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Until Mar 3, 2019
Founded 8 Years ago
Aug 31, 2010
Location
Global
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We are partnered with a number of creative groups here on dA. Listed below are our affiliated literature groups.
You can see a complete list of our affiliates on the About Us page!
You can see a complete list of our affiliates on the About Us page!
Random from Featured
Literature
The Ring
slender, tarnished silver band
rests in palm of withered hand
ancient promise, absent stare
detritus falls like snow on hair
wedding present grand oak bed
ghosts of words the mirror said
rain-rot splintered windowsills
caustic crumbs of guilty pills
alabaster-shattered trust
footprints in the carpet dust
canopy of velvet shame
creaking-staircase-whispered name
the progeny of lies and tears
divests her of her souvenirs
and grateful for the life she gave
the heirloom never meets the grave
rests in palm of withered hand
ancient promise, absent stare
detritus falls like snow on hair
wedding present grand oak bed
ghosts of words the mirror said
rain-rot splintered windowsills
caustic crumbs of guilty pills
alabaster-shattered trust
footprints in the carpet dust
canopy of velvet shame
creaking-staircase-whispered name
the progeny of lies and tears
divests her of her souvenirs
and grateful for the life she gave
the heirloom never meets the grave
MacabreGoblin MacabreGoblin
173
38
Literature
The Origin of the Internet
This is the story of Compudites and Internedes – great gods of knowledge and communication. It is a story of their love for each other. It is a story of their betrayal at the hands of Hermes the messenger. It is a story of Internedes' destruction at the hands of Zeus. And it is a story of how, with the help of Athena, Compudites was able to be together with Internedes once more. It is the story of how and why humanity got one of the greatest resources ever known – the internet.
Compudites was a kind and gentle god, frail and limited in power, but boundless in intellect – a patron of sciences, mathematics, and technology. He was the guiding hand behind many of humanity's technological breakthroughs throughout the millennia. But just as technology and discoveries in the maths and sciences depend on others to spread them, Compudites was forever dependent on others to spread his knowledge. Hermes the messenger was one, swift like the wind, he helped carry messages between th
Compudites was a kind and gentle god, frail and limited in power, but boundless in intellect – a patron of sciences, mathematics, and technology. He was the guiding hand behind many of humanity's technological breakthroughs throughout the millennia. But just as technology and discoveries in the maths and sciences depend on others to spread them, Compudites was forever dependent on others to spread his knowledge. Hermes the messenger was one, swift like the wind, he helped carry messages between th
sambeawesome sambeawesome
219
126
Literature
Let go Control
Piper honey, play me a song
full of hangnails and heartache
and a promise broken on every note
that walks away, to leave me wanting
Caterpillar sweetheart, show me your wings
those spines of snow and silk not yet so full
of lust and colour, too vibrant that the masses
beg in awe, for the relief in locked doors.
Lover darling, teach me to dance
with powerful strokes and tender tips of
fingers glancing and dancing and teasing
lead by the lips of an angel, a taste
and a smile, of saccharine love,
that hangs Adam for being a man.
full of hangnails and heartache
and a promise broken on every note
that walks away, to leave me wanting
Caterpillar sweetheart, show me your wings
those spines of snow and silk not yet so full
of lust and colour, too vibrant that the masses
beg in awe, for the relief in locked doors.
Lover darling, teach me to dance
with powerful strokes and tender tips of
fingers glancing and dancing and teasing
lead by the lips of an angel, a taste
and a smile, of saccharine love,
that hangs Adam for being a man.
Khiri-543 Khiri-543
24
25
Literature
fresh faced boys
Fresh Face Boys.
Constructive comments by Tess
© 1996
How dangerous the naiveté of fresh faced boys,
Heads full of arrogant dreams,
Testosterone hallucinations of
Power, immortality, violent selfishness.
The music of aggression cries for instant perfection
Their sweet feminine faces calmly call for the death of the past.
Ignorant intolerance, a weapon against empathy,
Leaves a path of righteous decimation,
Leaves death strewn fields,
Kills the flower of idealism,
Leaving them standing alone
Their souls battle torn.
