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Literature Text
It comes and goes
like an unwelcome houseguest,
leaving me with messes I don't need,
and it never shuts the door
to keep the cold out.
I tried shutting off the lights
and closing the blinds,
twisting the key in the padlock
and boarding the windows,
but as long as light can
seep through the cracks,
this shadow will follow
and dig its fingers into my shoulders.
I bruise easily, it knows,
and it revels in watching
me shift in discomfort
while it grips me.
Like a ghost,
it won't let go.
like an unwelcome houseguest,
leaving me with messes I don't need,
and it never shuts the door
to keep the cold out.
I tried shutting off the lights
and closing the blinds,
twisting the key in the padlock
and boarding the windows,
but as long as light can
seep through the cracks,
this shadow will follow
and dig its fingers into my shoulders.
I bruise easily, it knows,
and it revels in watching
me shift in discomfort
while it grips me.
Like a ghost,
it won't let go.
Literature
and even so, you stayed
I taste rain on your lips
and I know you’ve been
writing poetry again.
I breathe into the touch
of your fingers
cascading in a soft scale
down the cage of bones
around my heartbeat.
you kiss me
knowing
the colors that drift
in my mind
like water beneath
all the bridges that were
burned for me
and you stay.
Literature
What Things Cost
What Things Cost the best things in life are the farthest thing from free; they cost everything i know this as i wake up, aching in the same position we eased back down to earth in; powering down, still entangled we do adjust, eventually, but not away and i focus just long enough into the dark, to realize that we still have a few hours left to sleep here, the rise and fall of your breath, against me slows time, fogs my ability to fear anything but its departure and i know the act of making memories like these only defers the pooling pain of the present deeper into the trench into the dark seafloor mix of distorted time and the lost lonely continents that, in their descent, left behind the very same spirit and power vacuums we’ve settled into i know a day is brewing below that will one day rise to strike me down, like the earth pounds a single raindrop into mist i know little, yet, of what things cost, little, but enough to not let go
Literature
grow
To the dandelion,
In this part of the world,
the heart of July is frigid.
Frost renders the clay-earth firm as concrete
while gusts from the snowies
raze any hope of warmth.
Things do not thrive here,
yet this is where fate cast your seed
and you, unwillingly, grew your roots,
and became mangled
by what should have nurtured.
But spoiler alert:
survival is no pretty thing.
You are no spring tulip,
no summer orchid,
no autumn rose.
Though it shames you now,
the day will come
where you are proud
of having grown
out of a crack in pavement.
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Because, as someone told me, recovery isn't a straight line. But I know that hurt doesn't last forever, it can't.
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This unwelcome guest has come calling again....