~artistic-foolishness

everlasting evisceration

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About Literature / Hobbyist Member artistic-foolishnessFemale/United States

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letter

by ~artistic-foolishness, Jan 22, 2012, 5:08:15 PM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

dearest dead,

          i can taste your death in the dregs of my tea (tea is such a melancholy thing).

when i see your stark beauty plagiarized on canvas, when i leave 3 candles lit in constant vigil, when i remember the soft rhythm        of your careful footsteps down this now abandoned hall, the sudden collection of dust on my organs is almost palpable and the delicate toothpicks supporting outward appearances snap about halfway to broken.

          it takes my breath away to realize how much i miss you.

i feel it deep in my ribcage as my everything collapses onto an ohsovulnerable chest. no wonder they call it a rib cage because    my heart is the prisoner to your ghost.

          Always,
          the dead, limp girl with Stockholm Syndrome

Cavity

by ~artistic-foolishness, Sep 26, 2011, 2:50:44 PM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

There's a heavy cannonball under my tongue and a black hole of emptiness in my chest. My little bones have hardened into led in a last attempt to survive the constant breakage, but instead of supporting me, all they do is drag me down. Darker. Deeper. Into the black velvet of the night-ocean, where the creatures seem more unbelievable and less friendly as I fall lower. Down. Down. Gone. Delivering me to the gates of Oblivion. Or Nirvana. That unattainable, "enlightened" place in the dark vastness of the through-and-through bullet holes that now decorate my chest and poison my blood with a metallic, envious beast. That's all loneliness is after all. How sorry you can feel for yourself, how ugly you realize you are when there's no one around to tell you otherwise.

And as I sit among the faces once so familiar, I perceive a change. The faces are whiter, plainer, empty, different. The one constant in my life has become a variable, and the shock leaves me blind, gasping for air, groping for firm land. To have the ground ripped from under you, to have it collapse as you crumble, and to feel the perverted tickle of free fall 'down there'. It leaves a cavity where there used to be love and steel and resoluteness. I'm weak now, and this is the closest I've ever come to crying over someone. Anyone. Maybe I've never loved so absolutely before. Maybe that's why, when I lost you I lost myself, too. I am absence, a void to fill; all I feel is nothing. And nothing isn't. There for, I am not. Even as I notice the pain blistering, clotting just behind my eyes, all I can think about is how numb I am. I can almost trace the path of my Paralyzer through my body, as clearly as if it was cocaine cycling through my system, freezing my nasal passages, rushing to my brain, clinging to my lungs; as if trying to obtain warmth. But there is nothing, nothing, nothing anymore. Nothing deep or wonderful enough to produce heat. Just sweat. It smells of chemical, like too many sleeping pills. I black out, I hear white, see violet. My mind is a broken TV set, all fuzz. And then I think of you.

I wait for you to pull me back into reality, into the rehabilitation of your arms.

Who will be the one to fill me?
Am I just a bottomless
worthless
little
girl
?

Newest Deviations

A Fissuresometimes the dark is unforgiving,
just the universe and you.
among the constellations,
you're just a star,
there's no world outside of you.

money cannot be stacked
high enough to reach the heavens,
money cannot erase time
or buy time or stop time.
there is no ctrl+z,
no gift receipt,
for life or our time here.
when we die our slate is white
but while we live, the world is green.
we auction off our feelings
and hope someone will know what it means.
but meanwhile, we are tied to earth,
our money our worth,
our savior our anchor.

i never knew empty space
could weigh so much,
i never knew that dreams
could be a crutch.
i'A Fissure by ~artistic-foolishness

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Hallowed Be Thy Graveit goes deeper than money
and right through your skull
a release of a sigh,
an empty hole in the wall.
all that we do and all we can be,
up in flames,
down the drain.
but we survive, hopelessly.

laughter like moths,
wings dissipate.
this mirror is polished
but make no mistake.
the world is a funhouse
we don't want to enter,
these mirrors are cracked
we are mailed back to the sender.

to dirt,
to rot,
all we forgot,
the moments that mattered
sadly, did not.
and our roots grow tangled
but don't hold us to the ground.
they strangle us, captives
in the deep end, we drown.

we cave in like bones etched with too many days,
lHallowed Be Thy Grave by ~artistic-foolishness

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Infinite Infinitesimal InfinitiesInfinite Infinitesimal Infinities

Everything is infinite; only we aren't. Our inconsequential lives don't allow us the time; we parcel it out individually, as we see fit. A slice to art, a slice to sex, a slice to words, a slice to thought, a slice to cycling trivialities. And no matter how many slices we serve ourselves, there is never enough and we never are full. So we hunger, but there is no mercy; we never starve.

