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Literature
Four AM Answers
I don't need the sun:
I have the radiance of your smile
and the heat of your callused fingers
infused into my pores,
I get all the nutrients I need
just by brushing against your mouth,
inhaling the all-too familiar
cologne draped across your chest—
I've always burned too easily,
but you're standing in the shade.
I don't need the moon:
I have seen you shining
when darkness has pervaded every corner and
drawn its clammy talons across your wrists,
your heart glows, illuminating the towering
city sky-line,
roads light up and snow winks in even coats—
I didn't think this city could be beautiful,
but it's reflected in your eyes.
I don't need perfection:
I have the outline of your torso in a
pre-dawn filter, a mass of embers singeing my sheets,
keeping the cold confined to soft moans through
drafty windows,
the melody of your voice, deep and rich,
drenching my parched throat,
the raw, pleading look from beneath half-lowered lids
asking to pick apart the scars, find worth  in bloody hands
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Literature
Three AM Questions
The books don't call this perfection.
We aren't wise, or careful, or crafty
with our plans,
you take my meagre offerings while I live
by the intake of each successive breath.
Your dreams rise like skyscrapers in a
pulsating city,
lit up by the sheer intensity of ambition,
farther than my feeble eyes can reach.
But they're born out of ash,
the wreckage and rubble of the past—
nobody said dreaming was easy.
I exist on the ethereal wisps of time,
vaguely aware of something brighter
beyond my foggy reaches—
wondering if too many hours spent in your arms
could infuse my skin with sun, or inevitably,
burn.
We could be as brief as the cigarettes
dangling from our lips,
blue trails of smoke twisting and
curling into each other before
disappearing completely.
We're getting by with the heat
of knee touching knee, hip
curving side, and the taste of
whiskey-beer soaked lips.
Still stuck in a world where
the clock isn't ticking, just sneering—
asking us to feel a little more
so alarms can sound, ba
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Change is coming by PulseofExistence Change is coming :iconpulseofexistence:PulseofExistence 4 1
Literature
How to Romance a Writer
We were
head over heels in love,
the better half
(of a twisted whole)
and you had me pegged
in your little black book
as a done-deal, a sure thing;
another notch in that worn leather belt,
another bleeding heart strung out
to dry,
on a page filled with all the sweet little nothings
you stole.
You buttered me up and lit the candle
at both ends with red hot words,
dripping from your mouth like the plague
and I could tell
you wanted to give a damn
picking out the parts you knew
like the back of your hand.
But writers always know
the difference
between the stuff that dreams are made of
and assholes full of shit.
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Literature
Exploration Bound
You are an infinite expanse of foreign land,
miles upon miles of rocks to uncover,
dirt paths to wear into the ground,
lush scenery to devour with hungry fingers—
and I'm a natural explorer,
coming out of retirement.
Let me pin-point the parts of you
most in need of affection, the broken tree branches
and muddy waters hiding in the background,
the polluted environment buried in deep roots—
and I'll show you my own trampled forest,
a kingdom devastated by circumstance.
I'll wrap you in a quilt of gentle words,
all the best adjectives written across your brow
fading back into my collarbone,
thoughts and limbs tangled in a mess
of simple happiness, smooth co-existence—
there isn't room for Shakespearian tragedy,
only honesty, stripped down to the skin.
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Literature
Part II: Stranger in the Space
Heartbeats slowed down and consecutively sped up;
shipped into big, eager hands,
hazardous label carelessly torn free as one swift finger
prods the recesses of muscle, artery and delicately strung vein with meticulous care
—a surgeon of the emotionally destitute.
"I've never seen so many walls. You're lucky
to be alive." I laughed; he didn't know about the space between
living and surviving—but he had dry palms, wide enough
to enclose me and invite sleep on the soft callus of his index.
He fumbled with the spongy lobe of my ear and explained the history
behind each raised rib of pink scattered throughout his arms—some still too fresh to touch.
I wanted him to stay healed. I had plenty of broken to pass around,
but stability came in short supply; little slivers in a bottle labelled "DO NOT SHARE"
better than slow-me-downs or lift-me-ups; better than xxx or moonshine;
better than all the soap and hot water in the world. Shadows pass behind his teeth
and make their way to the sharp edge o
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Literature
In-Between Spaces
Heartbeats are callused fingers, compulsively tapping
on plain, white tables. They are flies trapped between
panes of chest, repeatedly slamming into thin glass barriers.
They are purposeless feet (without rest), always bouncing up
and down against red linoleum floors. They are not still,
or free, or aware of any options; pulse caught in the dull ache
of a seamless throb ringing out through bones—or is that just me?
Once, I locked eyes with a stranger, and the blood came
cascading down my arms, filling my ears until the only sound
was the dripping faucet heartbeats that won't be fixed.
No plumber or doctor would take on the job, "I'm afraid,
the pulse is just too erratic. You'll have to slow it down."
I was given a blue-plastic barrel, hollowed out with cotton interior,
a handful of slow-me-downs to whiten the paste in my mouth
and keep these hands from collapsing buildings, ringing necks.
All because this clump of hardened muscle doesn't know
when to shut the fuck up, because a shadow
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Literature
Northern Storms
Storms set free on the rich, open plains of Northern Canada don't instantly lash out like their reckless children of the South. They come in stages, each step necessary for the enactment of violence. The clouds roll slowly over the sky and quickly fading sun, masking the azure face that arrogantly gloated all morning. The dense darkness and flat brooding foreheads swell up with dark grey fists and press down on the treetops. The forest line mingles with the ominous whips of black, their tendrils caressing the heads of weathered soldiers.
Thunder comes long before the rain. It needs to assert a foreboding presence and set the stage with sounds of displeasure. What begins as a throaty purr easily escalates to the groans of a dying man, on the brink of execution. Ducks swim in tight, little lines towards high ground and the muskrats burrow into the safety of the shoreline. Lightening refuses the mocking crack of recognition, streaking gracefully behind corn-covered hills, commanding enoug
