on forcing passion. by littleblueraccoon, literature
Literature
on forcing passion.
imagine trees of tangerines,
heavy sagging suns on all the branches.
rip one down, introduce it to
vivisection
(though dead or alive, it
never cries out),
and
squeeze
until pulp like entrails
forces itself between your dripping fingers.
stare blankly at the mess
and attempt to clean it,
succeed only in
staining your clothes golden.
work the designs against your skin
until the mistakes become tattoos
and the rinds before you look
less like refuse and more like
fresh-hatched eggshells.
as the morning scent stings your senses,
reach up.
don't look,
just touch, and
rip down another.
and another.
and another.
a black hole (i.e. mirrored images) by A-Lovely-Anxiety, literature
Literature
a black hole (i.e. mirrored images)
face yourself in the mirror
red cheeked and smiling, have
you ever wondered why blush is just blood congealing
beneath the skin cells or rouge made of lead
my antithesis, my partner in crime
my faithful cut and dry, bone dry,
fish bones stuck in throat
you are my vocal chords twisted like ribosomes stuck in an internment of itself AN ANTITHESIS
or are you just the "i'm sorry" trying to crawl out my mouth
i'm just playing my part
Antigone
you say i'm just like your mother and you're right but fuck
i'm your lover
a replacement box lined with fuzzy peach navels and
naval ships crashing on shores
i'm tired of being your mom
i'm tired of cleaning
you're never hopeless by Tangled-Tales, literature
Literature
you're never hopeless
you tell me you feel hopeless
as you talk with tired eyes-
the sky drips with black pen ink
poured on crystal cosmic lights
your eyes become black vacuums-
your words turn to somber sighs,
and I ask you: on the darkest of nights,
have you ever seen a starless sky?
what does it feel like to be sober at a party? by Tangled-Tales, literature
Literature
what does it feel like to be sober at a party?
sometimes you want to spit out your teeth
because you’ve been grinding them so hard
under a diaphanous coating of crimson lipstick;
but you know the floors already freckled with confetti-
aluminum and glass and paper-
and the eburnean pearls tucked away in your mouth
are not able to be recycled
and sometimes it’s rivulets on the back of your neck,
droplets dripping like honey,
because the rooms heating up from people swarming like bees;
as your cheeks burgeon like crimson roses
your oversized sweater becomes your only source of safety-
maybe from the constant touch of others,
as they bump around like lost passengers at a train
Where's The Art, Deviantart? by AwsomeIsRed, literature
Literature
Where's The Art, Deviantart?
There are many forms of art,
But because of Deviantart,
It's all falling apart.
Because now the site,
Is for all drawers alike,
As they always get promoted,
While the other's are left behind.
But why is it right,
To ignore the rest,
Like Writers,
Photographers,
And even comic book Illustrators?
You raise the money,
For the core members,
Without even questioning,
Or giving us warnings.
And contests,
Are nothing more but for advertisement,
For a movie or game,
Because it makes money.
So before I end this poem,
I really need to know.
Will you accept our art,
Deviantart?