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Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: ideologically sensitive material)
I'm sitting on my mother's porch and all I can think about is destroying something.

The wicker hassock? I want to tear through the reeds, breaking off the legs one by one, scatter it on the poorly painted wood.

I want to push through the screen until a link gives. Piece by piece, the hole grows wider, until it is large enough for me to seize each side and pull - ripping a passageway wide enough for me to jump from the second story onto the driveway below.

I want to strip off my socks and run into the rain. Leaves and mud stick to my feet in ever-thickening layers. I drop to my knees and pick up handfuls of wet earth and stones and fling them out towards the ocean. I can't even hit the dock from this distance.

I'll lay down, soaked to my skin, crying among the small holes I've left, as we all fill up with water.
On the Day Before
Tomorrow is my mother's funeral. I don't know if I'll ever be ready for it.
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My piece "Still Digging" has been featured in an online journal, along with some very impressive poets. It's nice to see that my writing isn't going completely to waste.

I know it's been quiet around these parts, but I'm still writing, and I'm still keeping busy. It's just that my personal life is kind of a whirlwind right now. My mother's sickness has only worsened with time, and it's made it hard to concentrate on anything else.

Take care of yourselves,
DD
  • Mood: Big Grin
  • Watching: Birdman
  • Playing: Arkham City
  • Eating: Skittles
Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: ideologically sensitive material)
Inasmuch as God the father has given us this year
We gather around the table for a meal
Of venison and duck
And armadillos and domestic cats still wearing their collars
Organs shattered by tires
Solid blood binding them together in a net

Father makes the first cut
A perfect slice, dense as fruitcake
He passes the slice to his right
It goes hand over hand past all five and ends up
Back on father’s place setting

“I need a blanket,” says Mother.
Son volunteers with a smile and checks the linen closet
Diphtheria is good for regular company
But smallpox is for those special days
Son wraps the blanket around Mother

Before her fever climbs to 101, Father is already drunk
The children cry between mouthfuls of stuffing.
Cornucopia
My Thanksgiving poem, for a contest on dA. Getting back into my French surrealism.
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I want to reach out and touch you.

I want to feel like I’ve been wrong all these years.

I want to believe in fluffy clouds, and pearly gates, and the man with the counter in his hand, clocking the souls one by one, divinely gifted with the power to know who deserves salvation.

But I don’t. I don’t believe in these things.

His parents are gone. Your parents are gone. And soon, you’ll be gone.

And in those moments immediately afterward, I’ll lie to myself and say I believe in ghosts. The hairs rising on the back of my neck are responding to the twenty-one grams of energy surrounding me. I want to be haunted. I want to feel your presence for another twenty years, even if it means you’ll see things you never wanted to see. I’ve given myself over to sinfulness, and perhaps I’ve thrown away any chance I have at salvation.

But I still want you to stay.

I’ll buy a house too big for me to properly maintain, and I’ll leave one room alone, filled with your possessions. They’ll gather dust and cobwebs, and all of my friends will say

“Aren’t you going to clean that room?”

And I’ll say

“I can’t. It’s haunted. The ghost wouldn’t want me to.”

And whether or not you care about your furniture, you’d stay.

But you’re not really there. You were gone long before the house, to a time my friends barely remember, when certain combinations of words made me bite my lip and look away. That pull inside, that dull ache that made me want to apologize for things I hadn’t done, that’s where you really were.

I’m sorry, ghost. I’m sorry I don’t believe in you. I wish I did.
Ghost

I'm kind of a one trick pony right now. I struggle to know the difference between the depression that's right and the depression that's wrong. The big difference is that the good depression convinces me I still have a purpose.

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Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: ideologically sensitive material)
Somehow, even at daylight, the shadows remain. I flip the light switch to its on position, and nothing changes. I’m not surprised that the electricity has been cancelled, but I am caught off guard when I go to wash my hands, and the sink doesn’t respond to a turn of the knob. I’m not sure if I had expected them to wait another day or two to actually turn off my water, or if I had just assumed that their lack of urgency when it came to resolving incorrect bills carried over to their disconnections. Of course, only one of those actually impacts them. I turn the faucet to off, so it won’t scare whomever is in the apartment when new tenants reconnect. It does make my plan to clean the counters somewhat more complicated.

