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Literature Text
I’ve been told that
love is a rollercoaster,
that I am lucky
to be the type that cries
about dead pets and rising suns
(but it makes my heart sick and lungs sore:
grief like twisted driftwood and joy like soaring gulls,
my seas are too shallow to harbor such ambivalence).
love is a rollercoaster,
that I am lucky
to be the type that cries
about dead pets and rising suns
(but it makes my heart sick and lungs sore:
grief like twisted driftwood and joy like soaring gulls,
my seas are too shallow to harbor such ambivalence).
Literature
oppression.
Rebellion is a funny thing; being denied the right to something
simply makes it that much more tempting;
forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest, as the saying goes.
But what of oppression? What taste would that fruit have,
riddled with hatred and malevolence?
Would thorns sprout from it's surface, would the juice taste sour?
Would eyes water as the foulness of it burned our throats, and caused us to weep?
Our world is far from perfect, lights doused
by the hopeless tears of those whose suffering
God turned a blind eye to. Wealth equals power equals the ability to have your mistakes overlooked, swept under the rug so silently.
But when a y
Literature
fabled life
i.
she talks through her wrinkles,
'i have no desire for food', she says.
i take her plate to the kitchen
noticing how the beetroot shavings bled into the skin of the chicken and brown rice.
it was blood, skin, and bone,
and the rice was a million starlike cells floating between.
this reminds me of my anatomy textbook:
we've been learning what's beneath our skin,
we learned that all cells divide. some cells often don't stop dividing.
other cells divide and stop when they should...
but not my grandmother's.
starlike, they explode, they shatter, they consume
they divide.
ii.
i want to be mad at my grandmother's cells,
but what would that do?
i
Literature
Red Riding Hood
I want to believe people so badly when they say they won’t bite
that I contemplate climbing into their smiling jaws
thinking that it might be better to be split in two than left hanging.
But always, I draw my red hood and flit back into the forest
running in the shadows of pathways, never stepping into clearings
because I’ve spent my whole life in the wilderness
and I still can’t tell the wolves from the woodsmen.
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Comments1
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Loved that last part