Guitars rage against meaningless living
Adrenalin screams for a warrior's adventure
The decay of the civilised heart dishonours their passion
Twisting it into violence.
Their eyes are lasers dissolving one generation's hypocrisy
Giving it a pious new form,
Until the years seem like an avalanche
And the prison of the ordinary brings them to humanity
Their faces tattooed with the search for a meaningful death.
Love waits in their primitive hearts
Waits to strip a
Constructive comments by Tess
© 1996
How dangerous the naiveté of fresh faced boys,
Heads full of arrogant dreams,
Testosterone hallucinations of
Power, immortality, violent selfishness.
The music of aggression cries for instant perfection
Their sweet feminine faces calmly call for the death of the past.
Ignorant intolerance, a weapon against empathy,
Leaves a path of righteous decimation,
Leaves death strewn fields,
Kills the flower of idealism,
Leaving them standing alone
Their souls battle torn.
Guitars rage against meaningless living
Adrenalin screams for a warrior's adventure
The decay of the civilised heart dishonours their passion
Twisting it into violence.
Their eyes are lasers dissolving one generation's hypocrisy
Giving it a pious new form,
Until the years seem like an avalanche
And the prison of the ordinary brings them to humanity
Their faces tattooed with the search for a meaningful death.
Love waits in their primitive hearts
Waits to strip a
wildmandrake wildmandrake
1
9
Literature
A Spark In The Night Of Misery
The black veil of oblivion covers the image of the house she lived in when she was a child.
She cannot recall, she cannot remember...
Her eyes, once bright, are now imprisoned by a cell made out of tears.
Nothing but darkness, nothing but suffering...
There is no present, there won't be a future, there is no past anymore.
In the fireplace the flames are too sad to dance and silently even the bravest spark gives up,
to let the night hide a woman's misery.
She cannot recall, she cannot remember...
Her eyes, once bright, are now imprisoned by a cell made out of tears.
Nothing but darkness, nothing but suffering...
There is no present, there won't be a future, there is no past anymore.
In the fireplace the flames are too sad to dance and silently even the bravest spark gives up,
to let the night hide a woman's misery.
Debbysh Debbysh
9
8
Literature
Father
The skin becomes blotted with age. A swollen, red face (he needs to lose weight), bags under his eyes, crevices in the creases of his face that were never there before (creates a permanent tiredness).
He sits in front of the television all day long.
The volume is loud (you could hear it outside the screen door) because working on planes in the Air Force gave him a jump start on hearing loss. It was only a few years, but those B-52s...
He leans back in his favorite chair, his potbelly floats above the rest of his body and continues to swell by the year. There's a perfect curve between belly and chest that creates the resting place for his folded hands. Probably because of all the alcohol, the shots taken to take a break from the memories, his belly doesn't shrink with the pills.
He sits in front of the television all day long.
He could have been a cop. Drugs and a haggard first wife led him astray, so he has to settle for imagination. He watches the show Cops (guns pointed, s
He sits in front of the television all day long.
The volume is loud (you could hear it outside the screen door) because working on planes in the Air Force gave him a jump start on hearing loss. It was only a few years, but those B-52s...
He leans back in his favorite chair, his potbelly floats above the rest of his body and continues to swell by the year. There's a perfect curve between belly and chest that creates the resting place for his folded hands. Probably because of all the alcohol, the shots taken to take a break from the memories, his belly doesn't shrink with the pills.
He sits in front of the television all day long.
He could have been a cop. Drugs and a haggard first wife led him astray, so he has to settle for imagination. He watches the show Cops (guns pointed, s
heart-terrors heart-terrors
20
26
Literature
This Lamb Sells Condos
This is Ava's dream.
Every night, when Ava sleeps, she dreams of being a bird. Only not exactly a bird; closer to a harpy, but without the man-eating conotation, and not ugly, if you were using the later Greco-Roman tradition. Her whole body is still intact and rewound back to the days of her post-graduate diet and exercise regimen. So basically her, but with wings, and younger. So not a bird or harpy in any sense of those words.
For ninety to one-hundred twenty minutes out of her six to eight hours of sleep every night, she was a not-bird not-harpy younger winged Ava. For ninety to one-hundred twenty minutes every night, she was free.