But, in truth, this is only what I am thinking after the fact. When I am actually in the apartment, all I can think about is how badly I want to get out.

In my last month of living there, I felt the apartment take on a life it had never had. It was crushing, despite being spacious. I felt crowded, despite being alone. The walls felt oppressive, angry. I wasn’t sure whether it wanted me to stay or go, but I could definitely tell it hated me.

On one of the last days, I was packing up my desk, and I found some slightly charred flakes of a bud of marijuana I had bought the year prior. With every breath of smoke, the air opened, and I was finally comfortable in the skin under that roof. I was able to pack my things faster, unconcerned for the apartment’s thoughts on the matter. I was getting out, and freeing my mind from the cage that had been slowly constructed brought me a new sense of purpose.

And that cage is suddenly dropped on my foot today, and I can feel the bones being crushed. How much do I really need these last few items? I inventory them in my head, and unfortunately, they all need to be rescued. Including the ones in the closet in the far back room, where there is no light. The sun is past the point where it provides any assistance, and the room itself is cast in a pall of late evening. The closet itself, black as pitch. I am pretty sure that I emptied it, but what if I’m wrong? And what if I go inside, and discover it’s not empty, that the unnerving ripples going through the skin on the back of my neck are onto something? What if I don’t feel alone, because I’m not alone? Is it just the apartment, and memories thick as molasses and sharp as razor wire tightening around my lungs, or is there something more tangible, more dare I say evil, lurking in the blackness?
the grip of anxiety
I had meant to write this before Halloween, but personal stuff has gotten in the way. Come to think of it, personal stuff has been a huge obstacle to all my non-book writing right now, so for that I apologize. This weekend, I'm spending a few days with my best friend/writing partner, so I'm hoping some good material comes out of that. Fingers crossed.
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My piece "Still Digging" has been featured in an online journal, along with some very impressive poets. It's nice to see that my writing isn't going completely to waste.

I know it's been quiet around these parts, but I'm still writing, and I'm still keeping busy. It's just that my personal life is kind of a whirlwind right now. My mother's sickness has only worsened with time, and it's made it hard to concentrate on anything else.

Take care of yourselves,
DD
  • Mood: Big Grin
  • Watching: Birdman
  • Playing: Arkham City
  • Eating: Skittles

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:iconrexivan:
RexIvan Featured By Owner Aug 24, 2014
In light of your recent troubles, it seems so grossly inadequate to wish you 'Happy Birthday'.  I almost believe that doing so might make you feel worse, and that's the last thing you need.  However, I think it's still important to let people know they are not forgotten.  I hope that there was at least a little happiness in your day today.   
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(1 Reply)
:iconrollingtomorrow:
RollingTomorrow Featured By Owner Aug 4, 2014   General Artist

Hello! :iconexcitedhiplz:

 

Thank you for submitting to our trimonthly writing prompt at :iconlive-love-write:!

 

Your submission has been featured in our group journal: live-love-write.deviantart.com…

The newest prompt is also included at the bottom of the feature.

 

Please add the article to your favorites to support your work and the prompt. La la la la

 

We hope to read more of your writing! :happybounce: Thank you!

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:iconflummo:
flummo Featured By Owner Jun 16, 2014  Student Writer

Thank you for joining :iconthewrittenrevolution:, we're delighted to have you with us. Welcome to the revolution. :salute:

 

This is just a brief message to ask you to please read our rules, so we can clarify anything that isn't clear before you start submitting your work (if there's any question or concern you have, we're here to answer).

 

To help our members get the most out of our group, we've created a tWR guide that lists pretty much anything from our current projects, to helpful articles about critiquing and asking for feedback that might be very useful for your future submissions. Feel free to check it out! :D We regularly post prompts and publishing opportunities for our members to try.

 

And feel free to add us on Facebook and Twitter. :dummy:

 

Thank you for joining! :salute:
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:iconpestilence-prince:
pestilence-prince Featured By Owner Apr 30, 2014  Student Traditional Artist
Ayoo B)
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:icontales-of-tao:
Tales-of-Tao Featured By Owner Jan 26, 2014  Student General Artist
Sailing the seven seas Hello! Your delightful work has been featured here: fav.me/d73v7rf. Have an excellent week!
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