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A world of my own.
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Conversation Starter For One Forgotten Soul

C

Conversation Starter For One Forgotten Soul

What's it to you, moving across lips in cafe city while the whole gang's aloft on white smoke, on cigarettes torn from some lonely cashier just checking out for the night, gone night-night, heavily asleep, slipped it seems, in some far-off world where memory is remix and time serves as baseline melody. Oh well, can't change your mind, maybe rearrange or force-cancel your words but nothing, lip service, locked doors on shops, lamp light on replay, and the street misaligned like a scoliotic spine. I can't digress. It's too much work. Talking. Then moving. Afterwards we'll ride the ferry, back home someone's ordered takeout and the rooms are

Mrs. Winter Longing

M

Mrs. Winter Longing

America, the word a foreign country in my mouth, my hands wet from washing without soap in the public fountain, an array of trees arrive early with spring already in their hair, ribbons of white plum lace their branches, or else flowers dim with pink and the morning sun, half-bald, half-Rococo, Antoinette hairdos tall as the clouds on a midwinter day, the sun barely visible. America, the garden waiting in the high clouds, I cover the early ground with faint dirges of snow light as salt, flavorless as saliva, hoping not to see the new blades emerge and take on their waking forms. I think it enough to sleep, to lie folded like a cloth over the

Persephone, My Life, Underground

P

Persephone, My Life, Underground

It was no mistake that I ate the fruit. It was sweet. I was young. I knew where my loyalties lied. With me, the earth could finally uphold and swallow that precarious promise, grow and grow. What does not wither will not flourish. I was young strutting about in a spring dress. Mother told me to beware what laid beyond the field. This was the beginning of all my faithlessness. But if I loved anything it was the chance to be free of innocence. In the dark I grew like flowers grow in the dark of the locked tomb, doors that will never be opened save for some thief, saved from the light of a respectable heaven. I was not naive. Ignorant, yes. But

Izanagi

I

Izanagi

What terrified me was not the bare bone under dim candles floating over black water. What I saw was of no importance but for what it meant. That you were gone, and in your place some thing appeared and named its dark form “wife.” I had to run, you see. There was a darkness I could not escape, that was already inescapable the moment I laid eyes on you, who I loved, on you, who shall not be here hence and more. I named my sons and daughter after you, those tears swept fast and unceremonious from my eyes, who now go and warp the world, storm, and sun, and moon. Then at noon, none shall know our troubles, our separation, our splittin

Autumn Falling

Coffeehouse, Chicken Salad

C

Coffeehouse, Chicken Salad

“Do you want any?” he asked and I said no, voice caving in with surprise we shared, one eyelid lifted, as my lips             met his.

13 Ways of Looking at a Comma

W

13 Ways of Looking at a Comma

1. Instead of words, a flock of commas flew from her yawning mouth to a wild thunder of applause. 2. A calliope of horses has nothing on a stable of well-groomed commas. 3. If death is a period, dying is ellipses. The comma sees dead people. 4. The comma is a master of disguise. Sometimes a period hides in its shadow, the long tail, the sun's shallow parallel. 5. Nobody has mastered the true comma, coming close, in dreams, they are awarded. So many gold plaques, their titles need commas. 6. The comma is not a silence, but a pause, the way a line break is read it is filled with the silence of commas. 7. Echoing through night, the call

Viewing With Relative Ease

V

Viewing With Relative Ease

      The acting's good in a soap opera if you can watch with the sound off and suddenly everything is clear:                                         Tanner is sleeping with Brett. Their hands touch and they shift awkwardly,           like shy camels under the sun, as everyone talks, their mouths moving                       a mile a minute and everyone's gaze           happens upon the two secret lovers, their time together     tying both tongues, simultaneously urging them                          into the other                  yet keeping them apart.                             In other words,      their hands, they to

First Half, Blindness, Jose Saramago

F

First Half, Blindness, Jose Saramago

The act of reading robes me like God. In the grave a dead man sleeps. After becoming blind, he fondled a girl and being blind too, she dug the heel of her shoe, a sharp stileto, into his leg. Over the course of days, the pain and infection worsened. He crawled toward the asylum gates. They thought it was the wind, a bird washing itself in the bushes. Then, out of the dark, his white face. Of course, panic provoked the trigger. And the man was dead. When I sat by his bed, trembling with his trembling, it was the heat and cold that changed him, the white sea of nothing in his eyes kept him ignorant of the color, the pallor, but not the pain. I

Christina's World

C

Christina's World

All lives are this simple. A girl lying on dry grass, whistle of wind and the summer, lifting her head to the sound, some distant voice, calling.
See all

Conversation Starter For One Forgotten Soul

C

Conversation Starter For One Forgotten Soul

What's it to you, moving across lips in cafe city while the whole gang's aloft on white smoke, on cigarettes torn from some lonely cashier just checking out for the night, gone night-night, heavily asleep, slipped it seems, in some far-off world where memory is remix and time serves as baseline melody. Oh well, can't change your mind, maybe rearrange or force-cancel your words but nothing, lip service, locked doors on shops, lamp light on replay, and the street misaligned like a scoliotic spine. I can't digress. It's too much work. Talking. Then moving. Afterwards we'll ride the ferry, back home someone's ordered takeout and the rooms are

