ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
i.
lyrical,
not in the way you speak,
but in the story
of why you speak so
ii.
a sense of judgment,
but not enough
to get in the way
of happiness
iii.
an appreciation
for the underclass,
the gritty emotive truth
iv.
vigor
for causes
fettered by apathy
v.
bravery,
willingness to listen
to hatred,
in the form of a
hardcore-tinged bass riff
vi.
tolerance-
for those who'd
rather not be
choking on clothes hangers
anymore,
stuck behind closet doors
vii.
patience
for what i do
and for my confusion
about why i do it
viii.
the ability
to keep a secret
lyrical,
not in the way you speak,
but in the story
of why you speak so
ii.
a sense of judgment,
but not enough
to get in the way
of happiness
iii.
an appreciation
for the underclass,
the gritty emotive truth
iv.
vigor
for causes
fettered by apathy
v.
bravery,
willingness to listen
to hatred,
in the form of a
hardcore-tinged bass riff
vi.
tolerance-
for those who'd
rather not be
choking on clothes hangers
anymore,
stuck behind closet doors
vii.
patience
for what i do
and for my confusion
about why i do it
viii.
the ability
to keep a secret
Literature
burning bodies
and we yearned for something deeper tangled between bed sheets
but our palms were always split open, spilling malice.
our bodies, always in dire separation
even in scalding proximity.
je dis beaucoup des mensonges.
i tell a lot of lies.
the following:
we curled ourselves alongside icicles to bury the flames.
my waist still feels like a graveyard.
even after all the times you tasted my bone marrow,
you still have the nerve to say i'm not bitter.
our mansion is burning from the inside out
and we force-feed the desire with
prolonged gestures and held-breaths.
our combined scar tissue lies in a heap on the floor of our shrine
and the sk
Literature
Chemistry
She’s an explosion.
He’s the catalyst.
Literature
Pyromaniac
I used to dream that I had
candles growing out of my head,
protruding like a cluster
of white horns, eternally lit,
dribbling wax masking my face.
I would wake—sweating, panting—
in the night and tiptoe outside,
clutching a matchbox
as if it were a holy book,
where one by one
I would scorch my fingers black
and whisper your name—
each flame across my skin
accompanied by
your image,
your scent,
your voice
telling me to stop hiding,
please, for the love of God,
stop hiding.
Suggested Collections
yes, looks get me, too. but i hate love poems, so.
© 2011 - 2024 ambulances
Comments5
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Now I know exactly how to win you over