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EPIC: they make outThe wineglass slid out of his fingers to break with a crunch on the foot of the table.
"Oh, come on," she said, exasperated. "Now we're going to have to clean--"
Robin didn't finish her sentence before he lurched out of his seat and towards her, and she had time for one squeak of protest before he grabbed her waist and kissed her.
Appalled, she said, "Matthew!" and tried ineffectually to shove him away, but then suddenly she tasted the wine on his lips, and any resistance she'd felt melted away into a heady haze. She could feel his mouth insistent on hers, his tongue on her lips, the wine-laced tang of his breath. His hands were hot at her sides, firm and possessive, and she reached up to touch his face. He was, suddenly, unspeakably handsome. He hadn't always been so good-looking, had he?
Matthew, breathing hard, wrenched away from her and pushed her back a few steps, until she was up against the edge of the bed, prevented from falling only by his hands on her waist. He pulled her hip
Don't Let GoHold yourself tightly
let your nails draw blood
from material stretched too tight over shattered bones
sharpened points ripping at the seams
cutting away the last of his finger prints
embedded into your skin
When the ground starts to shiver
jump on the nearest passerby
feel for any grip possible
climb your way up his cracked spine
See the street that has trapped your memories under its pavement
feel them rush back to you in tsunamis, breaking the cities under your eyes
crush your feet into the sidewalk
don't look back
Look at the mangled face staring back at you
it's 4 a.m. and you can still see the names he called you
as if they were tattooed on to your face
stop your hand from reaching into the medicine cabinet
go back to bed
bury your pain in the sheets
Hang on to his smile
don't look down, don't let go
push yourself up and find safety in his eyes
no one will find you there
Sew bones back together with heart strings
it will never be the same but it's still something
At The EndIn hazy daydreams,
I would wonder
I would ponder
As I wander
Through these visions.
And I would see.
Would there be a you
Or me, or we,
Or would there be,
At the end.
For at the end,
Of thought, or time,
Could there be,
No need to define,
What is left behind
At the close.
Is infinity, quite,
Which in itself,
To be nothing.
A shade, a colour,
A type of artist's paint.
Is simply white,
Or black, it might,
Is actually quite,
At the end,
Of time and existence,
What shall remain?
Something shall remain,
Think in bleak disdain,
In the future.
At the end.
SleeplessI should very well be asleep by now
But the thoughts that hold my being captive are only of you
Your soft skin
Smelling so sweet
The clothes I still have hidden in my room
Have that same, faint, scent.
I close my eyes and feel your breath on my neck again
Feel you kissing me
Making me feel things my sleeping soul hadn't felt in so long
I feel your soft lips crash into mine
Clumsy in their endeavor to explore
Every part of me.
They took some part of me with them
In that last,
I can't sleep knowing that you're no longer mine
Maybe you were never mine to begin with
dear deviantWRITERS...Dear deviantWRITERS, allow me to offer you some advice. While I realize that you may not want that advice at all, I will cheerfully ignore that, because really--I think dA's literature community could use a bit of setting straight.
The reason writers like you and me are on deviantART at all is because we want people to read our stuff. No one would argue with that. So the way you do things should help get people to read your writing, not run away screaming.
That being said, the preview image that dA gives each literature deviation is your best friend. It gives you about 110 characters of text to impress anyone who might be randomly browsing through lit deviations--to catch their eye and make them want to read more. So! A few tips.
Before that, though: I am not saying that every reader on dA agrees with the suggestions I present here. These are things that I think are important, and that I recommend. Conceited, maybe, but I believe that good readers would agree with most of
Do you know what I hate?Do you know what I hate? The question: Who are you? Everyone knows of those prompts in school where the teacher expects you tell your life story in so many words. They anticipate a list of experiences, a bald statement of facts. They think that knowing these things will help them get to know you better or the class if it is an assignment you must read aloud. They say that you need not reveal anything too personal, that if it makes you uncomfortable then do not talk about it. But what they do not realize is that not everyone can look at a blank page and pour shallow, impersonal truths upon it.
They do not realize that to some of us, the question of 'Who are you?' is painful.
And when you do not give them more than a few elusive answers to their prompting, they poke for more detail. "Detail," they say, "I do not feel as if I know anything more about you." What if I do not want you to know more about me? What if the way I answered was the only way I knew how without trudging up old h
SolaceShe never slept well in the dark,
not without the children of the sun and moon
to guide her weary lids home.
Guided by the aftermath, she was always two steps behind.
What did the world look like to the girl who had been through it all?
Braved the heaviest of storms,
yet skipping over cracks in the pavement.
They said her eyes were the wisps of clouds before the storm.
To him they were reflections of pages overlooked.
She said it was like she lived the life of someone she had never met.
Laid out to dry, yesterdays news.
He knew her as the girl who was built to never collapse.
He wished he was too.
He loved her more than words could say, and yet her pain was such,
that at times, he feared she wouldn’t make it.
But on nights like these, even when it threatened to consume her,
he became convinced that somehow she would.
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