easteri'm in the back of the car, sucking my chlorine hair and watching with sleepy eyes out the window. brown dirt is soon ochre and we are nowhere in particular yet. we are going to the atheton tablelands for easter. i fall into a broken sleep on my sister's warm shoulder and when i wake up we are there.
464 literary works featured as of today!
What is my "Daily Pick"?
"Lit. Daily Pick" is a literature deviation that we have come across in the last few days that we truly enjoyed and believe others will enjoy, as well. Each day, a new piece is chosen and featured for 24 hours. At the end of the month, we feature all the pieces from that month in a news article here on dA!
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DorianHarper's Lit. Daily Pick DirectoryTo celebrate the official 1-year anniversary of my Lit. Daily Pick project, I've decided to create a directory to keep all the articles in and make everything much neater: both for my front page and for navigation through old articles. I'm quite impressed with myself that I was able to keep up with featuring something every day for 365 days... but I did! I found so many talented new writers through this project and feel honoured to have met and got to feature them.
At the start of 2013, as a recent university graduate, I wanted to begin giving back to the literature community more again. With less time spent on school work, I had more time to browse around on the site again and participate in the community that I loved so much. And what better way to do that than through featuring the beautiful work of others on the site? Before I began university, I was part of a lot of groups that featured deviants on a daily/weekly basis and helped admin a few of them. I
A Sea of Memories and DeathHis pale tender flesh
Was salted by the ocean waves
That thrashed and beat the whispering sands
Along the shore of a memory
Erasing the footprints in the moist ground
The evidence of a childhood
Damned and broken the childhood was
Like his soul a stained-glass blue
The sky was wounded, pierced and scarred
Similar to a soldier that marched on and on
For decades, dedicated yet stubborn
And the yellow sand seemed to darken
Whispers echoed into screams
He pulled on his hair and screeched
In pain of the tears like acid
Scorching his eyes and mask
With that it cracked
The facade he held up with his broken bones
And trembling limbs
The sign that screamed: "I am normal!"
With that he broke and choked and drowned
Under the muddy water of the past
The things that once were concrete
Moments away from his grasp
Like an infant he grabs at it
Opening his hands in rhythm with the rain beating down
Closing them with disappointment
Crying out with his own curiosity
the rainfall kidshe always loved the sting of grapefruit
and the way the winter air kissed her skin,
leaving it pink and raw and sensitive to the touch
like the heart she tried so hard to hide.
but she never grew up, not really.
she always belonged to the rain
and never stayed in one place for too long.
she was afraid her stupid heart might dig in,
leave its roots in the people and then
it would rip and tear when she up and left.
and she never accepted the fact that
she did indeed have a heart.
she tried so hard to be hollow and
let the winter rain chill her skin and
soak into her bones so that she, too,
might be just as cold.
so she stopped believing in sunshine.
she accepted the title of rainfall kid,
and lived with thunder in her chest.
To Paint the MoonAnd now the days all stand still,
like trees after the wind of a violent storm
falls and dies.
A silent prayer hangs in the air
to be snatched up by some forgiving god.
Under the dark of the night sky,
no one is able to hear the strangled cry
of the unwilling sacrifice.
Her blood became
the color of your ink.
Light in the Darkness
The books were piled high on the desk, tucked deep in the recesses of the Archive's library. There were no candles allowed this close to such precious works, so the words had to be revealed with a special light. It was a small glass ball, emanating a honeyed glow like that of a candle. Muted, small, and unobtrusive. This light didn't flicker.
One of the students, an Apprentice, dropped another arm-load of books on his desk. The impact sent up a plume of dust that had settled on the shelf nearby. He destroyed the sanctum silence with a fit of coughing. A murmured curse and he claimed a seat, pulling open a weathered book. Strangely, the cover retained some of its former glory. White leather, as supple as the day it was made, had been torn and stained in some places. Still soft but tarnished. Bruised and abused. Like many old tomes, this one had made quite a journey until it was in the care of the Archivists.
