50% off for a limited time!

Get Core

Theme

Display Mature Content

Suppress AI Content

Get Help and Send Feedback

literature

playacting

Deviation Actions

Aquarius-Claire

Published: Feb 11, 2013

328 Views

Literature Text

it wasn’t over. hell it wasn’t
even dry. the paint, i mean. the day
was dry as fingernails. i don’t know why i have always
hated saturdays. something in the ends of poems
always made me feel unnerved. how many pots will
it take to keep me flying off the handle.
how many rooms you have raped with your eyes.

Astra 11-45.bs

BitterSweets-TX

$1.25

100

Download

More by Aquarius-Claire

Literature

not a 12 part poem

the man on the bench had a laugh like an empty can of paint falling down the stairs. that means i liked him. i liked a lot of people then, it kept me warm. that november i was awake if only inside of my own head. my friends and i had a candle made out of an altoids tin and it kept us warm. i kept it in my pocket even though it got so hot it almost burned. i kept it in my pocket even still. everyone wanted to see the tunnels we had found behind the buildings. we took them to the tunnels. the can of paint rattled around inside of my head, the man was laughing over and over again, we found a tunnel behind a building, and a candle to keep us wa

Recommended Literature

Literature

chill 2.0

friday night vibes are a dialogue between streetlamp and sidewalk. i am the strobe and i spin again, bullet-mouthed, and so you tell me to bite down. you, you reason, are a good enough explanation, expectations entrenched insinuations undressed on earth that feels too much like paper. you, you reason, are good enough for a lulling conversation, consolations congregating up there for your consideration up there with your condescension condescension, condescension— this is your slipping confession? no. this is the slip into heavy summer when bitter winds still bite you softer than i ever could. this is the saturdays and sundays eating i

Literature

Memories

We have all the time in the world... Except not really, do we? We have less than a year Less than a breath Less than a thought And I've been doing a lot of thinking: Thinking about the future (which makes my stomach hurt) Thinking about the present (which makes my stomach hurt) Thinking about you (which makes my stomach--) Thinking enough to be considered dangerous Because historically, thoughts and ideas are dangerous Thoughts lead to ideas lead to words lead to change And I don't want things to change... ...except that's a lie. I want things to change. I want this...this thing This intangible feeling This tangible energy I want it all to

Literature

on the cusp

it is just that when i let go of you when i let go it's hard to remain that perfect without you. -- the in-between of love, buds- so full of potential our love is written in whispers on the pages of a book which has not yet been opened. -- that day, the sun had erased the last lines of an unforgiving winter from my skin, i was renewed olive skinned and feeling as if i had just fled the eternal garden naked as i came- free, fallen. -- the sky was dark; nothing but the blood red smile of the moon cut through the transient darkness of the night.

Suggested Collections

Stories and Poems

Literature

My Life Story Isn't A Poem

This is what it feels like to crumble down in a blazing squall. You are muffled gunshots wrecking yourself in high speed collision with his brass armor. You compress every eruption by choking ashes and swallowing shatter glasses because god forbid you are a frostbitten girl with hitched breath and messed up mascara and god forbid you are explosive and god forbid you crumble down because no, you are an inspiration and you are clenched fist and sculpted chest, you are concrete and you are statue, you are the ice cold dusk and YOU DON

Literature

Why Books Suck

Let me write you a story of all you want to hear. Of intercourse and romance, drugs and beer. Of simple plots and story devices, where no thinking is required. I'll even make it into a series, everything you've desired. Pick it up in the middle, why not? It's all the same. So-and-so get together, there's sex on every page. It's the best story in the world, and it only took me six days! Don't worry about morals, there's none to be learned. If you hate life-long lessons, then enjoy every word. The characters are flat with the basic of descriptions, with no voice of their own. If one dies, no tears will be shed, there's another just arou

Literature

to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub.

i. to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub: in the magazine I own that published your story, they blurred out the crime scene photographs, erasing your face and the full curves of your breasts. some part of me wonders if you would have wanted this, or if you would have liked for the public to see you in your final moments, half-soaked in grey-looking water, your hair in strings, glued to the porcelain, eyes closed and mouth gaping, no breath stirring, no bubbles rising. ii. sometimes when I look into the depths of my bathroom sink, I hear your voice (or what I imagine it to be-- after all, we never met). you sit on the edge

Poetry to Be Read Repeatedly

Literature

Ribcage

The cage in my chest is more that just a rack of bones encasing my heart and lungs. It is as strong as iron bars- a self made prison where I am the jailbird, The demons are the guards, My Id is the warden. My past is a weapon that my captors taunt me with, Jabbing through the bars and piercing my heart. They mock my attempts to be humble and belittle my desire for repentance. They sneer at me when I pray for forgiveness of my sins. It is always one step forward, two steps back. I was too young when I put myself in this prison, And now I am too old

Literature

Ring of Fire

Where Fire and Earth meet We are molten, tectonic Dancing the interface, frisson subsonic My solid foundation, floor of the ocean Your underlying perpetual motion Fluid dynamic, abyssal plummet Twine, combine to fulminant summit Convergent, we build Transforming, we change My coastal tsunami Your mountain range Together we are megalithic, volcanic Irresistible force, magnetic, galvanic.

Literature

December 17th 2015 (Black Dog)

The black dog wakens Snapping and snarling at me So it’s time to run Though I won’t be fast enough Truth is I’m never enough Cause that old black dog He’s been hunting me for years And he knows my tricks Every which way I might turn That old dog is there for me I can feel its jaws Yeah they’re pressing on down My ribs start to crack And my heart, it starts to tear Cause I think my time has come And that old black dog is there

3 years & 4 hours & the starry night hasn't stitched itself back up just yet. maybe next year when i have rebuilt my legs again from shambles. maybe then, then, then.