A bird wakes her up. The bird, rather. It is the same bird that wakes her up every day. The same bird that was always on her windowsill. The same bird that would sit there and chirp at her every morning until she woke up.
This is Ava's alarm clock.
It is bl
Every night, when Ava sleeps, she dreams of being a bird. Only not exactly a bird; closer to a harpy, but without the man-eating conotation, and not ugly, if you were using the later Greco-Roman tradition. Her whole body is still intact and rewound back to the days of her post-graduate diet and exercise regimen. So basically her, but with wings, and younger. So not a bird or harpy in any sense of those words.
For ninety to one-hundred twenty minutes out of her six to eight hours of sleep every night, she was a not-bird not-harpy younger winged Ava. For ninety to one-hundred twenty minutes every night, she was free.
A bird wakes her up. The bird, rather. It is the same bird that wakes her up every day. The same bird that was always on her windowsill. The same bird that would sit there and chirp at her every morning until she woke up.
This is Ava's alarm clock.
It is bl
AnonDesu AnonDesu
10
43
Literature
723
time stops and suddenly everything begins
to sublimate.
it's finally over!
the world is now a great big commercial for
auto-insurance and banking,
you've never seen smiles like this;
and we're all of us leaving together like
funny neighborhood friends
and gracious gravity, so weary
loosens its ancient grip
and the final moment is a gift:
we ascend as a vast polychrome fleet
up, through an atmosphere that seems to shimmer
and sing
up, surrounded by all manner of things:
books and cars
newspapers, television sets, balloons,
and the finest works of art;
tigers, lions, bears; birds and
giant sea-turtles,
whales,
and all of our most secret weapons
up, like some kind of holy hail;
and the light grew brighter then
as we began to disappear.
to sublimate.
it's finally over!
the world is now a great big commercial for
auto-insurance and banking,
you've never seen smiles like this;
and we're all of us leaving together like
funny neighborhood friends
and gracious gravity, so weary
loosens its ancient grip
and the final moment is a gift:
we ascend as a vast polychrome fleet
up, through an atmosphere that seems to shimmer
and sing
up, surrounded by all manner of things:
books and cars
newspapers, television sets, balloons,
and the finest works of art;
tigers, lions, bears; birds and
giant sea-turtles,
whales,
and all of our most secret weapons
up, like some kind of holy hail;
and the light grew brighter then
as we began to disappear.
tonguebox tonguebox
7
17
Literature
I Tried To Ring -Metropolis-
I tried to ring, but the sky stole the message;
And a lady lay sleeping by a tower block,
Unaware of the colourless dream of the suit wearers,
As they stiff-nosed their blinkered way
Through their fickle offices,
Built on numbers and tired yawns.
A dreamless merchant will try,
But fail to realise the meaning,
And as the sleeping lady sleeps on,
The sun begins to sink on the city.
Back in the offices the computers hum and shine
Their dull mind-melting lights long into the cold night.
Failing light falling through the
Grey clouds on a grey scene,
The cold city silently screams as
Towering office blocks block the orange night sky.
There's no place to hide in here,
...no place to hide from here.
But still - "never more" and ever "false"
Lies the troubled news from abroad
- Of wars, of rape and death,
From far far away straight into our morning minds,
Where newspapers and radios seep across
Our breakfast tables like poisoned honey,
Spreading hysteria and worry
Like the fluttering wings of a
And a lady lay sleeping by a tower block,
Unaware of the colourless dream of the suit wearers,
As they stiff-nosed their blinkered way
Through their fickle offices,
Built on numbers and tired yawns.
A dreamless merchant will try,
But fail to realise the meaning,
And as the sleeping lady sleeps on,
The sun begins to sink on the city.
Back in the offices the computers hum and shine
Their dull mind-melting lights long into the cold night.
Failing light falling through the
Grey clouds on a grey scene,
The cold city silently screams as
Towering office blocks block the orange night sky.
There's no place to hide in here,
...no place to hide from here.
