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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
April 3, 2011
The suggester writes: snowbones by =wish-sticks is incredibly well-written and intense, feeding the reader images that are both horrific and hopeful. The entire poem is a brilliant metaphor for life in general.
(Suggested by =bowie-loon123 on behalf of *Dailylitdeviations)
Featured by Halatia
Literature Text
holding my hands over the kettle
the skin on my fingertips peels back,
like dated wallpaper,
like flowers blooming.
they're burning from the inside out,
nails turning to varnish, turning to steam,
bones click-clacking their way out;
spreading like wildfire.
the whistling stops, and
blink
and my fingers are just fingers,
ink stained, bitten nails.
sunlight streams across the kitchen,
my fingers warm and
slightly damp, i trace patterns on
steamed-up windows.
the skin on my fingertips peels back,
like dated wallpaper,
like flowers blooming.
they're burning from the inside out,
nails turning to varnish, turning to steam,
bones click-clacking their way out;
spreading like wildfire.
the whistling stops, and
blink
and my fingers are just fingers,
ink stained, bitten nails.
sunlight streams across the kitchen,
my fingers warm and
slightly damp, i trace patterns on
steamed-up windows.
Literature
distinction
This is what I cannot understand.
There is an understanding that nothing is ever black and white. Good can be achieved through bad means, what's wrong can sometimes be right, and if you turn right for long enough, you eventually go left. Boys can be girls who fall in love with girls who sometimes think they are boys and the lines between everything end up irreversibly blurred.
Or so I've always thought.
But this is a line that cannot be blurred. This is the only remaining clear-cut line that separates black from white as perfectly as a color wheel. And that is the fact that everything is until it isn't. We are until we aren't. We breathe u
Literature
Older
Time is a lonely bastard child. I know
how it feels.
I explore the spaces inside, moist hollows
where the angels once worked
their mischief. Strange
what you can grow accustomed to. I probe
the old scar tissue: smooth, numb
in places. I imagine I can feel
their shades, tactile afterimages: a zombie
reflex, a longing
for a longing. It pulls
at the center of my chest.
I miss the certainty of need.
I examine new possibilities, take
steps, show interest, craft a proposition,
cut a book deal. I have always been honest,
good
for others, even at my worst. I read. I write.
I observe, offer advice. Business is easy
to come by.
I have my way with w
Literature
The Sea
When you make the two one, you will become the Sons of Adam, and when you say, 'Mountain, move away,' it will move away.
Thomas 106: 1-2
Thumos
When I returned to town, I heard the stories:
That you'd walked the oak path,
And past the angel with the flaming sword;
Beneath the river,
Behind the trees
And through a pantheon
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
My example entry for #prompt-o-matic's prompt this week:
STEAM.
Go check it out!
OHMYGODWHAT
THANK YOU EVERYONE WHO HAS OR IS ABOUT TO FAVE THIS
I CAN'T EVEN HOW HAPPY I AM RIGHT NOW.
STEAM.
Go check it out!
OHMYGODWHAT
THANK YOU EVERYONE WHO HAS OR IS ABOUT TO FAVE THIS
I CAN'T EVEN HOW HAPPY I AM RIGHT NOW.
Comments137
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Amazing! Such a well deserved daily deviation.