Featuring Writing that Moves Me

11 min read

Deviation Actions

UntamedUnwanted's avatar
By
UntamedUnwanted
Published:
5.6K Views
I have spent so much time on deviantart lately, and partly because I have discovered some really stunning work on here. I thought that I may share a few of these gems I have discovered today in this feature. :) 

:thumb362623441: :thumb391470576: :thumb243834981: Autumn's dance"The autumn leaves dance
Merrily, while the wind sings
Of their glory days." The Significance of Tolling Bells and Tearseach toll of the bell signified another hour gone, wasted
away, dashed from the pages of life—lost within its heady
sands b l o w i n g through the desert winds dampened only by
falling tears—splashes of salted water, nourishment for parched
throats stagnant with the aching illness of pain; overwhelming
sensory glands with acute thuds [pulsing throbs] against flaking
skin, cracking under the scorching sun—beaming rays catching
foolhardy thoughts established in heat-induced mania, time
slowly passing by while trudging steps searched for the way out of
the forest—refusing to admit the only way out was the same thing
that made tears fall, ever closer to the ground…until…eyes close,
fluttering shut with tired strokes—tears leaking for one last time;
desert sands, inescapable heat taking the life of yet another whose
bells have finally stopped tolling; another whose tears fall no more.
Scattered StarscapesThin cloud fingers
stretch across the moon; Scorpio's
tail curls toward dawn. wild thingsthere are days i
want to run with wolves.
to howl at the stars because
the moon has never done
anything for me, and swallow roses
like their thorns never
existed.
but this cage -
it seems there's no way
out,
and i fear it's
too
deep
down
for anyone to hear me.
life is just a zoo full of
all our monsters, and
[it's our fault] we
can't stop
feeding them. Actualitywhen I was young, I wanted
to be a punk rocker
metal holes lining my body like
trophies of war, hair teased
and bleached and styled for hours
on end until  it looked effortless,
inked up with words and symbols
I swore were profound with
a cigarette hanging lazily
from my fingers, lonely
for a reason
   (and he told me, sweetie,
   you are like a fucking eclipse,
   the bloody dawn  
   God plagued us with
   I always wondered
   if mistakes understood
   the reason they
   came to be in this world
 I guess not).
The Rules of FlyingThe Rules of Flying:
No#1: Don’t Fly Too High:
If you allow yourself to achieve a great height, there will only be enough air left for you to fall. Stay at a constant pace, don’t allow your head to float above the clouds.
Another juxtaposing comment upon rule 1 of flying, do not fly too close to the ground, to let creatures pull you down.
No#2: Avoid Trees:
While flying to your destination, many obstacles may get in your way, clipping a few branches may be fine for you depending on your strength. But always avoid the trunks of these obstacles, they will end your flight abruptly and you may not reach your destination in one piece.
This also applies to aeroplanes and other birds.
No#3: Don’t Flap Your Wings Too Much:
Although flapping your wings is necessary to achieve the height you require to succeed and complete your flight. Flapping unnecessarily only leaves you too tired to complete your journey.
Remember to flap your wings only when needed. Do not let another bird Cosmic SymphonyThe notes build up deep within you
burning at your core
snaking through your veins until your skin hums red-hot with fire.
They say the sun is hottest
when you are just barely out of reach.
It is there you shall ignite.
But if I managed
to slip past your blistering corona
past the halo of light that surrounds you -
and stroke your scorching surface
would I find the right
to burn with you?
And maybe
I could learn to play you
like the instrument you are.
Helios, god of the sun,
your surface shudders with sound,
melodious vibrations
unfit for such ears as mine.
Yet still I wonder what you would sound like
if my hands would not Everything I Needed To KnowEverything I Needed To Know
 
