. Ah, I muse, I think I understand the splinter.

Two trains come by. Two trains thunder through this railroad town, and they whisk the chocolate dirt. The earthquakes scare the geese. They blow by like dried leaves, and there, there is the sound of the river. Here [in the stillness] is the display of hope.
I cry in front of the river, longing to sing alongside chickadees—I do not know enough happy songs. I cough with the crows, instead: I do not know enough ha
:iconNullibicity:Nullibicity
:iconnullibicity:Nullibicity 38 20
Literature
Untitled
Time looks wrecked,
like the coming home
of a sunrise, shoes in hand,
the put-together-ness
of a three piece suit:
snug, then suffocating.
You lead
with blind navigation,
echoes resounding
through revisitation
(though not all memories
are welcome).
See,
Time is a serial killer
with an exceptional alibi,
its victims printed in the paper.
You change the locks
with shaking hands.
Time sends invitations
to your funeral in advance,
because it’s the kind thing to do -
smiles you into stone, sweeps effigies
into the dustpan of eulogies,
your name under “deceased.”
Your corpse gets up
to walk the procession.
:iconNullibicity:Nullibicity
:iconnullibicity:Nullibicity 10 9
winter sentry by Nullibicity winter sentry :iconnullibicity:Nullibicity 10 0 one for sorrow by Nullibicity one for sorrow :iconnullibicity:Nullibicity 17 5
Literature
Lightyears
Your memory greets me
like a sun flitting between the trees;
it is an overcast day and
you do not know me.
The clouds linger where I disappear
on the hospital bed, thinking of how
you sleep with your casket.
Couldn’t they at least buy a better bed?
I think of how one bed begs more remembrance
than the line of pictures hung up on its curtain.
(I feel as if we keep playing ghosts in the bedsheets,
clothespins the only things holding them
up in your head; I watch them come loose over
and over again).
I bring your laundry, and the sun doesn’t shine
for your favorite blouse. I don’t tell you:
“you used to wear pink lipstick with this one,”
or how you always paired it with denim jackets.
Instead, I stuff it in the closet and hand you
the quilt when you remark on the chill.
I don’t let you see my hands shake
when I remember your ring in my pocket,
your figurines in my car, your house freshly turned over,
a new name in the dirt; I kiss the bruises
on your wr
:iconNullibicity:Nullibicity
:iconnullibicity:Nullibicity 18 11
Literature
Aphasia and Bones
i.
Life is like a hymn, mint
candy tucked into a pocket.
The stairs are creatures I tame
With a spinning mind, palms coaxing
them to docility.
Life sounds like a hymn,
but I empty my pockets and
there are only mint sticks of gum.
Courage is a poet on my tongue;
I could fix this. I could fix this.
I cannot read the letters glowing
beneath my thumb.
There is a water wheel spinning
and spinning inside of me
like a dog gnawing off its tail,
and I beat it down the sink
headfirst.  
Coffin system,
clay signature -
I changed my name,
I changed my name;
now I feel defined.
ii.
Call me Wernicke, and I'd answer
dutifully, ideally, but probably
I'd turn your way and scream.
You can be Broca.
We both know you're Broca.
There's an epicenter to this storm,
but no words for navigation.
There are cars flying through the air
(if I receive a concussion maybe
it will change the functioning
of my brain)
and headstones clutched
to the ribs of skeletons
waving arms and teeth.
I want this in a way
I hav
:iconNullibicity:Nullibicity
:iconnullibicity:Nullibicity 26 21
Literature
Five Words In Place of Alone
I’m a lo
           cation.
Come sit with me,
darlin', and please
take off your coat.
Tell me adventures
of the sun and the moon
and whatever else comes
in pairs or attractions.
Remember to give me those
five stars before you go.
a lo
     tus,
a lo
     cust
persistent
in the mud
of a dried up
ocean.
I’m a lo
           ading dock.
I’m a lo
           wering sun,
and you don’t have to worry
about me: consistency
is my horizon, predictability
my city. And remember those
stories? I'm a pair with the moon
and the stars and the absence
of sound, and until I rise in the ash
of proximity, I’ll always
                                   be.
:iconNullibicity:Nullibicity
:iconnullibicity:Nullibicity 26 11
Literature
O Wandering Woes
Oh, hello.
I've always been
the wand'ring girl,
but all I can ever find
is your ghost.
My city is Jericho,
and all I ever am
is their ghosts.
When my skin hangs low
and bloody from my heels,
I try to retrain my toes,
so forward is not a nightmare
but a direction I know
(oh, hello, alone) -
but all I ever find
is you in the snow,
climbing my legs to my spine
in a dead-man's hold,
a bruise addressed to me
from the cold.
I cry, and I wonder how it sounds
like a prayer for the road:
"I guess we're going home."
Goodbye, silver wolf,
but oh, hello.
:iconNullibicity:Nullibicity
:iconnullibicity:Nullibicity 10 11
Literature
CRIT WELCOME - Friends Are the Family We Choose
You, whose phoenix feathers
are not visible to a passerby:
I see you.
Do not weigh your purpose
like a grain of sand on the beach:
ordinary, plentiful – there is no one
that shines like you. Did you know that
sand can turn into glass?
You are not a pit of uncertainties
but your own kiln of memories.
You do not speak for the sake of speech;
you listen in creation and drape your sun
alongside people’s shadows to illuminate
the space within them.
Do not hammer your worth to faces
or numbers: there is no price tag
for the way the moon loves the ocean,
the sun the mountains, the rivers the stone.
None can give love to the night, the silence,
the spaces, in the way that you do.  
You are a bookmark life has lovingly
pressed into pages, recognition of the words;
you are the glare in the ripples of water,
discovering change. Do you know that
over and over,
I’ll always pick you.
:iconNullibicity:Nullibicity
:iconnullibicity:Nullibicity 13 14
Literature
Safeguard
Barbed wire smile?
Check.
Welcome mat
with a too-small font?
Double check.
Literally, double: install one
on the outside and one on the inside,
and hope to god it placates the trench
to the left of your lungs.
But don’t hope for anyone to actually
be able to read it.
Actually, if someone does
read it: panic. Honest-to-god: panic –
freeze in place like waterfalls
before you crash
                     right
                         down.
                                      Then push, push everything away.
                                      Carry it so far
                         