Mrs. Winter Longing

M

Mrs. Winter Longing

America, the word a foreign country in my mouth, my hands wet from washing without soap in the public fountain, an array of trees arrive early with spring already in their hair, ribbons of white plum lace their branches, or else flowers dim with pink and the morning sun, half-bald, half-Rococo, Antoinette hairdos tall as the clouds on a midwinter day, the sun barely visible. America, the garden waiting in the high clouds, I cover the early ground with faint dirges of snow light as salt, flavorless as saliva, hoping not to see the new blades emerge and take on their waking forms. I think it enough to sleep, to lie folded like a cloth over the

Persephone, My Life, Underground

P

Persephone, My Life, Underground

It was no mistake that I ate the fruit. It was sweet. I was young. I knew where my loyalties lied. With me, the earth could finally uphold and swallow that precarious promise, grow and grow. What does not wither will not flourish. I was young strutting about in a spring dress. Mother told me to beware what laid beyond the field. This was the beginning of all my faithlessness. But if I loved anything it was the chance to be free of innocence. In the dark I grew like flowers grow in the dark of the locked tomb, doors that will never be opened save for some thief, saved from the light of a respectable heaven. I was not naive. Ignorant, yes. But

Izanagi

I

Izanagi

What terrified me was not the bare bone under dim candles floating over black water. What I saw was of no importance but for what it meant. That you were gone, and in your place some thing appeared and named its dark form “wife.” I had to run, you see. There was a darkness I could not escape, that was already inescapable the moment I laid eyes on you, who I loved, on you, who shall not be here hence and more. I named my sons and daughter after you, those tears swept fast and unceremonious from my eyes, who now go and warp the world, storm, and sun, and moon. Then at noon, none shall know our troubles, our separation, our splittin

Autumn Falling

Coffeehouse, Chicken Salad

C

Coffeehouse, Chicken Salad

“Do you want any?” he asked and I said no, voice caving in with surprise we shared, one eyelid lifted, as my lips             met his.

13 Ways of Looking at a Comma

W

13 Ways of Looking at a Comma

1. Instead of words, a flock of commas flew from her yawning mouth to a wild thunder of applause. 2. A calliope of horses has nothing on a stable of well-groomed commas. 3. If death is a period, dying is ellipses. The comma sees dead people. 4. The comma is a master of disguise. Sometimes a period hides in its shadow, the long tail, the sun's shallow parallel. 5. Nobody has mastered the true comma, coming close, in dreams, they are awarded. So many gold plaques, their titles need commas. 6. The comma is not a silence, but a pause, the way a line break is read it is filled with the silence of commas. 7. Echoing through night, the call

Viewing With Relative Ease

V

Viewing With Relative Ease

      The acting's good in a soap opera if you can watch with the sound off and suddenly everything is clear:                                         Tanner is sleeping with Brett. Their hands touch and they shift awkwardly,           like shy camels under the sun, as everyone talks, their mouths moving                       a mile a minute and everyone's gaze           happens upon the two secret lovers, their time together     tying both tongues, simultaneously urging them                          into the other                  yet keeping them apart.                             In other words,      their hands, they to

First Half, Blindness, Jose Saramago

F

First Half, Blindness, Jose Saramago

The act of reading robes me like God. In the grave a dead man sleeps. After becoming blind, he fondled a girl and being blind too, she dug the heel of her shoe, a sharp stileto, into his leg. Over the course of days, the pain and infection worsened. He crawled toward the asylum gates. They thought it was the wind, a bird washing itself in the bushes. Then, out of the dark, his white face. Of course, panic provoked the trigger. And the man was dead. When I sat by his bed, trembling with his trembling, it was the heat and cold that changed him, the white sea of nothing in his eyes kept him ignorant of the color, the pallor, but not the pain. I

Christina's World

C

Christina's World

All lives are this simple. A girl lying on dry grass, whistle of wind and the summer, lifting her head to the sound, some distant voice, calling.

Death came

D

Death came

It was not beckoned or deserved, not mistaken or justified. It came from the inside of the seashell on your desk, it came from where the wall met the floor behind the radiator. Once it had arrived, it fit inside the room the way the universe fits inside each moment. It came unmade and obstinate and as it unfolded its unmaking over you it failed a little because look here you are.