You said nothing, which says everything. :thumb390286003: :thumb383889670:
It is 9 in the afternoon& I have forgotten
how to write in poetics-
tongue kissed & gaping like
a siren missing from her sea.
I have been coughing up black
for days.  Unable to clean the taste
from my mouth, these broken
typewriter keys sewn into my
fingertips scream something fierce.
They ache with longing
to tell of a story
that left them
for a better high
years ago
a story that never deserved
to make a home under the skin,
to crawl breech through an
unsuspecting womb.
-& out through the wrists
of young girls much too ripe
to fall from their beds.
I am so damn tired
of looking over railings
& wondering what
it would feel like
to fall. the gospel of two amreading collab with your-methamphetamine - http://sta.sh/0mk0ri4ja0a
I.
I believed in unconditional love
until the conditions of the loved
built a wall to stop the flood of me.
maybe I did want you to drown
in something warm and good because
I am the blessed choking scarf:
a much needed reminder of 
how sweet breathing is.
II.
you realize something
in being the best person you can be 
to someone and that is:
perfection
means being alone.
don't let anyone call you perfect--
simply a compliment tying the noose.
it is the seemingly flawless 
who off themselves
most successfully.
sometimes
they want to be
perceived broken
so they may be loved
and nothing is more broken
(nor loved)
than the dead.
III.
my chloroform love
is the reason you can't breathe.
I am the smotherer
working to unsmother you.
IV.
goodbye now, so you may breathe
and appreciate the ability to do so--
for the perfect are sacrificial lambs.
the silence in my swift departure sways. The Woman in WhiteI hear the singing of pen and ink
when the doors scare away the voices and names,
the outside world teaching lessons I never wished to learn.
I've always been water in a world of oil,
repelled without malice or vicious intent.
Why can’t they see that these fresh tears are for them, not me.
So I tell them secrets when they can't hear me, secrets to keep the dark away,
this shapeless face of death blossoming in my bosom.
A face I've known for long enough to love
but never long enough to know, takes over
when I cloak myself in white.
So there stands the window, to my soul and the world.
My truest words come alive on summer afternoons and I know
but the knowing is strange and tells me only lies,
leaving me to turn to a future,
unknown. On Wanting Everything to Be RightYou got too comfortable,
forgot he could make mistakes,
and set your consciousness aside
so he could mend the thoughts
which have remained disordered
in your fumbling sobriety,
despite the years of learning to cope
with the pace of regularity:
scraping the mailbox with his key,
dining out every Sunday,
setting the thermostat to sixty degrees,
and changing despite every effort
to remain apathetic about his plans,
how your name became a constant
in his living equations,
the variable which defined the function.
On the morning you leave,
only your luggage and body will move
through the summer shadows
of oak leaves shaking in a breeze,
and only your barest senses
will know the satisfaction of hearing
his footsteps behind yours,
cicadas composing another song,
a car door slamming shut,
the engine firing up,
though your muscle memory isn't enough
to bring you peace or independence,
money or place or dignity.
When you turn onto Justamere Road,
you'll picture the nightstand
on your side of the :thumb391754773:
:thumb387685002: :thumb391212478: Constellations of scars01-
There’s something restful about death,
She clicked the pen back, ink smudges mirroring her thin, pianist fingertips dotted along the shiny blue plastic. It had been so long since she’d written anything more than reports or letters, and now she was to keep a diary- or a journal, as her therapist had called it. Thick, uneven moleskin had been her first choice, but now it was tainted with unclear words and this didn’t sit well with her in the slightest. Clicking her tongue, she set to work writing what could only be called a figment of her imagination.
it’s like we’re music, finite events to only be considered beauty
when we’re here and then gone, a thread of memory without reason
when one closes one’s eyes. but could you perhaps tell me-
how do you see behind closed eyes- better yet,
what do you see behind closed eyes?
---
For a month, I'll write a letter almost every day. Some of those lett

I hope you enjoy them as much as I have. :hug:


© 2013 - 2024 UntamedUnwanted
Comments32
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
NotenSMSK's avatar
NotenSMSK
Thank you very much for the feature :tighthug: it makes my work special.