ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
I took your adjectives for granted. There was something about the way you skipped over your 's'es and gleaned over your 'i's and 'e's, that never really made me want to kiss you. You'd sit there with your languid fingers clutching a book that was half finished, and read me words that were completely mispronounced. It would prickle me under my skin and I would grit my teeth, wondering when you would stop. I would never understand the english language you thought you spoke, and your confidence in your own words annoyed me.
It was comical when you spoke in front of our friends. Your mistaken pronunciation of the word 'pronunciation' in particular made them giggle. I would stand in a corner, clutching a glass of rum and coke and cringe, flushing in second hand embarrassment. You would smile at me from across the room, and continue with your tangled tongue as though nothing was wrong.
I felt sorry for you. But not sorry enough when you took your favourite writing pen from my desk, your dog eared thesaurus and left my apartment for the last time. I would lie if I said I wasn't relieved for the respite from mistaken english and broken words.
It took them screaming at each other next door, the rejection letter arriving, my finger joints beginning to ache for me to realise; I missed your easy enunciation of the word 'beautiful', the crescendo in 'adoration' and yes, even the fluidity in 'talented'. The way your fingers curved at the typewriter, now made me misunderstand my own at the keyboard of a computer.*
I called you today, and you told me she is an English Major, and she loves you most when you argue with your vowels.
You always did speak a language I would never be wise enough to understand.
It was comical when you spoke in front of our friends. Your mistaken pronunciation of the word 'pronunciation' in particular made them giggle. I would stand in a corner, clutching a glass of rum and coke and cringe, flushing in second hand embarrassment. You would smile at me from across the room, and continue with your tangled tongue as though nothing was wrong.
I felt sorry for you. But not sorry enough when you took your favourite writing pen from my desk, your dog eared thesaurus and left my apartment for the last time. I would lie if I said I wasn't relieved for the respite from mistaken english and broken words.
It took them screaming at each other next door, the rejection letter arriving, my finger joints beginning to ache for me to realise; I missed your easy enunciation of the word 'beautiful', the crescendo in 'adoration' and yes, even the fluidity in 'talented'. The way your fingers curved at the typewriter, now made me misunderstand my own at the keyboard of a computer.*
I called you today, and you told me she is an English Major, and she loves you most when you argue with your vowels.
You always did speak a language I would never be wise enough to understand.
*I wish most I had remembered the perfect D shape your arm made, when I rested my head on it.
Literature
To be a writer
You taste like decaying leaves
and October's bad habits-
when it’s halfway through February
that still haunts these bones.
I have allowed you to
claw your love
into my arms
and chant into my
uninterested ears
for much too long.
I wish I was one of those girls
who could say wild flowers
grow up through my nooks
and my crannies just to tear
through my skin, screaming.
I’m just that dead eyed deer
on the side of the road dreaming
of shoving a pen down my throat
and writing these verses inside out.
I am no scribe, prophet, or spell caster.
I know it.
My skin knows it.
My pen knows it too.
Years and years
from now
my mind will d
Literature
You should never attack a poet,
we are the best at exploiting weakness.
the night you took a scalpel to my chest
& fed my heart to the stars,
you told me i could hate you
if i needed to.
with an exorcism
i tried to cast you out
of my body.
i was contorted limbs:
the language of tongues
trying to find myself
in the cosmos
of lit kerosene fingertips,
& the kinds of habits
that only choke me at 3am -
when my eyes aren’t yet heavy
enough for sleep;
my mind tells me to do awful things.
between fucking &
i-don’t-know-who-i-am-
anymore,
you are the calories
in the mathematical equation
scribbled &
scratched out
of me.
i think of shy moons
an
Literature
God called in sick today
God called in sick today,
and the sky is dancing.
People walked hand in hand
singing in tune with the damned.
Running without stories
‘this is what tragedy feels like’
dead is the new alive
but misery loves company.
Racing with the devil
one doesn't dare stop against
the lord of the damned
he laughs against the concrete.
Can one play with madness
as they dance on clouds of mind?
Heavens a lie when butterflies are flying in hurricanes
And God takes a day off.
Wasted time throwing rocks at stars
souls refuse their eternal rest
they drink a cup of galaxy for breakfast
hymn of the shameless.
Obsession is an ugly word.
When d
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
Sometimes people take something for granted, hate it and then figure that was the thing they love most after all.
www.facebook.com/pages/Untamed… - general facebookery
© 2013 - 2024 UntamedUnwanted
Comments72
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
The lament of a Grammar Nazi...