But still - "never more" and ever "false"
Lies the troubled news from abroad
- Of wars, of rape and death,
From far far away straight into our morning minds,
Where newspapers and radios seep across
Our breakfast tables like poisoned honey,
Spreading hysteria and worry
Like the fluttering wings of a
Paul-1485 Paul-1485
8
15
Literature
Time
The clock's arms spin before my eyes,
The sand falls through the glass.
I sit before my main room fire,
And let the hours pass.
The rain upon the window pours,
It patters through the drain.
My clock exclaims the time has come
To join my bed again.
Yet not a stir or move I make,
Perched upon my chair
And though the shadows come and go,
I still keep sitting there.
The sands still spin before my eyes.
The clock-hands through the glass.
I can no longer contemplate
The shadows that they cast.
The wind has blown my candle out
I sit here in the dark
My efforts and my life, I think
Have surely left a mark
A branch by now has broke the pane.
The rain's upon my head.
The clock and sand still fall and spin,
Not caring that I'm dead.
The sand falls through the glass.
I sit before my main room fire,
And let the hours pass.
The rain upon the window pours,
It patters through the drain.
My clock exclaims the time has come
To join my bed again.
Yet not a stir or move I make,
Perched upon my chair
And though the shadows come and go,
I still keep sitting there.
The sands still spin before my eyes.
The clock-hands through the glass.
I can no longer contemplate
The shadows that they cast.
The wind has blown my candle out
I sit here in the dark
My efforts and my life, I think
Have surely left a mark
A branch by now has broke the pane.
The rain's upon my head.
The clock and sand still fall and spin,
Not caring that I'm dead.
MatanArie MatanArie
8
17
Literature
Revolver in a Bag of Puppets
Revolver in a Bag of Puppets
For Christine Chubbuck
On a fiery July morning
your eyes opened with intention
to involve innocents
in a cold steel plot
detailed on pages
in the bowels of your briefcase
wishes birthed in solitude—
no light, no hope
Did your hands shake
as you buttoned your blouse?
Did your coffee
go cold in the cup?
Did your eggs
burn in the pan?
Did you think of the children
watching that day,
as the camera's eye
transmitted your pain live in color?
A thirty-eight caliber Smith and Wesson
drawn from a shopping bag full of puppets
One shot
fired behind the right ear
Your head
slammed against the desk
Dead
calm
Screens faded to black
control panels fell dark
Eyes aghast
in silent horror
Your final statement
against the sensationalism you detested
Irony articulated
through a tempest of permanence
Your sorrow felt
like bombs over paradise
============================
COPYRIGHT 2014, William Barker
All my work has copyrights
with the Library of Congress.
For Christine Chubbuck
On a fiery July morning
your eyes opened with intention
to involve innocents
in a cold steel plot
detailed on pages
in the bowels of your briefcase
wishes birthed in solitude—
no light, no hope
Did your hands shake
as you buttoned your blouse?
Did your coffee
go cold in the cup?
Did your eggs
burn in the pan?
Did you think of the children
watching that day,
as the camera's eye
transmitted your pain live in color?
A thirty-eight caliber Smith and Wesson
drawn from a shopping bag full of puppets
One shot
fired behind the right ear
Your head
slammed against the desk
Dead
calm
Screens faded to black
control panels fell dark
Eyes aghast
in silent horror
Your final statement
against the sensationalism you detested
Irony articulated
through a tempest of permanence
Your sorrow felt
like bombs over paradise
============================
COPYRIGHT 2014, William Barker
All my work has copyrights
with the Library of Congress.
PursuingTheCerberus PursuingTheCerberus
124
100
Literature
My Sweet William
He was a sage amongst the cruelty of the grape-vine; my Persian candy-tuft. His fingers brushed my touch-me-nots, as my hands absent-mindedly grazed his hairy balls. He whispered promises as if the star of Bethlehem, in every movement of his body. The language was ripe, sweet, and overcoming, reminding me of my youth now many ages ago, discovering pleasure with my mother's bluebottle. My eyes rolled back, my breath heavy upon my sweet William's skin. He fluttered me like no other, with a gentle ravishing of my common box. No one else could make me pine for touch, and pink with tender, honest emotions such as this.
