SuperTaate's avatar
eats LIFE for breakfast.
48 Watchers15.7K Page Views63 Deviations
S
Simplicity of Compass Points
A boy was born to a savage people.  His mother wrapped him in blankets and she, with her chili-scented breath, spoke his name.  The boy was called Ansu and immediately after he was wrapped up and warm, his mother pulled out her knife and sliced a thin line across his cheek to show him that there was nothing truly good in this world and that he could never expect kindness, happiness or love.  And because she knew that love did not exist, she abandoned him to the North where he was born and she was lost, before slipping away to find where she had come from. Ansu's mother was one of the Southern people.  They were a violent people--the hot air
i
i can't make good titles
my eyes are burning past my skin-- it is not quiet here. at the end of my paper-glass memories, there is you and the sand in your hair, the way i can't seem to eat anything without salt. i am lying on my back and the sun makes salt stains across my face because i can't look at it without crying and why, why are you always there in my mind, even when i do not want you, even when i do not love you? i think i need to get more sleep, drink milk for breakfast only on sundays, wipe the tear-stains from my windshield.
sunsunsun
2
1
c
cut grass
you forgot why the clouds are beautiful, why the folds of your hands could pull stories from your fog-filled mouth. outside, a lawnmower hums over your words.  all you know is broken stems and things even the wind dropped. you say to yourself – next year, we will be drowning to our knees in smell, in colors, in sky-soaked grass because of this sound.
s
summer
she speaks the language of cats. beneath sherbet tents and watermelon ice cream, she is spinning stories like cotton candy, tasting words on her tongue and handing them to children on summer-roasted sidewalks. our toes brush milk-stained tile, multi-colored creamsicles painting our sun-kissed hands, as we waste pastel-colored napkins on small fingers
l
living in trains
she said her feet felt like train wrecks, like water left on stovetops. burnt, defeated, she’d washed away the sun stains, and stacked stars in glass bottles. she found silver lining in her mother’s charcoal-tipped hair. spun it in her fingers, because maybe she wasn’t burnt pages or washed-up sun, so she’d dance to quiet music at the tip of her tongue, with silver hair and iron feet, toes pointed, hair free.
n
northern winds
minutes drag like barrels waiting for gas. a boy’s hand caresses what is left of sanity, his feet tap-tapping to green lights and the sweat he can feel beneath his knees. i was kissed by a north wind; its breath twisting my sun-soaked hair as it breathed life into melted airplanes and chocolate-stained fingers, sweeping barreled minutes off their feet.
q
queremos paz, y libertad
somewhere, across this freckled universe and three hundred sixty-five days my hands are cupping tree bark and washing eggs out of frying pans, hurrying like old women before mass because i want to take a shower. i’m tripping on dust and words like ‘hilarious’ are echoing in my head like old men from a psycho ward, but i’m throwing snowballs in springtime, and laughing at jokes about cereal bars. i can’t stop talking about pirates, or singing in messed-up stilted japanese but the old man and his clothesline think we’re funny, and i’ve got queremos paz stuck in my head.
l
looking for sky
her heart can’t stand itself, because it wants words and the ocean and for crows to laugh at it. seagulls live in her throat, but her lungs are torn and she can’t hear them anymore. holes are hanging from holes, and everything is falling through them. her hands know what clouds feel like, so she clings to cotton and knits like a madwoman because maybe, she’ll find the sky.
d
dracula
i. they say we’re made of the same things as stars, and if this is true for anyone, it is true for her. she can feel sky-lights and daffodils in her blood ii. she finds dracula in the honey jar, but she thinks she can taste god she knows this taste; like iced tea or summertime, and she can’t find the bitterness at the tip of her tongue iii. she waits, she waits. she wants swallows, and rose-colored dragons to nibble at her finger-tips, but all she can taste is stale bread
See all
S
Simplicity of Compass Points
A boy was born to a savage people.  His mother wrapped him in blankets and she, with her chili-scented breath, spoke his name.  The boy was called Ansu and immediately after he was wrapped up and warm, his mother pulled out her knife and sliced a thin line across his cheek to show him that there was nothing truly good in this world and that he could never expect kindness, happiness or love.  And because she knew that love did not exist, she abandoned him to the North where he was born and she was lost, before slipping away to find where she had come from. Ansu's mother was one of the Southern people.  They were a violent people--the hot air
i
i can't make good titles
my eyes are burning past my skin-- it is not quiet here. at the end of my paper-glass memories, there is you and the sand in your hair, the way i can't seem to eat anything without salt. i am lying on my back and the sun makes salt stains across my face because i can't look at it without crying and why, why are you always there in my mind, even when i do not want you, even when i do not love you? i think i need to get more sleep, drink milk for breakfast only on sundays, wipe the tear-stains from my windshield.
sunsunsun
2
1
c
cut grass
you forgot why the clouds are beautiful, why the folds of your hands could pull stories from your fog-filled mouth. outside, a lawnmower hums over your words.  all you know is broken stems and things even the wind dropped. you say to yourself – next year, we will be drowning to our knees in smell, in colors, in sky-soaked grass because of this sound.
s
summer
she speaks the language of cats. beneath sherbet tents and watermelon ice cream, she is spinning stories like cotton candy, tasting words on her tongue and handing them to children on summer-roasted sidewalks. our toes brush milk-stained tile, multi-colored creamsicles painting our sun-kissed hands, as we waste pastel-colored napkins on small fingers