:iconNullibicity:Nullibicity
:iconnullibicity:Nullibicity 5 5
Literature
r.e.m.
Dreams be soft,
like petals, but they have the
persistence of iron, the grip of death,
and they rattle your head until
you cannot look away.
To look away is to die.
To look away is to die
and I am not drowsy.
These truths are restless.
They will not sleep;
I cannot sleep.
:iconNullibicity:Nullibicity
:iconnullibicity:Nullibicity 31 25
I went out with some girlfriends, and we gave an intoxicated but enthusiastic rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody that had the small bar cheering and laughing - and the look on their faces when I hit that high note! I'm really fond of that night. Therapy has been ripping me open to leave me constructing a new skin, but I feel as if I am finally working towards a better version of myself. My therapist has been having me write letters, since I can't really get closure any other way. I've been writing a lot of letters. I stayed in bed for a week, was stupid and missed a quiz. I forced myself out to a murder mystery and actually solved the murder. I felt very Sherlock-y. I went running and cried under an overpass; I can't run from myself. I painted a canvas for the purpose of imperfection and found so much relief in it, after I could just sit with it. I am going to a psychology conference in Chicago, and my boss wants to see about maybe publishing a paper on my work, once we tweak my stats model a bit. I worked my butt off on this work project and forgot to prioritize a midterm, and I think I didn't do the best on it. I started to look at grad schools, and I'm terrified. But honestly, I feel alive, an electric current of ups and downs on a heart monitor which I can only observe in awe. This is living. Welcome. This is also dying. Welcome. Would life really be the beautiful, radiant thing it was if we weren't racing time to touch every corner of it? 

I've actually, surprisingly, really been enjoying editing. I still suck at it, as a disclaimer. I've shifted from poetry to more prose. Documenting thoughts. Though poetry still finds its way in there. So maybe they will never be interesting enough to post. Sometimes, I miss posting. A lot of my pieces aren't top quality. They aren't mind-altering. Don't put much stock in them if they find their way into your notifications... please. I will tuck them into their own corner. I just feel like if I don't post something soon, I never will. Everything will always feel inferior to what I once wrote, because it's no longer easy. It no longer comes like magic. Many papers have been shredded and thrown in my new writing process. But it's healing, too, and maybe I need to get it out of me. As a sneak peak of the weirdness: I'm currently working on writing about snails as a metaphor for love, and it's in in the style of a children's book. Like, what? So... please just ignore me. I take inspiration from anything these days. You may never have to be subjected to that... we'll see how it turns out, and if I like it. 