I was lost, drowning in the enthusiasm, even if this marked how we would spend the next few months, bidding farewell-to-spring, his fingers tangled in my maiden-hair. We were wet, soaked with each other's saliva crusting and drying up our faces. The passion was too great, as he stole kisses roughly using his dragon's tongue, his golden rod penetrating my red ribbon
I was lost, drowning in the enthusiasm, even if this marked how we would spend the next few months, bidding farewell-to-spring, his fingers tangled in my maiden-hair. We were wet, soaked with each other's saliva crusting and drying up our faces. The passion was too great, as he stole kisses roughly using his dragon's tongue, his golden rod penetrating my red ribbon
HowellDiAmorosi HowellDiAmorosi
4
19
Literature
We Were Made For Each Other
Artificial intelligence has made its leaps and bounds in the world of science. It is a thing of beauty, to be able to speak to a computer and have it competently speak back. It wasn't like the old days when you'd say a simple hello and simultaneously, the motherboard would begin to fry and the screen would ripple until it began to weep liquid crystal.
I told the professors that I would make it work. I would make it so we could win every war and replace the failing factories with capable machines. Using the rewired brain of a former co-worker, I laboured night and day, soldering wires and programming parts of what others grew to dub my 'child.' I felt that naming him after my old friend would leave me emotionally attached to the project. After all, he was the one who told me this was all possible. His brain would enable the machine to think as a human, but it would not know of its former life.
I told the professors that I would make it work. I would make it so we could win every war and replace the failing factories with capable machines. Using the rewired brain of a former co-worker, I laboured night and day, soldering wires and programming parts of what others grew to dub my 'child.' I felt that naming him after my old friend would leave me emotionally attached to the project. After all, he was the one who told me this was all possible. His brain would enable the machine to think as a human, but it would not know of its former life.
laurotica laurotica
11
29
Literature
Solitude
He is now an old man (a very old man), and he is now very lonely (so very, very lonely). His wife is fifteen years dead. His children are grown, with their own families and jobs and small catastrophes. They don't bother to see him much. Some call, short little spaces in time. Hi Dad, how are you and meaningless chatter about the weather. It is a simple life he lives, filled with memories of dancing girls and root beer floats and high school dances. He sits in his empty house and paints visions before his eyes.
Anna comes the most, stopping by every week or so with her small daughter trailing behind her like a lost puppy. Her name is Lucy and she looks like his late wife, all blonde curls and gangly limbs, though Anna's dark eyes and thin mouth are after his own. Lucy plays with old toys while Anna putters around, washing dishes and folding wrinkled laundry and berating him for not taking better care of the place, of himself. She never could sit still, that girl, always a flurry of moti
Anna comes the most, stopping by every week or so with her small daughter trailing behind her like a lost puppy. Her name is Lucy and she looks like his late wife, all blonde curls and gangly limbs, though Anna's dark eyes and thin mouth are after his own. Lucy plays with old toys while Anna putters around, washing dishes and folding wrinkled laundry and berating him for not taking better care of the place, of himself. She never could sit still, that girl, always a flurry of moti
bangingonkeyboards bangingonkeyboards
18
25
Literature
strawberries
drops of rain explode
into colors on your outstretched hands,
blossoming as roses
like bright ripe strawberries.
and when you roam enchanted gardens,
nothing is ever as it seems…
one moment a blade of grass
and the next one of many feathers
on the wing of a bird
about to take flight.
no matter how you try
gravity is wiser,
and you are bound to come down from the clouds.
millions of heartbeats like yours
all search for the same thing
and will find each other someday.
into colors on your outstretched hands,
blossoming as roses
like bright ripe strawberries.
and when you roam enchanted gardens,
nothing is ever as it seems…
one moment a blade of grass
and the next one of many feathers
on the wing of a bird
about to take flight.
no matter how you try
gravity is wiser,
and you are bound to come down from the clouds.
millions of heartbeats like yours
all search for the same thing
and will find each other someday.
AmazingGlideh AmazingGlideh
31
42
|
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Writing Resources
Comments
Thanks for requesting my poem!!
Thank you very much for requesting my work!
Thank you for the request 
Thank you for allowing me into the group
Thanks a lot for accept my poem 13. My English is not too good 
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