This student eyed the cover, then the spine. Another curse. There wa
You Say That I Am MadYour eyes totter through your dreams.
Dreams that are...
Dreams that are...
And you say that I am mad.
Though you feel motionless.
But, my dear,
The time is ticking.
And you say that I am mad.
My mind starts to ponder with this thought,
And I realize,
Who isn't mad?
HA HA HA!!
How could such a thing
Escape from my mind?
My eyes flickered violently.
I grinned wickedly.
Am I mad?
I cackled with delirium.
HA HA HA HA!!
We are all mad!!
The clock is ticking, my dear.
It is almost time.....
Writer's OathAs a writer, I swear on my word and my honor to do my best,
To always strive for the unobtainable;
To not only reach for, but to walk among the stars;
To never lose the awe and wonderment of life,
And to see the world, if only for a moment, with the simple faith and wonder of a child;
To kindle the flame of imagination within the hearts of all whom I come into contact with;
To never scoff at the whimsical;
To keep a hearty belief in dragons and fairies burning strong in my heart;
To believe that giants can be slain, and evils vanquished;
To not merely search for a hero in dark times, but to seek to be one;
To look ever to my friends for inspiration, and also to seek to be that inspiring light;
To remember that the darkest hour of night is when the promise of coming dawn is the brightest;
To stand up for truth and right, regarding not the opposition;
To be ever open to new possibilities,
And yet to always say what must be said in the way it ought to be said;
To remember that the pen is
Dear Boyfriend, In TheoryI would be such a good
love letter writer.
I would take each part of your body
like your eyes and lips, yes,
like the hard vertebrae of your spine,
like the soft curve from the crook of your knee
to your ankle,
apart one by one
color it with paint and crayons
I would stitch it up
pin it down
with words you didn't know you wanted.
I would seal the envelope with a kiss and I
would make an honest metaphor out of you.
The Ballad For Those Still MournedSail to seam, my apocalyptic dream.
Move onward to the dilated opium, breathe
in and taste hope in homeland heir.
Be bold - dare to defy finite odes.
Become the soldier, the suit - the armor;
garner of humanity and desolate earth.
Turn tidal-swells of warfare, silently
reprobate the crown, sing of homage, bring
peace with the sound of war burned down.
Sheath the slaying shore,
boast the bounding door.
Articulate the arts of war
and decimate the depths-adore.
Finish the dream, the ode, the chord
of men still mourned.
saltwater lullabyi am beside myself
and you are inside me -
water boarding my heart
and seeping into my lungs.
exit, please, with haste
before i'm laid to waste.
i'm already nothing at all,
a melody comes choking out of my
salt ridden throat
invoking fear in each ear
it falls deafly on.
they never remember me,
until i'm gone,
and neither will you.
on these verses, these words,
these curses -
they vex me
and i have foretold them all.
perhaps, i am a fatalist
Singing to me a symphony of death
The strain in my body with every last breath
Draining my life a soul torn apart
Needing only time with this slow beating heart
The tune of my soul is dying within
This aging carcass is wearing so thin
Notes of life will soon lose their tune
As I'm sitting here so empty in this prison, my room
This song is now reaching the end of it's time
Nothing to leave for you but this poorly writ rhyme
But hope goes out for the one who does care
Because in your heart my music is there...
Why I Can't Love a PoetHe said you're beautiful like
black birds on a gray sky or
a tree that's recently died but
holds its last green leaves until
they wither and crack, swept away
by a northern wind bearing his name.
Creepypasta: Laughing JackLAUGHING JACK
It was a nice summer day, my 5-year-old son James was playing outside in the backyard of our suburban home. James has always been a quiet boy, he plays by himself mostly, he never had many friends, but he has always had a wild imagination. I was in the kitchen feeding our dog Fido, when I heard what sounded like James talking to someone in the backyard. I’m not sure who it was he could be talking to, could he have finally made a friend? Being a single mom it’s hard for me to always keep an eye on my son, so I decided to go outside and check on him.
When I went into the backyard I was a bit confused, because James was the only person back there. Was he talking to himself? I could have sworn I heard another voice. “James! It’s time to come inside.” I called out to him. He came inside and sat down at the kitchen table, it was about lunchtime so I decided to make him a turkey san
underneath the sycamoreIcy droplets of water cascade,
From the solemn sycamore.
Sunshine shimmers unto my skin--
As I indulge in contentment.
Dreams flicker inside my mind,
A dark place of contemplation.
I believe in seldom more than
The very skin upon my bones,
Because trust is a glowing gem,
One that I do not possess.
I cannot trust after I was broken,
I cannot bring myself to love again.
And for that, I am sorry
To have let you down.
relit.there is poetry in your laughter,
in the way you hold your head and smile.
the days are getting longer, stretching out to meet my fingers
and happiness lies between each breath,
so i'm holding my breath with you
and laughing when our faces turn blue.
your eyes are bitter-sweet sepia memories
bracketed by today and tomorrow.
today, you can't decide to laugh or cry
so we do both.
we turn up the music and hard-knuckle our way into tomorrow.
you glow, but we all flicker
like those relightable candles our mothers always got us
that would go out,
but never completely.
you. you will never go out completely.
sometimes its a matter of knowing you won't burn out
even when your tires feel like they're spinning in place.
so wear the sun in your smile.
time is not an hourglass,
it is the moments you hold in your fingers and the memories you wear into old age.
Crucible of the Moonlit TearsThe wind rustles the unseen branches
Of the ancient, hallowed trees
The night is silent otherwise
And the light of the Moon is dim.
A figure is barely visible in the darkness
Standing with their head held high
And their eyes closed, facing the Moon
Her smile is radiant in the night
Outshining the stars and the nebulae
And the rest of creation besides
She stands there as tears pour forth
And disappear into the grass at her feet.
My heart races at the sight
What betrayal of reason is this?
For tears of joy do not readily flow
What night is this, that wets these eyes?
The moonlight rains down upon the Earth
And the tears glow incendiary
Burning through the darkness of the night
A puddle of liquid fire at the girl's feet.
She kneels and inspects the quicksilver pool
She watches as mirrored tendrils reach out
And spread across the landscape, painting it
Covering it, enshrouding it, devouring it.
The girl fades from my field of view
And the silver film dissipates slowly
The Sun rises slowly
Two Birds with One StoneToday, I found the fragile yet well-preserved corpse of a robin stuck to a gravel road that, by trick of the eye, churned steadily in the late afternoon humidity; when the evening cooled, I weighed, measured, plucked, and then boiled the songbird in one of Father's new iron pots until its remaining feathers and flesh easily parted from its saturated bones, which were left out to dry in the summer garden until they became as white as your teeth. With meticulous care, I cleaned and then arranged the skeleton in the shape of its natural design before I reinforced its structure with thin copper wires, mounting the finished piece on a cherrywood plaque I signed with my Christian name.
The robin now sits on my windowsill, staring onto the grey winter dawn. Its song has never been so sweet as when I imagine it whistling a mournful aubade, welcoming the sun as it rises and melts the snow so it will later freeze into a glittering sheet of ice. As I write this letter, hunched over my desk and fe
paper hearts. Theres a crevice in the wall where she hides her little baby girl, all plastic smiles and mechanical giggles. She cuddles it like it has a soul and speaks to it like it has a name. Its soft rubber skin has been covered with paper hearts and marker stars, and its little plastic ears have been filled with whispers of adoration and love. Its wiry blonde hair has been crossed into braids, twisted up above its head, and she has pulled a dress onto its synthetic body with the brightest little smile. She reminds it that its beautiful, even though it cant hear. She fastens it tight into the beaten pink stroller and skips behind it as it rolls across the pavement, dancing in the sun like there is no tomorrow and yesterday is only a dream.
And maybe she's only six years old, but she knows how babies are made. Not the ones you buy in the store, the ones you have to tear out of the cru
Pill Bottle Quote"Narcotic bottles
needle'd to the window.
I see me, sinking
in pain isles
through every anxious
Dosed out, stretched out
inside 1 wall of
There I sleep -
I'll turn numb."
jealousy She was a natural born smoker. Grey poison inserted itself; weaving thin threads of death into and around her bronchial tubes. The vituperation her lungs faced daily always made a small smile bubble up to the surface; she was proud of her pulmonary alveoli working within her sore lungs.
He was not a smoker. That was what made their relationship so entirely intriguing. His lips had never come in contact with a paper filter until they met hers. Her cigarette stained hands wove into his hair and brought along death. Which, of course, was the best way to start it; at the roots where no one would notice, until it slowly slipped through to the blood stream.
They worked together just like the inner workings of the lungs she worked so hard to kill. He attempted to bring her health, breathe into her the life he wanted her to live; just as the alveolar ducts exchange oxygen for carbon dioxide for air to breathe. He desperately wished for her to drop
I am not summer personifiedDo not compare me to a summers day,
I'm an autumn baby, with fallen leaves,
Printed in gold and amber across my skin,
With the deepest red sunset lips,
Offset by snowy skin.
I am the crisp breath of wind,
On oxygen starved lungs.
Forget the call of the heat,
And fall into my mist embrace.
Fall in love with a girl who writes.Fall in love with a girl who reads
and writes, because
she will remember the day that
your eyes fell in love with
She will remember what you
wore on the night of
your first date, and
the comment that you
made about the child
six tables across from
She will smile at you, and tell
you that your eyes are a
mixture of water and
fresh cut grass;
two beautiful hues of
her favorite colors.
She will blush and touch
her knuckles to her
chin as she rests
her eyes on your
Fall in love with a girl who writes
because she will hold all of
the happiness that you
could ever want;
she is all you would ever
The End Of The SunOur streets are plagued,
Our minds corrupt,
The wicked have prayed,
Now let hell erupt.
Creatures and abominations,
Of the night,
Refugees at the train station,
Last train away from this plight.
Oh how figments,
Become something much more real,
Are these of god's creations?.
Not that it matters now,
Soon you will be among them,
So you take lighter fluid,
Drink it down and set it alight.
Turned to darkening dusk,
As you lay on bloodied lawn,
Reeking of a deathly musk.
So where do we go,
For the end of the sun
do not marry a writer.do not marry a writer.
their only love is a pen,
or weapon of choice.
their only home is the mind.
do not marry a writer.
they will leave you for hours,
lost in different worlds.
pulling them out is like waking a sleepwalker.
they will never live the same moment again.
thoughts are lightning quick,
and will never strike the same place more than once.
marry a writer.
only if you want your body
transformed into words.
do not marry a writer.
if you are a flower
requiring constant watering.
you will die, and we will turn your ashes into l e t t e r s.
but marry a writer,
if you want to live forever.
The Dream to My RealityThe Dream to My Reality
I sit in the darkness, alone, waiting, listening, for any sign that I am doing something right for once, something that's not pointless, something that society can't wash away like it's written in the sand.
And yet it never comes.
I begin to feel hopeless, and start questioning my actions, my ideas, my being.
'Why am I doing this?
Does anyone else notice me?
Are my ideas that farfetched?
Can I really change anything?
Is there even a point to this?
Is there even a point to me?'
My mind becomes filled with these questions and I feel as if I should stop; stop all of the lies, all of the promises, all of the madness.
Until I see you.
My angel, my love, my savior.
You are my opposite in everything
The sun to my moon
The color to my neutral
The tame to my wild
The fixed to my broken
The yin to my yang
The dream to my reality
Without you, I couldn't have move
Ode to a friend.Though you walk through the shadow
Of the valley of death
You shall fear no evil,
For i walk beside you as a friend.
Should your arms falter
I shall carry the lantern
That lights your way.
Should your strength fail you
I shall carry the load
That burdens you so.
I, as your friend, shall give you
Direction in the darkness
A voice in the silence
And a light at the end of the tunnel.
And although you walk through the shadow
Of the valley of depression
You shall fear no emptiness
For i walk beside you, as a friend.
Oaki knew a girl once,
with an oak heart and guarded hands
(gloved from touch)
uncrossed her ankles,
let naked fingertips
touch well-read lips, and
her heart kind of turned
i miss that girl,
with the oak heart -
she was tougher.
leap through eternityi will sink my teeth into a supernova
to let the stardust and
slide down my parched throat and
wash over my intestines,
like a pebble
drowning in the sound--
Fray epilogue: Sander leBlancA figure has collapsed on this gray-black sand of this endless seeming desert. The sun scorching him, blisters having formed on the exposed skin of his hands and face. It was apparent that he has been through horrific torture and debilitating agony; cuts and slashes through his clothes, deep gashes to the bone and it seemed as if part of his face was caved in. One could not imagine this person to be alive. He...no, it should not be alive with all these things having happened to its body.
Whilst the wounds on this wretched corpse were heartstopping, it was positively heartrending to see that this corpse, this thing that once was called a man, seemed to be reaching for a book or have dropped it on the sand. It was open, the pages blank. Other writing utensils were strewn close to the body; bloodied and broken like this man. Several inkwells were lying about the body, cracked open and spilling the thick ink out.
A soft wind blew across this desert, teasing the white strands of t
Poem Regarding This Morning's DreamIn trepidation
she regards the clouding egg
Lips full and eyes wide.
The voice penetrates the void
from the darkened room
Blowing into the aether
the chakras and arm.
Oh large eggshell in the void
Scrape at it for life
Oh progenitor infant
writhing in the void
as the empty voice calls us
‘You are clear of all
You are clear of all chakras’
He blows them away
‘You are clear of all Buddhas’
Little cardboard doll
He blows the parts to the floor
and in the dark room
the empty voice speaks once more
‘Now all that is left
Is to clear our perceptions.’
I open the box
to find in it the aether.
‘We must simply wait
For all to become the void.’
We are clear of all
The eggshell and the infant
We are clear of all
The chakras and the Buddhas
We are clear of all
Our perceptions and ourselves
For we are the void
We are lost in the aether
and the primordial sea.
The meaning is such
Being clear of all is to be
As prana paramita
There is no wisdom
And no wi
Second Street El stands under muted chrome lights, legs splayed apart and left hip cocked out like the jagged end of a lipstick smear. The soft undercurrent of voices drifts from the club crowd up to the stage, quiet murmured conversations below the chink of glasses and clicks of the mike stand slotting into place. If she listens close enough she can almost hear the bare echoes of a young man's laugh, a woman's soft tinkling sigh, the swell of a family's conversation.
"All ready," the man before her grunts around the toothpick hanging out the corner of his sun-cracked mouth. El reaches a hand over to tug at the length of color-faded silk knotted around her left wrist, stepping forward to take the place he vacates. The same hand rises to wrap around the cold silver shaft, glossed lips parting as she ghosts them towards the microphone.
The crowd has dropped in volume, calm falling over the haphazardly arranged three-legged stools and half-rickety tables. It's a quiet she's felt
White Christmas Love LetterI'm writing to you from underneath a streetlight, watching the black curve of the asphalt road lead away. Soft whispers of wind passing dark and silent while the rain falls, white music over the rooftop of the world like silk and dust and static in the dusk. I look for the light flooding across the open sky, a red blush that makes me think of you, the rosy hues of your cheeks underneath the soft hush of snow on a Winter's day in Florence. The white blanket's tread covering you like a child with a cloak.
I want to lay you at my feet with that white Christmas, the soft flight of your heart beating with mine, your chest pressed to me and our hands entwined under the pale oblique fall of rain and ice in the dark. Flowers bloom here for Christmas, but not for me without you. Across the world, the blossoms fade and die with cold, their loveliness more beautiful for that fragile flame, extinguished under a damp, light cloud. A moment lost is precious simply for being a memory.
Here, the air s
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