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About Literature / Student Member Mary20/Female/United States Recent Activity
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  • Mood: Content
  • Listening to: You Were Meant for Me - Singin' in the Rain
  • Reading: Oathbreakers - Mercedes Lakey
  • Watching: All Things Bright and Beautiful
  • Playing: WoW
  • Eating: Words
  • Drinking: H2O
All I've got to say is that I started writing this journal, and it evolved into a piece of its own.  I'll post it soon, so if you're interested, it'll be titled something like "All My Love".

Anyhoo, I just wanted to drop a line and let people know that I'm working through deviations again.  I had a period of intense school busyness, and I couldn't handle the stress of trying to work through all my DA stuff as well. =(  At any rate, I'm planning on getting through most of it, if not all of it, in the next week, so bear with me as I get back to your comments, favorites, and deviations.

Thanks to everyone for sticking with me for so long!

~Mary

Features:

Tips on Getting Me Through a CrisisLove me.
Remember I am still
the woman you know.
I am still found
in every part
of this body's rhythm--
I am in the ka-thump, ka-thump
of my heartbeat,
the steady flow
of blood that courses rivers
on its way to these limbs.
Remember that. Even when I seem gone,
I am still here.
ii.
Do not promise to never leave.
People leave. Hearts grow old
and heavy; I do not want
to be a burden you carry--
I do not want to be an obligation
to a promise.
If you need to leave,
leave, but be honest
if you tell me
you're coming back.
iii.
Ignore the voice in your head
lying to you. I am tired. I am weary,
but my heart has not gone
and I still appreciate you.
Forgive me for not singing
my usual songs. I have not forgotten
or moved on without you,
but the plover nestled behind my tonsils
swoops, swoops. She believes
she protects me, even as her beak
splits my throat.
iv.
Remember and remind me.
I may be hiding
beneath the covers,
tucking myself into a cupboard
like a skeleton,
or scratching through walls
    Splinteryou sift over my palms
like ice, splintering
as i frantically try
to tetris you back whole -
but your smile is too crooked,
and your ribcage is stilted, and
your laugh is glazed and unfocused;
you will do your best
to please me. i am
clinging your fragments to my skin,
longing for warmth.
    shattered glass and a million other things i amyou should be home by now.
echoes of the sea,
pocket full of sky
another ode to silence 
these are the empty desires of hollow girls.

her name was death, she rode a pale horse
under the moon, and so
i'd like to thank you for ritual suicide because
i
am not a winter flower,
i can't keep walking on these dry rot bones.

a note from an angry feminist:
    somewhere in a dream, nowhere in reality,
    there is a goddess in the rain
    breathing flames with icicle lungs
    (a little water with her wine.)
    
lies are beautiful, the truth is not.
    ReubenHe wakes up reaching for the keyboard and mouse before his glasses,
Taking his warmth and sticky skin with him.
The music plays.
He drinks his water, always too much water, and devours it's tasteless washing
Focusing on his work and play, his fingertips pound and dance.
The music blossoms,
He smiles.
I mistake the grin as one for me, and I turn beaming,
Only to find him face to face with a monitor
Announcing another button pressed perfectly in time
with the drums that pound his blood
And the patterns of thought nestled in his skull
That shoot around my heart, never hitting, but never stopping,
So at least I know he tries.
The music stops,
And silence is sweet.
The numbers finally match and he takes me in,
In all my squandering searches for meaning in empty boxes
And one letter texts that come seconds too late.
I count his eyelashes in search of "the spark" and pixie dust.
He counts mine for even numbers.
I smile at the definitions I can't find,
At how he perplexes me with by lacking an


I'm not much of a poet.I'm not much of a poet when I talk about
how the sun rises and sets and
sends tendrils of fire across the sky, or
how flower petals lift their faces toward morning
with a beauty uncapturable, unfolding eager petals
into the waiting feet of frost-laden bees, or
even how your smile curves so carefully
across the distance between us that it reminds me
how unfair it is to hate you for things you cannot change -
I'm not much of a poet. I will never find the words
to properly describe the feelings you bubble within
my blood vessels, the taste of your devotion as it
sweetens my tongue, the smell of your disgrace
as it sours my thoughts of you.
    Late OctoberOctober rain spills on top of fallen leaves; puddles of water over red, orange and yellow. Glassy pools of color raging in a last flourish of life. The drops are cool on the tongue and refreshing- sending a shiver down my spine as they drip down my neck.
Autumn's rushing wind
Little lakes of brilliant hues
Fields of thriving corn.
    i breatheBreaths too shallow for deep lungs.    violetcan't we be skinny
and in love?
can't we eat of the fruit
and drink of the lips
and find in one another
the lion and lamb?
no, because if you are,
then i am not.
like the sun and the rain
and only through dramatic circumstance
can we coexist.
if your eyes were less red
and my eyes were less blue,
the world might be less . . .
well, you know, don't you love?
lunch over a table so small,
i paid for mine and you paid for yours,
and maybe next week
i'll starve myself instead.
humans are quite foolish, yeah?
my hands shake at you,
caffeine, fear, blood, sugar.
i live for you.
i live for you.
my hands shake
because i live through you.


changedi wish i could write
like i used to,
about stars and rain and hypothetical
situations.
but i'm not that
person anymore -
i can't write in
fixed forms with
out breaking the
pattern.
i can't imagine myself
as a three year old with paper boats
and paperclip anchors.
i'm reusing old memories
and inspiration,
and it's this cycle of
reduce
reuse
recycle.
it's all the same now
and i can't go back,
but i can't go forward.
i'm locked in to writing about myself
or referring to the same person
(you)
over
and
over
again.
    The Different Ways To Say I Love You“Do you like my beard?”
“It’s ok.”
“Ok.”
“I like it shorter.”
“You don’t like it?”
“I like you.”
“But not my beard.”
“It’s so scratchy!” “But you don’t have to cut it short for me.”
“But you want me to.”
“I just want you.” “You could grow your beard to the floor and I’d still want you.”
“What would you do, if I grew it to the floor.”
“Well, braid it, obviously. With flowers and colored yarn. And then you could tuck it into your belt, like a dwarf.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, but you’d have to braid my hair, too. You’d have to learn to braid.”
“With flowers and colored yarn.”
“All the way to the floor. We’d have to live in the forest, then.”
“We’d be matted with twigs and leaves, then.”
“When it got to ratty, I w
    our daughter, lost at sea*
it's the way the world looks on the other side, you know
how water would be sky, but for the ripples
so i see her in the smooth black pools of coffee cups
the creases of my bed-sheets
like fingerprints on glass
and you here, where my collarbone meets the shoulder
our lives, just as they are,
but folded
    Fragment #5There are sea shells in my ears
and they are dripping with the sound of the
sea; it whispers, let me be,
let me be.


Today My Hands Reek of Doctor Office SoapBecause I frantically washed my hands in the back room
Because I’m one anxious little fuck when it comes to needles and
Crying children in the hallways and rooms where the walls are paper thin
Because I nearly pass out when needles are stuck into my arm several times
Because no one can ever find a goddamned vein the first time
Trying to calm myself as the doctor comes back in and the first words out of my mouth are
“So what are some good anxiety medications these days?”
    The Land Where The Sun BleedsAmerica.
Us, a
pierced egg yolk on the side of Route 66 in Missouri,
golden river flowing to Mrs Hippie's flowery vans
blasting psychedelia in The Factory, New York,
Sky Blue as Albuquerque
unlike the underground of Texas,
Texas spitting at the sight of Rhode's thighs kissed by her wife
in sex spiced like Connecticut's nutmeg,
nutmeg trees green as the Green Mountains
as seen by pilgrims when roasting turkey like witches in Salem
(they need Washing tons in the Salish Sea).
Robert Frost provides the New Hamper:
describing yellow trees, yellow like Wyoming's stone park,
but Montana wins with the Rockies,
not as rocky as Idaho's gemstones though,
yet emeralds can't be as green as Portland
or the coffers of bug-eyed Sigel.
Iowa the heart is safe, don't worry,
unlike the pincers of Maine
or the fracking in North Dakota,
or the Sioux's spears below that,
or the depth of the 10'000 lakes in Minnesota.
For something more nice there's Wisconsin's milk,
the mitten of lower Michigan?
Comedy in Ch
    .i will not
love for fear
of losing
and if a
fondness
should creep
through like
ivy, i'll cut it
back
    GreenwareGod took a pottery class
and could have spun perfect
pots from the store-bought
clay the instructor found half
off with an expired coupon.
He could have thrown slender
vases on a rickety wheel
or molded leather-hard discards
into elegant tea cups.
The glaze on his biscuits
unblistered; His earthenware
free of crackle; no shivering
to be found on His mugs.
God took a pottery class
and made sure every piece was flawed,
and called them perfect.


Whisper... by StudioUndertheMoon    The rays of  cold sun . by AnnaArmona    can i steal your beauty by bwaworga    Following Winters Lead by GrotesqueDarling13

Shrouded by jasonwilde    RED UMBRELLA by Leonidafremov    . by Weissglut    Day and Night by MarsiaMS

fall reflections by NWunseen    The Knight by Leucareth    moss way by SvitakovaEva    Waltz on the necropolis by RezzanATAKOL

deviantID

Tyrison
Mary
Artist | Student | Literature
United States
I am me! ^^

Current Residence: Err...my house?
Favourite genre of music: Classical, mostly
Favourite photographer: My brother, Josh(not on Devart)
Favourite style of art: Anime/Manga
Wallpaper of choice: Anything that appeals to me at the time.
Favourite cartoon character: Sebastian!(He counts, yes?)
Personal Quote: “Everything is funny from some angle, I assure you it is. It's just a matter of where you're standing.”
― Charlie Fletcher, Stoneheart
Interests

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:iconkayandjay100:
kayandjay100 4 hours ago  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Very many thanks Mary for adding Strolling with Grandma by kayandjay100 to your :+fav:s! :hug: Coco
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:iconlimaria:
Thanks a lot for :+fav:ing, I really appreciate it :love:
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:iconshorenx:
shorenx 4 days ago  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Thank you for the fav. :D
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:iconsilverinkblot:
SilverInkblot 5 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for the collects :D
Reply
:iconbloodshotink:
Thanks for the favourites :rose: I appreciate your support :]
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:icontherafflesia:
TheRafflesia Apr 4, 2014  Hobbyist Photographer
Thank you really much for the llama, it's greatly appreciated! :tighthug:
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:icontyrison:
Tyrison Apr 8, 2014  Student Writer
My pleasure. =)
Reply
:iconfantafumino:
FantaFumino Apr 1, 2014   General Artist
Thanks for the :+fav: ^_^
Reply
:icontyrison:
Tyrison Apr 8, 2014  Student Writer
You're welcome! =D
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:iconradishstick:
RadishStick Mar 23, 2014   General Artist
Thank you for faving I Belong to You! I'm glad you enjoyed it. :)
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