l
living in trains
she said her feet felt like train wrecks, like water left on stovetops. burnt, defeated, she’d washed away the sun stains, and stacked stars in glass bottles. she found silver lining in her mother’s charcoal-tipped hair. spun it in her fingers, because maybe she wasn’t burnt pages or washed-up sun, so she’d dance to quiet music at the tip of her tongue, with silver hair and iron feet, toes pointed, hair free.
n
northern winds
minutes drag like barrels waiting for gas. a boy’s hand caresses what is left of sanity, his feet tap-tapping to green lights and the sweat he can feel beneath his knees. i was kissed by a north wind; its breath twisting my sun-soaked hair as it breathed life into melted airplanes and chocolate-stained fingers, sweeping barreled minutes off their feet.
q
queremos paz, y libertad
somewhere, across this freckled universe and three hundred sixty-five days my hands are cupping tree bark and washing eggs out of frying pans, hurrying like old women before mass because i want to take a shower. i’m tripping on dust and words like ‘hilarious’ are echoing in my head like old men from a psycho ward, but i’m throwing snowballs in springtime, and laughing at jokes about cereal bars. i can’t stop talking about pirates, or singing in messed-up stilted japanese but the old man and his clothesline think we’re funny, and i’ve got queremos paz stuck in my head.
l
looking for sky
her heart can’t stand itself, because it wants words and the ocean and for crows to laugh at it. seagulls live in her throat, but her lungs are torn and she can’t hear them anymore. holes are hanging from holes, and everything is falling through them. her hands know what clouds feel like, so she clings to cotton and knits like a madwoman because maybe, she’ll find the sky.
H
Hicamore
In a yellow room, you sit, two turquoise rings on your fingers, and dust like a halo around, your paper-thin skin. Your silhouette is so small that I almost miss you, there in my grandfather's favorite chair, where he used to sleep in silence, the curtains just drawn. But you, shaky hands and spider web veins, you who've owned this house for fifty years, ten of them alone, you just watch the herons overhead. I wonder what you're reading, up before the crickets retire their legs, before the jays start heckling, before the woodpecker's rhythmic tic. Perhaps, again, you're reading his memoir, handwritten, but bound. The pages
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H
Haiku 12
late spring storm the wet robin rests, chest heaving
62
219
My lungs are not big enough
4
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Air and water
3
17
6
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Like the tatoo of a flower
4
40
Oct 3
United States
Deviant for 11 years
Badges
Super Llama: Llamas are awesome! (17)
So hi. I used to be obnoxious.
I might still be obnoxious, I don't know.  But I was looking things from back when I used this site a lot and I was really, really stupid.  All the time.  I also thought I was unequivocally deep, which was the reason why I never capitalized anything.  So sorry about that. I don't think anyone is going to read this, or is going to care, because it's been years since I really actively used this site, but hello again.  I'm seriously considering just making a new account and starting over with a half decent username and no stupid associations with my old account, but I don't know. So hello, no one.
will ferrel scarred me for life.
he did. i think i spelled his name wrong, but he did. i am emotionally scarred. you see, i went and saw 'land of the lost' last night. i don't think i will ever lose the image of the pool scene, when he comes out of the water... it will haunt my dreams forever. i think he might have been wearing women's peach print underwear. other than that though, 'land of the lost' was pretty funny. xD if you can withstand the emotional scarring, it's probably a worthwhile see. i dunno. sometimes i was bored, but not often. i'm sorry i'm not using caps again, but i'm a bit tired and feeling lazy. i think that it is important to note that now my browser
I'm 14, but I act like I'm 16. Bizzare-o!
Stolen from ~QuicheLorraine (https://www.deviantart.com/quichelorraine) HOW OLD DO YOU ACT? [x] You know how to make a pot of coffee. [ ] You keep track of dates using a calendar. [ ] You own a credit card. [ ] You know how to change the oil in a car. [x] You've done your own laundry. [ ] You can vote in an election. [x] You can cook for yourself. [x] You think politics are interesting. TOTAL SO FAR: 4 [x] You show up for school late a lot. [x] You always carry a pen/pencil in your bag/purse/pocket. [x] You've never gotten a detention. [ ] You have forgotten your own birthday. [x] You like to take walks by yourself. [x] You know what credibility means, without look
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LindaTateWilson's avatar
Long time no see.  I hope you come back.  
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esTHer-duraes's avatar
esTHer-duraes|Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Hi! :wave:

Thank you so much for adding me to your watch list! :heart: I'm so glad you like my artwork :)

Thank you! :blowkiss:
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pho0b's avatar
pho0b|Student Traditional Artist
Thank you for watching :heart:
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formaniac's avatar
formaniac|Student Writer
thank you so much for the watch :heart: ~~
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LindaTateWilson's avatar
Hi, I haven't spoken to you in some time. I hope this year's classes are great and that you are doing well. Just a friendly stop-in to say, "hello".

Linda
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SuperTaate's avatar
SuperTaate|Student Writer
Hi--I'm sorry this reply is so late! I haven't been on dA in foreverrrr.

I am doing well and this year's classes are great, if sort of work-heavy. -____- XD

How are you? (:
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drufolio's avatar
hay... wishing u a very happy birthday :D may you have many return -hugs-
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