Awake For The Sunrise by propagandattack, literature
Literature
Awake For The Sunrise
I despise every solemn sunrise spent without you,
the pink flesh of sunburned skies peeling away
and resting in my bloodshot eyes that say
I will cry before it rains and the sun
will always be more bright than our future.
But that doesn't mean we shouldn't try,
because the moon loves the stars enough
to be with them at least once a day.
The way rain clouds ploughed their way
into yesterday and tomorrow reminds me
of the time I asked why you were crying
and you told me "Today won't last forever."
So my heart broke
like it had no other options;
a water-filled jar being frozen
and there just wasn't enough space
left in my chest
Romantic Alcoholism by propagandattack, literature
Literature
Romantic Alcoholism
He's not a party animal,
he's an alcoholic;
but the only liquor he wants
is your smile, so he works
until pay day to see you again
for as long as he can.
Your kiss is the first and last
drink he needs and wants.
It gives him the courage to cast
away his pride and trust luck
to tell him what to do about you
because he loves you so much
he'll never stop drinking.
My Hunter Is From 'Bambi'. by propagandattack, literature
Literature
My Hunter Is From 'Bambi'.
Living in Saskatoon
is like one of those old cartoons
where I'm already off the edge
but I keep pretending I'm walking
and people keep on watching
while they sit at home mocking
me because they'd rather see me fall
than have it happen to them.
So right now, I'm not so much writing a poem
as holding up a big white sign saying
"help".
Because even if my fall aligns with the
trampoline, all I'll keep on doing is
falling.
Moving On To Smaller Things by propagandattack, literature
Literature
Moving On To Smaller Things
The simple things in life
are the most poetic.
I have gone beyond that line
of "simple" so when people look at me
their jaws drop
and the only thing they can think is
"He's so boring."
"No I'm not." I always reply,
"This is me.
And that empty taste,
you mistake for boredom,
is envy."
I know what I want
from life and even though
you might think it's not much,
it's more than I need.
Half-Comforting Pillows by propagandattack, literature
Literature
Half-Comforting Pillows
I hate beds
because so many threads
of my memory take place in one.
When I go to sleep
I feel like I owe you an explanation
because the only pillow softer than a
feather is a clean conscience.
And when I condense
my memories of you
I get a poem
about my bed.
It actually makes a lot of sense
because your words are like my sheets;
they keep me warm at night
but you can still tell
I bought them at Wal-Mart.
When it comes down to it,
The only thing about my bed I enjoy
is that you're not in it.
I wish you were some
kind of heroin(e),
so after you saved me
from the speeding bus, I could
inject you and feign happiness.
If you were any less aw(e)ful,
I could look you in the eye
to tell you what a beautiful
monster you've become.
And the link between "we"
and "wee" has strengthened,
as if to say we're in the same place
we'd be as if we had never been.
I'm so frustrated with all my
I-just-don't-know's and my should-I-
ask-her's leaving my relationships in the wake
of my imaginations; abandoning them for the sake
of my pride's reality.
Now no one sees
I'm alone and I want out but
I can't ask for your help
because it's already taken by
the last needy soul to catch your eye;
the last needy soul to help you realize
there's more problems in the world
than just yours.
But yours are the tears from
someone else, hiding emotional trials
behind the leader of your support group.
creating this loop
that swivels and grows,
grows to encompass everyone you know
and your madness spreads
My whole body aches
because for the past few weeks
I've been in bed,
wondering why you said
Why?
And wondering why
I replied.
Wondering why
I replied that your complacency
isn't enough for me
to live on, and I've spent
far too long trying to stretch
the pennies of your feelings towards me
to try and pay my
hourly emotional bills.
And I find that even if you spent your life
on a new pair of gills for me
I wouldn't swim.
But even after realizing this
I'm still going to lay in bed
and you will half-ass your
way back into my life
and when you give me the knife of
"I love you, sort of",
or you kiss me back but look away,
Awake For The Sunrise by propagandattack, literature
Literature
Awake For The Sunrise
I despise every solemn sunrise spent without you,
the pink flesh of sunburned skies peeling away
and resting in my bloodshot eyes that say
I will cry before it rains and the sun
will always be more bright than our future.
But that doesn't mean we shouldn't try,
because the moon loves the stars enough
to be with them at least once a day.
The way rain clouds ploughed their way
into yesterday and tomorrow reminds me
of the time I asked why you were crying
and you told me "Today won't last forever."