Spotlight

Conversation Starter For One Forgotten Soul

C

Conversation Starter For One Forgotten Soul

What's it to you, moving across lips in cafe city while the whole gang's aloft on white smoke, on cigarettes torn from some lonely cashier just checking out for the night, gone night-night, heavily asleep, slipped it seems, in some far-off world where memory is remix and time serves as baseline melody. Oh well, can't change your mind, maybe rearrange or force-cancel your words but nothing, lip service, locked doors on shops, lamp light on replay, and the street misaligned like a scoliotic spine. I can't digress. It's too much work. Talking. Then moving. Afterwards we'll ride the ferry, back home someone's ordered takeout and the rooms are
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Artist // Hobbyist // Literature
  • Oct 25, 1994
  • United States
  • Deviant for 11 years
  • He / Him
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My Bio
Andrew Liu, 20, student at East Los Angeles College, loves to write. That's me in the picture, staring at the Lansdowne Herakles in the Getty Villa. I've been writing since 2007 and I started poetry in 2011. My favorite genres are urban fantasy (Harry Potter, Percy and the Olympians) and fantasy (Cry of the Icemark, American Gods, Good Omens). I mostly write poetry. I switched over from prose because I could never manage to finish writing short stories. I write as a hobby but hope to make a career out of teaching and writing.

I'm an English major. My favorite period is American Modernism. I've read T.S. Eliot, E.E. Cummings, Robert Frost, Wallace Stevens. My all-time favorite pieces of poetry are varied: Cathy Song "Cloud Moving Hands", Sharon Olds "The Elder Sister" & "I Go Back to May, 1937", Sylvia Plath "Mirror" & "Fever 103", Mark Doty "Tiara", Elizabeth Bishop "The Fish", and Muriel Rukeyser "Song for Dead Children."

If I were to summarize my writing style in three words it would be: lush, dream-like, and intense. People have always told me that I'm very good at imagery and description, but not so much at editing or making sure my work flows effortlessly.

Other hobbies I have include video games, anime, and more reading I guess. All time favorite video games: Folklore (PS3), Bastion (PC), Dust: An Elysian Tale (PC), Persona 4 (PS2). All time favorite animes: Natsume Yuujinchou (Natsume's Book of Friends), Puella Magi Madoka Magica (Magical Girl Madoka), Nodame Cantabile, Ao no Exorcist (Blue Exorcist-manga only), and Magi (again, manga only). All time favorite books: Caramelo (Sandra Cisneros), American Gods (Neil Gaiman), The Great Gatsby (F. Scott Fitzgerald), Asterios Polyp (David Mazzuchelli), Like Water For Chocolate (Laura Esquivel), and Fahrenheit 451 (Ray Bradbury).

Favourite Visual Artist
Salvador Dalí, Monet, Van Gogh
Favourite Movies
Kung Fu Panda, Amelie, Penelope, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Paprika,
Favourite TV Shows
Avatar: The Last Airbender, Nodame Cantabile, Natsume Yuujinchou
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
Suneohair
Favourite Books
Fahrenheit 451, The Great Gatsby, The Spoon River Anthology, The Bell Jar, American Gods, Caramelo
Favourite Writers
Emily Dickenson, Sylvia Plath, Rick Riordan, JD Salinger, etc.
Favourite Games
Persona 4, Folklore, Bastion, Dust: An Elysian Tale
Favourite Gaming Platform
PS3
Tools of the Trade
Microsoft Word
Other Interests
writing, video games, anime, cartoons

Suggested Reading

Suggested Reading

Was going through top ten sites and browsing randomly. Here's some poems I found: "Diameter" by Michelle Y. Burke http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/250064 I like it for the way it puns on Diameter/Demeter. I like it for the way it compares stemming the gap of grief with geometry problems of circumference and diameter. I like it for the way it looks at grief as a solvable problem, even though it isn't. I like the way it approaches the impossible world after death. "Factory Town" by Austin Smith http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/250046 I never knew you could enjamb like that. Turn smokestacks into cigar

America's Next Great Author Vol. 3

America's Next Great Author Vol. 3

Okay, so there's a contest going on at Figment.com that my friend Josh is hosting. This is the third year he's done it and I can tell you from experience it's really fun and challenging. It's essentially a nine week long contest that spans the summer. There will be a prompt every week ranging mostly from prose, but sometimes requiring poetry or screenwriting. It's open call, although only ten lucky writers will get to participate, so make yourself a free figment account and check it out here. Anyone can join and submissions last until May 15th, 5/15. Contest starts Monday, June 2nd. Here's the guidelines: 1.) Contestants must be American ci

Associative Imagery: Uses in Poetry and Prose (1)

Associative Imagery: Uses in Poetry and Prose (1)

Gwendolyn Brooks in her poem, "Boy Breaking Glass", rips through the surrounding context of a young boy throwing stones through windows and superimposes a diagram of cultural cause and effect. Instead of simply writing about the action and the immediate consequences of the seemingly simple action, she analyzes the web of cultural motivations that keep the boy from doing anything other than breaking glass. The figure observed in her poem is no lawless vandal, shattering glass simply for the sake of easing an itching arm. “I shall create! If not a note, a hole.   If not an overture, a desecration.” Out of the desire to create a

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Thanks. Sorry about the late reply. 
Happy birthday!!!
hi andrew, happy birthday :)