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Literature
The Pull of the Ocean
It's one of my bad days. That's all I keep hearing from the plain faced people shuffling in and out of my personal cell. The pictures adorned with handmade frames hang limply on the greying walls, but they don't stop me from digging my nails into the soft skin of my arms.  The unseeing eyes and sheepish smiles don't cause my heart to reach out with longing.  I don't know why. This gripping fear isn't natural, it isn't me. I don't see any threats in my immediate surroundings. Nobody is rushing towards me or dangling a pillow above my head—but I'm scared. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing sentinel, waiting for the charge and my hands shake visibly under the thin piece of cloth I wrap around myself.  I don't remember it being this cold.  And I can't remember my own name. My God—what's my name?
Anna is here. With just one look at her tender features, I have no difficulty recalling every major milestone in her life. Her first word turned out to be the dog's n
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Literature
To the Person Who Stole My Brother
To The Person Who Stole My Brother
You entered through a crack in the window,
squirming with ease past the jagged shards
who recognized you
as one of their own.
Your long hair danced like snakes
with a smile that slithered slowly
into our home.
My brother's eyes gleamed
as you wrapped every coil around his body,
scales stretched tight
over your missing spine—
the bones of his face
threatened to pierce through
his skin.
And you washed your hands
in the puddle he became.
Without the soft tone in his voice,
the comfort in his eyes, the protection
in his arms. Without the child
I played with, the brother
who held my hand when the doctor dangled
his syringe over my bicep.
We are strangers walking on eggshells:
murmurs across the dinner table
pace like starving wolves between us
anticipating one tripped-up word.
We are enemy soldiers:
tossing loaded comments over the walls
bracing fast for the explosion.
Crisp, white linens peppered
with the blood of naive siblings.
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Literature
Imitation of Acceptances
I accept your 14 days of binge-drinking. I accept your 7 hangovers. I accept your 4 drinks with patience, I sip them slowly and pour three-halves into plastic tulips that need this whiskey even less than I, while you slam tiny glasses on sticky surfaces and forget to check the time, I vanish.
& the fourth one, it goes down without the fire that keeps your belly warm and safe from the knot clawing its way up your throat.
Vodka, whiskey, tequila, rum.
The bottles with their gloating eyes and arrogant smirks,
the labels brown and peeling, become the friends
that never leave.
& never grow up.
I accept your 14 days of binge-drinking. The bloody eyes emerging from your worn skull. The shaking fingers, incapable of lighting a smoke. Death is here. Death is dyeing your teeth brown and staining your cuffs when you wipe your mouth at the end of the night, now the mornings
are screaming, the sun is boiling hot and your head
is clutched between two bleeding fists, who are stiff
with broken knuckle
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Literature
Obsidian Fingerprints
clustered in ragged heaps—
a starless night against
flashes of white—
gripping bones until they snap,
straining jaw muscles
raised an inch above the skin and
wiring the mouth shut with the shriek
of metal on metal
so deafening
you don't hear the break
only the soft tattoo of rain
as you beg for
clean hands, fingernails free of dirt,
release from the muddy ground—
one more hit and I promise
you'll forget
carry on, bare your reflection
red and raw
against the iniquitous blemish
and forget—
let the water run in clear rivulets
down your blue-black back,
drain without streaking the porcelain tub and
forget.
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Literature
214
Not houses standing
in even rows
red and gold lit windows
winking in the dark.
Not walls papered with
glossy eyed faces-
the whispers of poetry.
Not voices singing softly
from beneath closed doors
shrieking out of tune strings.
But mounds of unconsecrated earth,
piles of gravel, mountains of sand,
a dirty river curving its slender body
around the city's back,
dead trees leaning on each other
in the battle-worn fields behind Sandwich Towne.
But white and off-white
unwashed space where there should
be touches of blue, green, and gold,
entire sections of naked surface
shrouded.
But the murmur of a television
entertaining an empty room
or a sleeping figure,
the muffled thud of heavy footsteps,
doors creaking on rusted hinges and slamming
down the hall.
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Literature
Ode to Rose
For me, you turned your home into
a temple, a shining beacon of
honest compassion,
a refuge where I could nurse wounds
with laughter and fill holes with trust;
you pulled me from the wreckage
of a discarded family into the
remains you held with so much pride.
I waited for raised voices and
bitter retorts, but heard only
the amusements of a sweet child,
the playful barking of welcoming dogs.
I searched the place for anger,
rifled through drawers of forgotten pens
and overturned all the cushions,
but between the cracks in every paint flake,
I found only understanding.
I have filled a cargo ship
with all my gratitude and sent it
down the river for you,
to always be reminded that
your presence in this world
is much greater than my arms
can hold.
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Literature
In Nineteen Years
Only this cottage, this lake,
this secluded piece of the world
has stayed timeless;
looking into
the wave's constant folds,
admiring the same picture
which brought a smile
to my twelve year old face.
Slanting, wood paneled walls
and droopy, creaking floorboards—
more familiar than pea soup—
doors having long outgrown
their frames,
hang crookedly without
ever closing.
The dock, anchored and uncertain
withstands blistering
July rays, pounds of densely packed
January snow, a multitude of
shoeless toes—
without complaint,
without crumbling.
While trees have
been wrestling towards the sky,
to me,
they've always stayed a hundred feet tall,
beneath the canopy of blue pines
and lake fed oaks,
even the shadows
have not changed.
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Literature
Red Dream
With these eyes;
the sky is ruby,
leaves are crimson.
Auburn streets carry
scarlet faced suburbians
to their everyday jobs.
Mouths are lipsticked
with flaming, vermilion smiles—
burning and baking
in 104 degrees of
glowing, red heat.
Sweat gleams in sticky
cerise patches on my torso
and the air is choked with rust,
dying each strand of
pale hair,
leaving streaks on
my blistering tongue.
Nights cool to
deep raspberry,
rooms fill with fuchsia tinted
clouds of smoke and
all at once
we can breathe again,
while the blush of wine
trembles on our lips.
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Favourites

