Theme

Display Mature Content

Suppress AI Content

literature

Senses

Deviation Actions

chromeantennae

Published: Aug 20, 2013

1.7K Views

Literature Text

Senses

Our senses never fail us, only our judgment.

Sleepwalking.

OliviaMichalski

$0.63

Download

More by chromeantennae

Literature

war

there is a war on on plastic on drugs on niggers on spics on chinks on redskins on faggots on health on life on death on on on{i} there is a war on on bitches on babies on poverty on viruses on oil on jesus on organs on institutions on life on death on on on{i}

Recommended Literature

Literature

Do Not Wake Me

Do not wake me from this sleep For it would disrupt my dream And do not force me to face The inevitability of reality For in this dream I am safe My fears and stress have been erased Everything is here as it should Even the horror has been replaced Waking me would break the glass Of the mirror I have forged That holds this false reality Of the perfection that I dream So with a hint of a smile Resting on my sleeping face I ask you from behind closed eyes To not wake me from this dream

Literature

Pain

I am in so much pain It hurts me every single day A piece of glass for my heart It too easily comes apart. Torn by hurtful words that came from you “Why do I breathe the same air you do?” My existence wavers on this Earth Soon will I become one with the dirt? No one ever seems to notice me Will I ever be set free? To be valued and noticed by you Is all I ever want to do. But I don’t know how much longer I can try to reconquer The space I once held in your heart While it turns more tart. With flowers on my grave This I dare say… “Keep your trivial love that tears so deep And my experience I shall keep. Here I s

Literature

(Un)wind

i could drink you like heavy sips from glass bottles (hesitant, shifting lips) you flicker like wax light, jackal-eyed girl but you will not bloom golden-plated

Suggested Collections

Poetry and Literature

Literature

Guilt that eats

Maybe I should have questioned why your teeth always chattered like fingers clicking on a typewriter, and why your fingernails looked as though faint, blue ink had bled through but who questions anything but hair, makeup, and boys at the age of sixteen and maybe I should have noticed the lunches you spent doing homework, or listening to music, as you gave away your lunch, because you said you were not hungry- and I silently thought more for me and maybe I should have wondered why you walked through the hallways with pockets of graphite under your eyes, as your knees knocked together like keys on a lanyard: clink clink clank and maybe t

Literature

Introvert

Everyone's trying to get out of the shadow of their parents- I'm here trying to get out of the shadow of myself.

Literature

You're Not?

You're anorexic if you're thin You're not? Then you're obese. If you're different, you're insane You're not? Then you're a fake. If you're happy, you're hiding something. You're not? You must be emo. If you're dating, you're a slut. You're not? You must have no friends. If you're popular, you're a jerk. You're not? You're a nobody. If you're quiet, you must be disabled. You're not? You obnoxious freak. If you're you, you're wrong. You're not? Then you must be perfect.

Poetry

Literature

Look a Second Time

the last remaining nail holding our hot-orange saucer full of sun above us is about to let go and, as the drywall cracks, i’m back to boyhood and my grandfather sits across the breakfast table, train noises trailing from the corner of his mouth; he looks past me tracking something, left to right in the window behind me what? oh, it's the little train, runs 'long the sill' i turn around and i’ve missed it and soon as i return to my plate wait.. (a distant) woowoo fades right missed again; how i wish i still wanted to turn around and look a second time that table’s now likely lonely in landfill quiet, the window sold house

Literature

NaPo 2019 Day 2

i think about the things that split us at the seams. so, i think about the thunder in your voice and the hardness of your hands. the way the moon conceals what's been hidden, and illuminates what can't be recovered. the way you are the sword and the shield; the beginning and the end. the way you throw away the best of me, and watch me unravel in the dawn.

Literature

Infinity Perhaps

Our galaxy has long been thought to make us small, and to watch the stars is to fixate on the past. Perhaps we belittle ourselves when we put our hopes in the far away and long ago. But if the universe indeed goes on and on, perhaps we're bigger too: expanded by a smaller infinity of versions of us who know better than to shrink the universe to fit the limits of our comprehension. Perhaps it matters.

Poetry

Literature

nailed to the counter

fivey eyed the barn door, her right forearm tingled with a quite familiar burn, it informed her tone: "you nannys ain't dealin' proper. i had hoped this would stay above-board, but if you wanna wake snakes, let's frolic!" her right arm shot out, glowing energy pulled three armed men through splintering wood; the barn creaked and the men screamed as their bodies were dragged across the dirt before being launched out the far wall. fivey stomped her left foot; the two shotguns trained on her slithered, hissed, and— with both barrels— bit the two closest men in their necks. her right foot slid behind her in a perfect half-circle,

Literature

Where Nothing Dares Settle

we assume the fish that appears to advance without moving does so, effortlessly; as if the sea itself merely wills them forward we long to swim like this to hold our position in the universe while the earth churns its oceans past, as if its motion were ours and perhaps it might be if we could only comprehend how much lag truly resides in the linkage between space and time, then we'd know water like it knows us our ins and outs and the low places where nothing dares settle for long we'd know why sleep evades when we're most spent, as memories older than our own activate, once we traverse a certain set proximity

Literature

Sound Carries Near a Salt Flat

the noise of a dying man is that of a humpack whale reverberating across the desert thermocline, tunneling between the dune and the horizon. he whines, low, not loud, but it surrounds us; ocean pressure straining at the sides of a submerging ship. the harpoon head of the frag bomb burns in his leg - flesh irreparably breached - as that groaning calls navigation signs to some unknown counterpart far across the sand. I can swear to you he will be gone in forty-eight hours from the sepsis if medical can't make it to this fucking shelled-out excuse for a town by tomorrow evening. I give a sedative still, his cries carry like those son

Never look back on a situation and say, "I should've followed my instinct. I should've followed my gut." More often than not, your gut is right more than your mind. Our senses and instincts never fails us. Only our mind when we begin to over-think and over-analyze a situation. Remember that.