ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
fucking shit—
the Moon won't move from where it sits
and be that as it may,
attempt to wake for every day
you won't miss much if you sleep
but you'll regret it if you do
if you sacrifice your throat
for a faux fur coat
you'll find that singing
comes much easier to you
or if you live every day
between long legs and laughter
you'll find life's meaning
is only a pinprick away
you must be strong enough to give before you take
and if you can't, at least remember how to stay awake
little miss
realize this;
darling, the profane ain't always profound
sweetness, the profound will always be profane
and there's nothing that can win the war
like trading books for movies
and there's nothing that can win the world
like trading blood for gold
so if it comes
let it come in waves
so if it leaves,
let it paint our caves
and if the Moon's a drunken bastard
who hasn't washed it's hair in years
just let it's slurred proverbs paint your nails
and pretend to listen, if all else fails
don't worry about "The Sun Won't Shine Again"
because it will, so eat your fill
leave this land
while you still can;
while you still have a mouth to taste and a belly to stuff,
burn your poems and paintings and precious things
bond with the icy cliffs of Pluto; they're a wise old man
who tells stories from a time before airline peanuts
so then you'll never lose
the what of what you were
always test yourself
—stretch your smile as far as it can go
intertwine the hum of the Sun with an alien's brass bones
and drag life's limbs across many maps and many, many more Moons
the Moon won't move from where it sits
and be that as it may,
attempt to wake for every day
you won't miss much if you sleep
but you'll regret it if you do
if you sacrifice your throat
for a faux fur coat
you'll find that singing
comes much easier to you
or if you live every day
between long legs and laughter
you'll find life's meaning
is only a pinprick away
you must be strong enough to give before you take
and if you can't, at least remember how to stay awake
little miss
realize this;
darling, the profane ain't always profound
sweetness, the profound will always be profane
and there's nothing that can win the war
like trading books for movies
and there's nothing that can win the world
like trading blood for gold
so if it comes
let it come in waves
so if it leaves,
let it paint our caves
and if the Moon's a drunken bastard
who hasn't washed it's hair in years
just let it's slurred proverbs paint your nails
and pretend to listen, if all else fails
don't worry about "The Sun Won't Shine Again"
because it will, so eat your fill
leave this land
while you still can;
while you still have a mouth to taste and a belly to stuff,
burn your poems and paintings and precious things
bond with the icy cliffs of Pluto; they're a wise old man
who tells stories from a time before airline peanuts
so then you'll never lose
the what of what you were
always test yourself
—stretch your smile as far as it can go
intertwine the hum of the Sun with an alien's brass bones
and drag life's limbs across many maps and many, many more Moons
Literature
Inside
I watched my best friend die.
It wasn't in a hospital and it wasn't an accident on some road somewhere. There's a saying, and I guess it's also… funny… how you never know what's going on behind closed doors.
I guess you're probably thinking of suicide - overdose, hanging by the rope, or (god forbid) the knife, but... it's not that.
Because it's one thing to die and it's another to die. I believe you can exist without properly living.
What is a life? We are born into this world with no say on the matter, and yet the majority of us take for granted that tomorrow we will wake up to another morning, another routine, another day in
Literature
Grandfather
I recall,
He was white.
But, not the
--"controversial at political dinner parties" and "this racist comment will cost him the election kind"--
Stark, snowy, riveting white.
His hair was always victim to the static that came from
resting against
the mountain of pillows that topped off his hospital bed.
He always lay there,
a beacon in the middle of the dark, mudd brown, living room.
I suppose it was hell to live the last of his life there,
but at six, I thought he was God,
living on a cloud that was Heaven.
I remember his warm hands, their blue lines, and their wrinkles,
the way his smile never met his eyes--
and his eyes said he
Literature
Why Peter is not a poet.
Cole is eleven. Age matters in October, when twelve is the only difference between the haunted hayride and the shelled corn sandbox. Age matters when a boy says the word "shit" in school (and Cole does). But age doesn't matter when the same boy has both sneakers dangling over the edge of a 250-foot grain silo, his hands sweaty on the rungs, the state of Nebraska breathing vacant and honeyed and infinite below him. For the first time in his life, Cole can't be quantified by the candles on his last birthday cake. Cole is young, but today, he is worth saving. Three facts about Col
Suggested Collections
(profane beginning is profound. 
)
it seems so stupid when people try to sacrifice themselves to get what they want. i mean, what use are these desires to you once you’ve obtained them if you no longer have a soul to see them with?
giving up is all fine and good, but betraying the skin that holds you here is another thing entirely.
)it seems so stupid when people try to sacrifice themselves to get what they want. i mean, what use are these desires to you once you’ve obtained them if you no longer have a soul to see them with?
giving up is all fine and good, but betraying the skin that holds you here is another thing entirely.
Comments2
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
There's so many little gems sprinkled through this. I've scrolled through it twice now trying to decide on a favourite bit, and it's impossible. Definitely well done.