Literature
an acerose tongue
i tour your body with the tip of my tongue,
pink flesh is the alter of my fingerprints
and above: salty and godless and as
obedient as sun, its slaving and sleeping
as the waves pull it home.
the tip-top lemon drop of my tongue swims
in schools of hip freckles and bones.
the small of my lip hearing better
than ears: these tales filling
my prayers to their slaving, waving, winds.
the rivalry of my tongue and my mouth and your
hips is rich in the kiss of such a loud
godless
eclipse.
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Literature
If you could see inside my mind, you would hate me
Most mornings, I wake up alone. My bed is empty, long enough that the sweet scent of clean hair and warm skin has gone, leaving me with a slowly rotating ceiling fan and the echo of ticking clocks. She is already gone, and I have no where to be but alone. It is winter here, in the state that refuses to die. Winter in Detroit is like a test from God, seeing how much hell you can handle, how much disappointment can you take. Eventually, you learn to swallow that shame with the rest of it. Winter light is a stark painful thing that creeps it's icy fingers through my blinds and bleaches my yellow walls the color of corpses. Every color slowly bleeds out until I can't recognize my self any more.
Most mornings, I lay in bed far too long, trying to find the constellations hidden in my ceiling. One day, these constellations will spell out stories and I will know where to go, what to say, how to feel. My feet touch the ground, slowly, testing. The carpet hurts my bare feet but I walk on. A new
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Literature
Something like fate, they said
I never did like the way you would swing your car around those curves by my house when you drove me home in the middle of the night. I was never one to be cautious, but with you I felt like the world was rushing away and we were just speeding to keep up.
I don't like to say "we", you know, I don't like to say "us". But most times, I don't know what to say; that boy and I, that thief and I, that breaker of promises, that killer of dreams, that boy outside my window when I'm trying to stay sane.
(I hate you, I think, I really do.)
You were all stubble and long legs and hands like the moon, and my bruises fit your finger prints like a glove. I was too young for you then, I'm too young now, and you were too raw and worn and burned beyond recognition, a dragon I was never meant to see. But as your odometer pushed eighty and your fingers pushed through my spine, you said rules didn't apply to you, you were the dark clouds that watched the sun pass, you were what god wished he was. You put th
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Literature
Persephone.
I'll curl my words like ivy
—craft and graft—
crawl through the cracks of my attic walls
and fall into significance outside
myself.
If I am the sum of all my parts,
then let my whole extend into the sun
—and burn.
I've learned
that there will be hell to pay
for pride.
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-because we share life- by fangedfem -because we share life- :iconfangedfem:fangedfem 83,888 15,873
Literature
We call this teen angst.
Asphalt on bare feet and night air on bare skin,
we are silent and his car is in neutral and we
are slowly and quietly entering the old world.
I am too young to be drinking, to be smoking,
to be driving, but the steering wheel is cool
beneath my fingers and she trusts me, she
loves me. "Don't crash my car," he says and
laughs. We are all cross-eyed and giddy, filled
with vodka and cigarette smoke and this is a
bad idea, but I don't say so. Lately, bad ideas
are all that can keep us from rotting inside.
The tires fall away and we are flying, I swear,
we are sailing as the night swirls by
in shades of indigo and green.
He is eighteen and my new best friend, buying
us cigarettes and lending us cars. She and I,
we just want to feel alive, and killing ourselves
seems to be the best way to do it. He's telling
me some story that I'll never remember, and
she's quietly smoking through a window in the
back, and we are soaring back through the rift
in the universe to a silent house. We are at pea
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Literature
Resignation
I have
      not written
poetry to soften the fall,
    caring not for lovers
      breaking a suitor’s
      uncouth hands.
I have not
      written poetry to inspire
       the mob, should
      revolution prove us
       failure again.
I have not written
       poetry to elate the heart
         for it to sink
       once more.
I have not written poetry
      only this: labors
             of a silly idea
      that I could confine your stride
          
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Activity


deviantID

PulseofExistence
Jordan
Artist | Student | Literature
Canada
"Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold."- Zelda Fitzgerald

Current Residence: Ontario, Canada.
Favourite genre of music: Progressive rock, acoustic, classic rock
MP3 player of choice: iPod.
Personal Quote: Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self."
Interests
Friends,
I apologize for dropping off the face of the world for a year++, but I can't really explain my absence. Life took its course and I simply followed along for the ride. Between work and university, I've barely had time to breathe, let alone post my latest exploits. I decided to clean up the old gallery and embark on an uploading spree of epic proportions. I've decided this account is much like a working-portfolio; after spending hours looking at old writing, it's amazing how much my style has shaped and evolved with the years. Comparing a 2008 piece with one from just this week was like looking at two different writers altogether. I've grown a lot over the years and my writing has grown with me, but I'm content with being humbled by my past attempts. Anyways, I'm hoping to be more active over the next few weeks. I have a lovely three week break and just the right amount of inspiration to keep me going through the Winter. I hope everyone's enjoying the season and spending these cold nights cuddled up with good literature and warm friends.

-Jordan
  • Listening to: Chasing Cars- Deni Hlavinka Cover
  • Reading: Nothing, currently
  • Drinking: Water

Comments


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:icondragonschest:
DragonsChest Featured By Owner Jan 4, 2018  Professional Writer
Happy Birthday...
Reply
:iconzexypinecones:
ZexyPineCones Featured By Owner Jan 4, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Happy Birthday? :)
Reply
:icondragonschest:
DragonsChest Featured By Owner Jan 4, 2012  Professional Writer
Happy Birthday Jay... :party:
Reply
:iconalisette:
alisette Featured By Owner Jan 4, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy birthday! :glomp: :party:
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:iconuncertainsound:
UncertainSound Featured By Owner Feb 9, 2011  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy 3rd DeviantArt birthday!
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:iconsweetblackrose13:
SweetBlackRose13 Featured By Owner Feb 5, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
:heart: for the faves :)
Reply
:iconzexypinecones:
ZexyPineCones Featured By Owner Jan 8, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
I hate that I missed your birthday. :( :hug:
Reply
:iconpulseofexistence:
PulseofExistence Featured By Owner Feb 2, 2011  Student Writer
Bah, no worries Sir. :)
Reply
:iconzexypinecones:
ZexyPineCones Featured By Owner Feb 2, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
I shall try harder next year. :) :) :)
Reply
:iconsweetblackrose13:
SweetBlackRose13 Featured By Owner Dec 27, 2010  Hobbyist Writer
You know, I was looking through a whole bunch of new poems by a whole bunch of new people, and there are so many that are so beautiful - but they're so melancholy. They were starting to get to me. So, I looked around for a star and started wishing really hard that you could come around and write something colorful for me, to make me smile real wide without even trying.
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