wei-en's avatar
human dumpster fire
385 Watchers28.6K Page Views12 Deviations
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goodbye
   i. death is a shadow and i feel him, some days more than others.   ii. we first met on a sunny day in january. he covered my tiny fist inside his and squeezed it like an apology, and i began to cry. i have seen his silhouette every day since.   iii. he is always on the flip side of light – always sharper where the sun shines fierce. (sometimes i can only face the bright side because i know he has my back.)   iv. i write him letters. sometimes they are stories. sometimes they are odes. but most of the time, they are just conversations, that we have. (“i was thinking about you.”)   v. death is
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gecko
once your scales fall away you are bare and translucent; your spine, visible through the film of your skin. there is strength, in this – there is strength in many unusual things.
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about
i. i want to tell you why i always write about my mother and not my father. ii. i love poetry but i hate words; it’s like loving air but hating breathing – (loving breathing but hating throats) words are what ruin poetry. they mean nothing, and poetry means everything. words talk, but they don’t say anything. (words reduce poetry to nothing.) iii. time slips through my fingers like breaths through a sieve because i don’t grasp onto it. i have no will – the thought makes me suffocate from exhaustion, sinks into the black circles under my eyes while i lie in bed. time passes. (time is crema
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7. heaven
i find myself blinded by the smallest of things – plastic rice bowls & a negligible soft- drink addiction – smudged glasses lenses &     too many mandarins there are things that act in the place of the ideal, quick fixes that work longer than they were ever supposed to. my ceiling light is broken – i use two dimmer desk lamps instead. the roof over my room leaks during storms – i lay old shower curtains on the carpet. and when 1am is the only time i do not feel silenced to a void of words, i pick up a pen, exhausted, and tell myself   ( this is how     it is meant     to be. )
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Slut
it implodes on the walls of your skull and slides, sickly off your tongue like the body of a slug. when it hits the floor it is not quiet, not heavy nor dull but sharp as a slap and totters out of the room suddenly, they are disgusting and you are ill. there is no more room for regret, washed away by the slime coming out of your pores. the fault is yours
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Writer
I am a scientist; Pinning down ideas like butterflies preserving them in their fragile beauty as I take away their freedom, their life. I am a parasite; sucking the soul out of music and leaving it a hollow shell that plays like the noisy silence in my ears. I am a thief; taking what is not mine, the world around me, and pouring it into a mould that I claim is my own. I am a blasphemer; playing God in a sacred place, changing the world to my liking when the orchestra is not under my conduction. I am a liar; selling false havens to lonely runaways, giving them a glimpse of a world more glamorous, more fantas
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Jan 25
Australia
Deviant for 7 years

Comments345

anonymous's avatar
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Michawolf13's avatar
Michawolf13Hobbyist General Artist
  
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ehp32's avatar
ehp32Hobbyist Writer
Okay, but how did I just now find you??? You are so amazing! 
wei-en's avatar
oh u/// thank you!
kanyiko's avatar
kanyikoHobbyist Traditional Artist
wei-en's avatar
You're welcome!!
tulf42's avatar
tulf42Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for badging back! :D