Words are infinite. We, as humans, never tire in our experimentation, twisting and wringing out old verbs and adjectives for new meaning, and usually finding it, weaving tales of wonder for all to gawk at on our looms of dreaInfinite Infinitesimal Infinities by ~artistic-foolishness

18 Comments

stare. by ~artistic-foolishness

0 Comments

Piece the shards of glass together, and you will have formed a mirror, reflecting all that is me.

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narcolepsy

by ~artistic-foolishness, Jul 23, 2012, 11:52:33 AM
Journals / Personal

Narcolepsy is a chronic sleep disorder, or dyssomnia, characterized by excessive sleepiness and sleep attacks at inappropriate times, such as while at work. People with narcolepsy often experience disturbed nocturnal sleep and an abnormal daytime sleep pattern, which often is confused with insomnia. Narcoleptics, when falling asleep, generally experience the REM stage of sleep within 5 minutes; whereas most people do not experience REM sleep until an hour or so later

2 Comments

Listening to: Robots-Dan Mangan
Reading: Under the Dome-Stephen King

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deviantID

~artistic-foolishness

my name doesn't ever change
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature

United States

all I am and all I do is
writing...

I am 15, and I'd like to think mature for my age.
I remember when I was four I would analyze my teacher's body shape and face structure, and concluded that your face shape is similar to your body shape. Pre-k was fun.(:
...................................................................................................

Traveling Bohemians-Charles Baudelaire

The prophetic tribe of the ardent eyes
Yesterday they took the road, holding their babies
On their backs, delivering to fierce appetites
The always ready treasure of pendulous breasts.

The men stick their feet out, waving their guns
Alongside the caravan where they tremble together,
Scanning the sky their eyes are weighted down
In mourning for absent chimeras.

At the bottom of his sandy retreat, a cricket
Watched passing, redoubles his song,
Cybele, who loves, adds more flower,

Makes fountains out of rock and blossoms from desert
Opening up before these travelers in a yawn—
A familiar empire, the inscrutable future.
~

The Kiss- Anne Sexton

My mouth blooms like a cut.
I've been wronged all year, tedious
nights, nothing but rough elbows in them
and delicate boxes of Kleenex calling crybaby
crybaby, you fool!

Before today my body was useless.
Now it's tearing at its square corners.
It's tearing old Mary's garments off, knot by knot
and see - Now it's shot full of these electric bolts.
Zing! A resurrection!

Once it was a boat, quite wooden
and with no business, no salt water under it
and in need of some paint. It was no more
than a group of boards. But you hoisted her, rigged her.
She's been elected.

My nerves are turned on. I hear them like
musical instruments. Where there was silence
the drums, the strings are incurably playing. You did this.
Pure genius at work. Darling, the composer has stepped
into fire.

~

The Beekeeper's Daughter

A garden of mouthings. Purple, scarlet-speckled, black
The great corollas dilate, peeling back their silks.
Their musk encroaches, circle after circle,
A well of scents almost too dense to breathe in.
Hieratical in your frock coat, maestro of the bees,
You move among the many-breasted hives,

My heart under your foot, sister of a stone.

Trumpet-throats open to the beaks of birds.
The Golden Rain Tree drips its powders down.
In these little boudoirs streaked with orange and red
The anthers nod their heads, potent as kings
To father dynasties. The air is rich.
Here is a queenship no mother can contest ---

A fruit that's death to taste: dark flesh, dark parings.

In burrows narrow as a finger, solitary bees
Keep house among the grasses. Kneeling down
I set my eyes to a hole-mouth and meet an eye
Round, green, disconsolate as a tear.
Father, bridegroom, in this Easter egg
Under the coronal of sugar roses

The queen bee marries the winter of your year
....................................................................................................
Favourite genre of music: rock, techno
Favourite photographer: my mind
Favourite style of art: effortless
Skin of choice: goats skin
Personal Quote: Rebel in Silence

artistic-foolishness.deviantart.com/?givepoints

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