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Description
this is a small sample of a vast collection of wonderful pieces of literature by fantastic writers. each deviation was carefully selected from a writer's gallery based on structure, impact and word usage. i try (try!) to feature deviants who get less spotlight than others and i will never feature the same person twice.

please take the time to read through each one - seriously, it takes five minutes - and be sure to the journal! (:

meltingshe spilled across her bed,
an oil-spill of excuses why.

they promised they would mop her up,
but how could she possibly believe them
when none of them could see the
oil that dripped out of her?

they were all blind to
the stain eating her up,
polluting her insides.

the pain, the ache,
the never ending cycle of
pretending she was okay.
if only to prevent a national
disaster.
the greatest writer that has ever lived.hundreds of books backwards, sideways, upside down
letters written but never sent
wasted stamps and smudged pen ink
boxes made into bookcases
coffee mugs used as paperweights
don't turn on the oven -- there are more books in there
poetry and memoirs kept within
collections of pens and pencils found on street corners
promising that "this is going to be the latest best-selling classic"
i am a novelist, a poet, an artist
a reader of love letters i've wanted to receive
and of prose that i've wanted to write

i am the greatest writer that has ever lived. May you find silence in every stormReflection is a clingy whore, and September
is an incoherent borderline who flees
courageously from permanent stories.
I have not forgotten how to suck
the charcoal clouds out of the sky,
how to dream fevers out of lullaby,
or how to force the synapses of spirits.
On the way home, I stopped to consider the music of the rustling fountain
and the leaves shooting water in the breeze.

And I knew love by the pitch of the owl's hoot,
I knew soul by the order of the hornet's stripe.

They wanted an apology from her.
Shannon, they said, you broke the fucking universe.
And before I could stop twitching electricity
from spitting neutrinos

Mature Content

:thumb307259862: For the Man Who One Day Holds My HeartI want to be your Summer girl,
peaches, sunshine,
and August thunder.

I want to be the Autumn hearted,
colorful and always falling,
vibrant.

And I could be your Winter bride,
clean and innocent,
blushing on the snow,

while my spirit smelled of Spring,
smiling with the lilacs,
every kiss a crocus.

We'd be more than seasonal lovers,
but steadfast as the years and
ever-dancing with the Earth. nostalgianostalgia is for the things i never had;

for summer days spent in blooming fields
instead of empty lots,
for moments under a careful eye
and hands that were callused but never rough;
they say a boy's first love is his mother,
but i preferred my father, maybe wrongly because children

love with their heart and not their mind,
they think in bold patterns,
and i return to those days when i traced the sidewalks
in tattered shoes,
when i hummed songs in a language i've half-forgotten;
i still dream in spanish and

i have nostalgia for wire, for mariachi music,
for boats and afternoons that never ended,
for the fairwe never we
:thumb294560529: :thumb315796236:

ps. my thanks to touristEYES for helping with my FANTASTIC title. hah. it's really cheesy

+fav — Description
this is a small sample of a vast collection of wonderful pieces of literature by fantastic writers. each deviation was carefully selected from a writer's gallery based on structure, impact and word usage. i try (try!) to feature deviants who get less spotlight than others and i will never feature the same person twice.

please take the time to read through each one - seriously, it takes five minutes - and be sure to the journal! (:

meltingshe spilled across her bed,
an oil-spill of excuses why.

they promised they would mop her up,
but how could she possibly believe them
when none of them could see the
oil that dripped out of her?

they were all blind to
the stain eating her up,
polluting her insides.

the pain, the ache,
the never ending cycle of
pretending she was okay.
if only to prevent a national
disaster.
the greatest writer that has ever lived.hundreds of books backwards, sideways, upside down
letters written but never sent
wasted stamps and smudged pen ink
boxes made into bookcases
coffee mugs used as paperweights
don't turn on the oven -- there are more books in there
poetry and memoirs kept within
collections of pens and pencils found on street corners
promising that "this is going to be the latest best-selling classic"
i am a novelist, a poet, an artist
a reader of love letters i've wanted to receive
and of prose that i've wanted to write

i am the greatest writer that has ever lived. May you find silence in every stormReflection is a clingy whore, and September
is an incoherent borderline who flees
courageously from permanent stories.
I have not forgotten how to suck
the charcoal clouds out of the sky,
how to dream fevers out of lullaby,
or how to force the synapses of spirits.
On the way home, I stopped to consider the music of the rustling fountain
and the leaves shooting water in the breeze.

And I knew love by the pitch of the owl's hoot,
I knew soul by the order of the hornet's stripe.

They wanted an apology from her.
Shannon, they said, you broke the fucking universe.
And before I could stop twitching electricity
from spitting neutrinos

Mature Content

:thumb307259862: For the Man Who One Day Holds My HeartI want to be your Summer girl,
peaches, sunshine,
and August thunder.

I want to be the Autumn hearted,
colorful and always falling,
vibrant.

And I could be your Winter bride,
clean and innocent,
blushing on the snow,

while my spirit smelled of Spring,
smiling with the lilacs,
every kiss a crocus.

We'd be more than seasonal lovers,
but steadfast as the years and
ever-dancing with the Earth. nostalgianostalgia is for the things i never had;

for summer days spent in blooming fields
instead of empty lots,
for moments under a careful eye
and hands that were callused but never rough;
they say a boy's first love is his mother,
but i preferred my father, maybe wrongly because children

love with their heart and not their mind,
they think in bold patterns,
and i return to those days when i traced the sidewalks
in tattered shoes,
when i hummed songs in a language i've half-forgotten;
i still dream in spanish and

i have nostalgia for wire, for mariachi music,
for boats and afternoons that never ended,
for the fairwe never we
:thumb294560529: :thumb315796236:

ps. my thanks to touristEYES for helping with my FANTASTIC title. hah. it's really cheesy