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formaniac on DeviantArthttps://www.deviantart.com/formaniac/art/time-eats-messengers-155545037formaniac

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littleblueraccoon

Literature

Paper-Thin Promises

the first time I caught sight of your glistening, marble eyes, I decided you disgust me. I hate you the way I hate perfection: merciless, like the snap of mantis jaws. every fact of you is pretentious, held high like you raise a middle finger. You, the artist, always sculpting things, tried to squeeze my malleable heart like white clay and stash it in your pocket to rattle with stones. paint me an unflinching self portrait, my dear: this skyscraper of a boy shaking with anticipation to build and destroy, build and destroy. you sink in tooth and talon at first mention of beauty, love-biting Aphrodite as though you were equals. you're a statu

Literature

not fade away

Twisted up in a trap of I.V.s, she withered and withered away. Disease stole her lively light from the sickbed where she lay. A month before she perished, I think she might have said, "I know that I am dying, sure, but dying's not the same as dead."

Literature

i gave up on trying to write about you

there are millions of poems detailing the beauty of another’s eyes, but your eyes, my love, put all their cherry-picked words to shame. ew, that verse is disgusting. way too sappy. I’m no good at love poems. okay, hold on, let me just start over. you’re freaking excellent no. shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? thou art more lovely and more temperate wait. i can’t take credit for that. sonnets aren’t my style, and anyway, shakespeare beat me to the punch four hundred some years ago. uh, i mean, you’re funny and really cute, like i seriously love your eyes because there’s meaning in the

winterkate

Literature

Sundiver

i. When I was six a phoenix tried to drown me. Underwater I grabbed for fire. Like Icarus, I was reaching towards the sun. I hope he still has bald spots. I hope he still cradles searing scars. He was death, I was the bird. ii. My uncle knows plastic- wrapped soaps as well as he knows fine wines. If he drinks enough, he thinks it’s love- carved names rubbing the silver drain smooth. Diver: 28 days sweating, ship black against sea. Like it had been peeled from amber tongues. iii. On my fifteenth birthday, the boy with stars on his fists and Saturn’s rings in his eyes told me I was pretty. It was the first time anyone had

Literature

shhh

we are lurking too close to jesus, on the empty edge of a lightless stage, curved nails digging into the skin of our pale palms. he asks as an afterthought do you believe in something holy? and i think yes, i think this is what i believe in.

Literature

Whistle

+++ i am the wicked edge of ricochet, the asphyxiation of dust in a hummingbird's bones. skeleton, i am silver, grass torn hollow by a child's breath. corkscrewing, my veins etch true reflections on time's skin: a cardigan crumpled like a child. Blue and torn in half. ---

ohsparrowsong

Literature

water-colour emotions

you can't buy happiness, but you can buy tea, and thats kind of the same thing. i've been told that i have a knot inside my chest, like those of the inside of a tree truck, eternally circling and looping. thats kind of how it feels, heavy and unstoppable. if i have a tree inside me, then maybe that could explain the shaking, its just the westerly winter winds blowing and making my far too fragile limbs bend but never break. i soak the tea leaves into the roots that are deep within my fleshy heart and hope the capillaries will carry to wherever the aches are most ingrained and unnatural. mother told me thr

Literature

napowrimo

april 1st i just sat there words lodged in my throat eyes burning with tears that i wasn't going to let escape while you broke into pieces i couldn't fix. april 2nd you gave me stained fingertips the same colour as your belly. i still dont know if its from your poorly rolled mentol's or if its the colour of the deepest regret i've ever felt. april 3rd. i tried to write this poetically. with oceans and stars and metaphors so large i lose connection. but i can't some things just aren't poetic. april 4th. you're body was black and blue but oh god there was colour. there was colour. and colour means life. right? even if its clinging on

Literature

sleep sequence

sleep doesn't work as a cure or remedy when 3am leaves you clutching at the dark clambering for stability in your personal ocean. and you are quartz so the inside of your skin is lined with the interior monologues of vaporized shellfish. sure, you could have saved them. but how else could we communicate, if not for this ocean digesting us softly and churning us into one? you exhale, or maybe it was a sigh i cannot tell anymore with your constant breaking waves and breaking bones. and you can talk about death in such elegant phrasings of crescent moons claiming and guiding lost souls. but you never were so good at telling me about your own p

Suggested Collections

Poetry

Literature

A Letter For A Deceased Mother

Dear Mother, A glance at my calendar, much to my distress, right now these feelings, I must confess. It's Mother's Day once again and my heart is filled with sorrow, that may never mend. I'm trying to make it through today without tears this year, just like all the rest of the years. I sit here to dwell and morn with what once was had, has now been forever torn. This day never ceases to remind me how I'm without and fills me with an overflowing doubt. Makes me regret how little the days with you were spent and I ponder where all those precious memories could have went. If only I knew back then what I know now and my life, the knowledge,

Literature

Family Tree

If we're tied together by blood then I'm anemic Coughing up the words I swallowed for years like I'm bulimic The bird still bears the stumps where you severed off its wings I bet you'd chop down a tree just to count all its rings If you keep breaking branches you don't think belong There will be nothing left for you to cling on Have fun falling to your death

Literature

epitaph

the girl i did not run over looks at me with eyes that say that i am part of the problem, when i could have been her solution, looks at me like she’s blaming me for swerving away, like she’s measured every one of her steps from her door to the curb, and i am the one thing she failed to account for. i almost double back to try and tell her all the same things that i have been told but i do not. her feet are too heavy, by now. her stomach too hollow. she does not need more empty words to swallow, she does not need stop signs or yield signs or ‘for the love of god think of everyone you are leaving behind’ signs. i do no

Poetry and Prose

KatDiestel on DeviantArthttps://www.deviantart.com/katdiestel/art/Rotted-Ties-587234404KatDiestel

Literature

and so we sleep

the furnace speaks to keep the almost silence and I am running my pale claws along the stretch of your clavicle watching you drift wanting to stay wakeful but there is such comfort in this closeness pressed flesh and shared memory your slow sleepy smile as you say "same" about the ways we've intertwined and when you finally start to dream and place your well-loved hand in mine I am lost thoughts stretch like taffy I join you in the warm dark grateful and happy

Literature

not with a bang...

the past is a pit I pulled myself out of cast off all aspersions left the molehills for the mountains use them skeletons as stepping stones the snakes become the ladders sure the closet remains cluttered but it doesn't really matter I'm a haphazard collection a jigsaw given sentience this after- life's gone unrequited but the dam(n/m-ed) still bursts with sentiments found the love of lines but lost my interest in the circles this heart bared the book left open I don't pave my path with hurdles I still hunger for the stars and I've got a few million spare forevers I could be light I could be heat I could b

Poetry

Literature

The Beauty of the Blank Page

Some people will see the blank page As comparable to the most dreadful curse But I see it as potential To write in my own words the perfect verse And though this is yet to happen The promise will always remain right there Like a newborn leaving the womb As they take their first breath of fresh air Some people will see the blank page As a reason or excuse to give in But every great literary work Needed a scribbled first word to begin Seeds of a thought that blossom Thoughts that bloom in to an idea The page slowly becomes your friend As the reason you’re writing becomes clear Some people will see the blank page As their familiar adve

Literature

Some Broken People

Some broken people can hurt you without thought But believe me when I say it’s not their fault With an open wound as delicious as yours It would be a shame not to rub in the salt So why do you insist on shaking that girl Do you like playing the martyr on your knees? Acting like you’re a paragon of purity Well today that purity feels ripe for disease Some broken people cry not knowing what for Have sympathy as they weren’t born with black hearts Like you and I they have grey matter in their brain But their thoughts are a great distance from dark So why do you insist on hitting that girl When she stopped feeling many blue m

Literature

I Like Being Weird

Whether I’m laughing in awkward situations Or crying when everybody else smiles I go from wanting to stay in bed forever To wanting to run directionless for miles Normality just feels like silent floorboards And is something I most definitely fear See I need to creak every once in a while You won’t understand but I like being weird Talking when everybody else is silent Being deathly quiet in a maelstrom of noise As I decide if I’ll be your friend today But I promise that you are not just a toy Normality just feels like empty nightscapes And is something I most definitely fear I need the stars to spell out my last name Do

time eats messengers

formaniac

Published: Feb 27, 2010

212 Views

Description

God is our father; Mary is our mother; Jesus is our brother.
At least that's what we tell him.

This is for [link]

Made with words, paper, envelope, watercolors, sharpie, and pencil.

Who are your parents?

I love, love, love comments ~~

Image size

1696x1883px 1.65 MB

Make

Model

HP pstc5500

Comments5

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tractern

Feb 27, 2010

This sent a tingle up my spine twice.

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