Matt released his new album. The week after he teased it I was already hoarding each song as the album slowly came out. The one below was the first one I stumbled across, and it's special to me. This new album has a mature shift, wrapped up in some blues, and his voice makes me want to put two hands around a warm coffee cup in my brisk, November valley. I'm thinking about buying some snowshoes and hiking when the snow comes. I love these mountains. I can recognize them immediately on the three hour bus ride home from the cheaper airport. 

I guess the point is that I'm trying. I'm messing up, but I'm also succeeding, and still finding something to enjoy in the process. And maybe I'll never stop being a mess, but maybe no one does. I think that's okay. I think it's okay as long as we're still trying. There is no success without failure, no happiness without first knowing there is sorrow. Life is just a giant teeter totter. You might as well laugh with the ups and downs, where you can. Enjoy the moments you can, and when they're too sad then try and enjoy the process. 



p.s. LadyLincoln is leading lung cancer awareness for November. It's not too late to show support and spread awareness, if you'd like to. It's also a nice show of support for those who have had personal losses due to this cancer. I am having the hardest time linking the thumb and the url, so I apologize, but it's over on her page.

deviantID

Nullibicity's Profile Picture
Nullibicity
Kelsi
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
21 years growing. Forest-dweller, friend of the moon, shy hermit crab... a pagan, seeking. I howl to coyotes at 1 in the morning and am a self-proclaimed music-swimmer (mostly, I drown).
Admittedly, I'm not very interesting, but I am fairly friendly. Feel free to drop me a line. Or a poem. Or your favorite song.
my activity on this site can be compared to guerilla warfare:
I'm currently a junior on the path to pursuing my B.S. in psychology, where I will then aspire for my PhD. I'm a research assistant split between labs, studying sleep and the effects of concussions. (Why yes, I need to learn how to say "no" sometime. But it's bringing in the money.)
the heart:
trees, racing rivers, singing poorly to the moon, Lord Huron, Dead Poets Society, Pride and Prejudice, ambiguity.

nullibicity: n. - the state of being nowhere; non-existence.







My favorite word-weaver (I'm biased and not sorry): :iconsoundlesswhispers:

some truly amazing people you should know: :iconladybitterblue::iconangelserum::iconladylincoln::iconpennedinwhite::iconmozartsnemesis::iconakrasiel:
Interests

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconyouinventedme:
YouInventedMe Featured By Owner 2 days ago   Writer
Really enjoying your gallery. 10/10 Would read again.
Reply
(1 Reply) (1 Reply)
:iconsoundlesswhispers:
SoundlessWhispers Featured By Owner Aug 22, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
I know for a fact you've got some poems. Let the poor things be free.
Peer pressure, peer pressure! :eager:

Or, if you can't reveal such gems to the public, at least share them with me, your best friend and eternal soulmate. Or let's collab again because I miss your writing. We can write crap together and drown it with some fuisce.
C'mon, you owe me a lit fix. :blankleshank: 
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconmalintra-shadowmoon:
Malintra-Shadowmoon Featured By Owner Aug 5, 2018  Hobbyist General Artist
Hello Nullibicity and welcome home!!

Thank you for joining the family of artists here at :icontheartistlounge:. We are eager to see your display of skill and talent and have it showcased in the Group! If you have any questions feel free to message us, and don't forget to check out the Group's rules.
Again, we say WELCOME HOME! Cheers and Applause - NaNoEmo Day 8 by Ridley126

TheArtistLounge's Team
Reply
(1 Reply)
:icontwilightsfall:
TwilightsFall Featured By Owner Jul 26, 2018
Hello, enjoyed your works so far. Watching so I can read more. Thanks for sharing your mind!
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconpennedinwhite:
PennedinWhite Featured By Owner Mar 25, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Saying Hi.

Hope you are well. :heart:
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconsoundlesswhispers:
SoundlessWhispers Featured By Owner Feb 14, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
I know I said I'm not one for clichés and Valentine's Day, but if I were to write an ode of love to anyone, it would be you.

Happy Valentine's... and all that jazz. I owe you some chocolate.
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconcuspofamanifesto:
cuspofamanifesto Featured By Owner Jan 11, 2018
You changed your face.
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconwilliamfdevault:
williamfdevault Featured By Owner Dec 31, 2017  Professional Writer
Happiest of birthdays!  :blackrose:
Reply
:iconnosedivve:
nosedivve Featured By Owner Dec 31, 2017   Writer
Hey happy birthday!! (:
Reply
(1 Reply)
Add a Comment: