Sammur-amat's Sunday Feature 33+ MOAR

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By Sammur-amat
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PLEASE :+fav: this feature and these wonderful works of art, thank you! :heart:

The amount of artistic talent here on dA has always amazed me, and I truly believe it is a privilege to be able to feature such amazing pieces as these. Therefore, without further ado, this Sunday's Specials! :heart:


:thumb301033228:    The Fictional Part of ExistenceI paint myself in volumes
And bind back the tendrils
Of meadow sweet
And summer orange.
And every breath
Is the poetry of your addiction
And the fleeting touch
Of illuminated letters.
The fictional part of existence
Is drenched in the sad sound
Of your footprints in the marsh
And the silver full moon.
And every spun thread
By spiders in the morning
Catches the dew
And drapes the faults.
Pages strewn
With the ink of ages
Sit peacefully by the riverbank
Returning to silt.
   Star SwallowerShe's
an enigma.
her head, a stadium drowning with applause.
yet its seats are empty like the notebooks
where armies of words should be marching.
instead she dismantles clocks
thinking she can play with time.
behind the mountains lurks a darker reasoning
a twisted labyrinth of rationalizations
hidden from the suns brilliance.
Years alone beneath the bleached fluorescent
reading those already dancing in the moonlight.
she is living a literary half-life through them
hiding from the symmetry of the writer.
licking salty rocks of excuses.
saving her secrets for posthumous excavation.
decades of productivity left for moths to chew.
you're throwing coffins into the sea
with each day that passes wordless.
denying us the sweet whistles from inside your skull.
meaningful, impacting stories only you could pen.
Stop climbing broken staircases
towards the pale summer stars of obscurity.
these are still fruitful years of beauty.
remove your armor.
claw beyond your fears.
allow us into your wonderla
   this is what's left unsaid.this is what i want to do to you.
push your hair back,
black as the keys you loved
(this says something
about me but i
don't know-
don't want
to know what)
open up your skull and look into your

(it fascinates me how easily it's broken mine)
i want to break

precious little finger
at every single joint and
press your useless hands into the ivory keys
i want to suffocate you with piano wire
beat you bloody with hate
and slip a
between your ribs
into your unfeeling heart
(does it beat on tempo?)
i'll play a melody with your screams
and compose a symphony
on a canvas of skin
and write poems with
your blood as ink
(and maybe,
i'll taste your last breath.)

in 12 ways"How do you deal with your heart?"
on bad days i take it out somewhere nice,
i eat for two
while it watches the candles burn.  
i do all the drinking. even though it's wine-colored,
and it knows what the evening costs me, it just watches
the tulip of its glass flicker.
sometimes i wrap it up
in dark crepe for an afternoon and let it fall asleep
with the radio buzzing peaceably
between stations,
or i walk it through the park
with it in the crook of my arms,
wandering between bird-sounds,
sitting near the duck-pond.
or i take it to the theater
where it can smell butter
and watch the backs of people's heads
while the movie washes its noisy blue waves over them.
my heart floats
if i let it.
it splashes in the tub
like a dirty child, the small window open,
letting the smell of trees in.
at the bases of waterfalls
(because i carry it through into my dreams)
it floats on its back with its ears underwater
and watches strange birds disappear over enormous, blue-purple trees.
  :thumb318273730:    Sad is such a small word.Sad
is such
a small word.
Pedants try to
expand it. To
with crammed letters; lugubrious,

But sad
is such
a small word.
could slip it
in your pocket.
could slip me
in your pocket too,
something else
to be
   WhollyI would hold you,
paper-leaf bound and sweet
against my soul.
Laced together, like
braided rivers
water, skin, and space.
And sediment, too
because there is no regret
in living.

1919little black boy beat to death on all-white, all-pure beach.
swimming away from segregation he'd got coursing through his veins,
heard the white boys in his Chicago Public School spit his vernacular
like over-chewed gum: dry and shriveled and useless.
little black boy beat to death on all-white, all-pure beach
didn't mean no harm, just wanted to drown himself gone
from lynching parties in his backyard. barely has a house –
home is momma's arms.
little black boy's got the plight of white flight in his melanin-rich skin.
little black boy beat to death on all-white, all-pure beach. water glistened
off his shoulders like blood off granddaddy's back - whips and chains.
slavery is one of them segregated art forms
where beauty be in the eye of the beholder.
home couldn't hold little black boy one last time before
white-skinned symphonies played him a swan song.
sandy beach concert - all lacking morals are invited.
come witness the destruction of humanity
of possibility
of opportunity.
     :thumb297394046:    The swerveI tore my flesh on the corner of the lake & bled in cubes
and my best friend knew the weight of my green eyes and tried to sell them
and the spring left me heavy in my skin and the air she breathed me
tasted of umami and B12 and water. I drank it all in just like water
and began the aviary process of collecting budding groves and early springs.
you came to me with eyes like empty jars begging for sparks
and the hundred scraps of paper of pretty lies in pretty cursives,
the firefly wings and peonies and ocean salts and river rocks
and you were the first one capable of rustling the dead leaves
at the creek floor, so those went in, too. adding pensive things
to your eyes until they flooded over. they keep flowing
You were beside me trembling at being essential
and I could barely contain my laughter
from spilling into the air of the auroral forest
and getting caught naked in the mountains
The first time I didn't mean it to tear
through your skull and plant flowers
and you were beside me

Gourmet Novel RecipeRecipe for Writing a Novel
Serves: 1. If you’re J K Rowling, billions.
- 1 Tin standard cat food
- 1 Laptop/Computer
- 250g cat biscuits
- Paper
- 5 Pens, various colours.
- 1 stuffed cat toy with bell
- 1 pouch slightly fussier cat food
- 1 sachet gourmet cat food
- 1 bottle of wine, red or white
- 1 Wine glass (Large)
- 1 300g Tin of tuna
Cooking time: 2-5 years
(Preparation time approximately 10-60 minutes depending on condition of desk and computer speed)
1. Clear space on desk. If you do not have respective space for junk, throw on floor. Place paper and pens in clear space.
2. Turn on computer and allow 10 minutes for slow loading time. Add 2-3 sighs as windows update informs to restart computer. Restart computer and allow a further 10 minutes.
3. Once computer is ready, open up new document.

1. Begin with your plot. Open internet to several pages, use pens and paper to mix r

Mature Content

Autumn in RetrospectI became a truant in fourth grade; that may seem young, but no one was keeping an eye on me, my 'teacher' was a rotating face, and I didn't think education was all that important, especially the one I was getting. Multiplication and division hadn't been taught, the recently rebound social studies books ended at President Reagan, and while I could read and even liked to read, I didn't learn anything at school I couldn't learn at the library. The librarians were nicer than the subs, anyway, and the real teacher was on an extended pregnancy leave that she wasn't keen to come off of. I'm not sure, but I think she quit the next year.
Papi went to work before the sun was in the sky, and Mami was seeing her girlfriend when he was away. After giving us each a slice of bread, she would kiss me, my sister, and my brother and say she was going to visit a friend. We all knew, even Raymond who was only five, that she came home with a brighter smile than a nice lunch warranted. I was the oldest, so
   a love portrait of the old treesthe pressed flowers in your hands fall on the ground where you swallow fair weather, the same ground where you listen to the graves of strangers tell you what it means to decompose, to let the trees become the flesh of you so flowers may grow and tears may fly from the lashes of children.
they fall, fall from trees to crushed flowers and laugh like earth through the crunch of years, petal after petal, until, wet and thorny and dry, they fall back into the earth in that long stretch, through airs of time, from the branches to the roots.
the graves tell you this. the graves tell you that stones don't tell their stories as sweet as the trees that whisper their names and speak sweet of their lives in spring, trees that mourn their deaths and grow quiet and black and bold in winter.
the world listens as you listen, and laughs ring and reverberate through the roots. branches are blankets and you fall asleep to the lungs of leaves and the tongues of grass. and you think that the world laughs
   John at 3:16Dear Jesus Christ,
I went to bed at 3:16 last night and started thinking about John—John who pissed away every paycheck he ever made and only fucked virgins, John who beat up a woman's husband and spent a Christmas in jail, John who shot himself on the front porch of his mother's house. I don't think anyone shed a tear except her. I heard she shed many tears as she cleaned up the mess.
I thought about when I first met him. It was at church. He and I were both eight. He sat next to me and we stared at that stained glass image of you in your white robe with your outstretched, loving arms, and he leaned into me and asked, "Do you believe in Jesus?"
"Of course," I said. "Don't you?"
He didn't answer. But it was Communion that day and he ate your body and drank your blood just like everyone else, and I thought he had to believe in you because you were inside of him.
I asked him once, Jesus Christ, I asked him if he believed in you and he said, "I want to. But everyone says I have
   EnoughI'm holding on to secrets so tightly my hands start to burn.
Winter has come full-force, wind sending the windows quivering against their panes and snow blanketing the Earth in an ivory sheen.  We're all bundled up inside, pressed together for warmth to maybe give a bit of it to the not-still-living locked up in a metallic casket no bigger than a shoe box. The mix of flowers –yellow roses, her favorite– and the musty smell of the funeral home permeates everything, makes my nose crinkle up and eyes sting, spilling over with tears.
The sea of nameless, faceless acquaintances part as I walk forward, cold hands on my back and muted, guilty I'm sorrys assaulting my ears, prolonging my mission. I meet the table, watch my Aunt sniffle and move on her way, pausing to wipe her tears on my shoulder and hug me tight.
I take my turn, all eyes on me. They know,
they know.
Her face stares back at me, a dozen pressed beneath glass, her hair in a bob the color of driftwood a


wakeful by agnes-cecile    cologne by takmaj   :thumb202294982:    aleja by modliszqa
My wife by sionra    Anxious sunset. Sevastopol by Metttko    sisters ll by 12x07    Peaceful moment by Mishelangello
Closer by Carnegriff    NIGHT by ARTBYTERESA    red flowers by Katari-Katarina    wet morning in the forest by Katarzyna-Kmiecik
                            :thumb297601607:    Rainy days by beyondthechuch



Yes, you heard correctly; I shall be holding a new Lit Contest, soon! 
I hope I can count on you, my dear friends and watchers, for your fervent support! :heart:

Once contest theme is finalized, I shall most surely be open for prize donations. :love:

Although I already have a few ideas with regard to what the theme of the contest should be, I would love to hear from you guys first. Maybe you can offer me a suggestion I would like more or one that would please the majority of the participants (which I hope would be even more than last time). 

Again, I would love to hear everybody's suggestions on what the theme of this contest should be, so please, do indulge me. It is always so great if again, more people would participate. You guys, nothing beats reading and rereading your wonderful wonderful entries! :eager:


I'll be changing the title format from this feature on to keep track of things. :meow: 



© 2013 - 2021 Sammur-amat
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Sammur-amat's avatar
most welcome, dolly! :heart:
MummyWriter's avatar
Thank you so much my darling, your features are always so lovely and I'm honored to be included!
Sammur-amat's avatar
you know you are always welcome, dearest! :heart:
keep up the amazing, amazing writing! as am i honored to be able to include lovely pieces like yours! :tighthug:
Beautiful journal! Thank you!
Sammur-amat's avatar
thank you so much! :huggle:
happy to hear that and the pleasure is all mine! :love:
Sammur-amat's avatar
:tighthug: :heart: :heart: :heart:
you are most welcome, my dear incredibly talented friend! :la:
modliszqa's avatar
Sammur-amat's avatar
archelyxs's avatar
Sammur-amat's avatar
Always a pleasure, love. :blowkiss:
FuzzyHoser's avatar
Dandy feature, darlin'. (:
Sammur-amat's avatar
Thank you so very much, my fuzzy friend! :tighthug:
takmaj's avatar
thank you my dear!
Sammur-amat's avatar
You are most welcome, wonderful soul! :heart:
LadyLincoln's avatar
Thank you for the humbling feature, honey. :heart:
Sammur-amat's avatar
Thank you for being such a source of inspiration, dolly. :tighthug: :heart:
LadyLincoln's avatar
rlkirkland's avatar
You've been a busy Gal!
Thanks for adding my piece in this lovely collection. :heart::heart:
Sammur-amat's avatar
Busy bee, that's me! :la:
Thank you for your continuous awesomeness, dear sir. :huggle:
hypermagical's avatar
Ice cream, the theme should be ice cream! Or just the sweet things in life, generally! :XD:
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