So my heart broke
like it had no other options;
a water-filled jar being frozen
and there just wasn't enough space
left in my chest
Romantic Alcoholism by propagandattack, literature
Literature
Romantic Alcoholism
He's not a party animal,
he's an alcoholic;
but the only liquor he wants
is your smile, so he works
until pay day to see you again
for as long as he can.
Your kiss is the first and last
drink he needs and wants.
It gives him the courage to cast
away his pride and trust luck
to tell him what to do about you
because he loves you so much
he'll never stop drinking.
My Hunter Is From 'Bambi'. by propagandattack, literature
Literature
My Hunter Is From 'Bambi'.
Living in Saskatoon
is like one of those old cartoons
where I'm already off the edge
but I keep pretending I'm walking
and people keep on watching
while they sit at home mocking
me because they'd rather see me fall
than have it happen to them.
So right now, I'm not so much writing a poem
as holding up a big white sign saying
"help".
Because even if my fall aligns with the
trampoline, all I'll keep on doing is
falling.
Moving On To Smaller Things by propagandattack, literature
Literature
Moving On To Smaller Things
The simple things in life
are the most poetic.
I have gone beyond that line
of "simple" so when people look at me
their jaws drop
and the only thing they can think is
"He's so boring."
"No I'm not." I always reply,
"This is me.
And that empty taste,
you mistake for boredom,
is envy."
I know what I want
from life and even though
you might think it's not much,
it's more than I need.
Half-Comforting Pillows by propagandattack, literature
Literature
Half-Comforting Pillows
I hate beds
because so many threads
of my memory take place in one.
When I go to sleep
I feel like I owe you an explanation
because the only pillow softer than a
feather is a clean conscience.
And when I condense
my memories of you
I get a poem
about my bed.
It actually makes a lot of sense
because your words are like my sheets;
they keep me warm at night
but you can still tell
I bought them at Wal-Mart.
When it comes down to it,
The only thing about my bed I enjoy
is that you're not in it.
I wish you were some
kind of heroin(e),
so after you saved me
from the speeding bus, I could
inject you and feign happiness.
If you were any less aw(e)ful,
I could look you in the eye
to tell you what a beautiful
monster you've become.
And the link between "we"
and "wee" has strengthened,
as if to say we're in the same place
we'd be as if we had never been.
I'm so frustrated with all my
I-just-don't-know's and my should-I-
ask-her's leaving my relationships in the wake
of my imaginations; abandoning them for the sake
of my pride's reality.
Now no one sees
I'm alone and I want out but
I can't ask for your help
because it's already taken by
the last needy soul to catch your eye;
the last needy soul to help you realize
there's more problems in the world
than just yours.
But yours are the tears from
someone else, hiding emotional trials
behind the leader of your support group.
creating this loop
that swivels and grows,
grows to encompass everyone you know
and your madness spreads
The Village Bicycle Project by zebrazebrazebra, journal
The Village Bicycle Project
The Village Bicycle Project
Pet projects. Groups, prompts, contests, news serials. We all have them, whether it be one, or two, or ten if we've got a premium membership and a largesse of time. We start them for various reasons: to make a change for the better, to provide an opportunity that wasn't there before, or simply to make our mark on this wide and diverse community. Of course, it wasn't always like this. When I was first kicking around deviantART, News was still in beta (heck, beta-testing was still in beta) and Groups were nothing more than a glint in the ninja milkman's eye. What few projects there were were run out of the forums, i
Favourite genre of music: Metal, Techno, folk Favourite style of art: poetry, typography Operating System: Windows 7 MP3 player of choice: Cowon S9 Favourite cartoon character: Dilbert
Favourite Movies
Graveyard Alive: Zombie Nurse in Love
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
Escape The Fate, Lay Low, Knuckle Joe, Chiddy Bang
So... I sent 2 poems to a local poetry publishing magazine, just to see where I stand with other people, and if people would actually read my drivel.
Both poems got accepted! I'm really excited about this, even though I get no monetary reward, probably no recognition, and I look like a douchey teen writer. I'm just excited some other person enjoyed my writing!
SERIOUSLY!
I freaking hate limericks now. 25 is enough. I'm done. Screw off, last 5 limericks, you will never happen. Ever.
So I'll go back to barely writing sometimes and making melodramatic, self-contrived, loathing hunks of poetry, and doing stuff that way. It'll be fun, we'll have a party or something.
So I've realized that I enjoy poetry. And while I enjoy poetry, I am still god awful at it. However, I really amuse myself. I look at my work when first started, and it was just simple haikus with very literal meanings. Then i went into simple 12 line poems, that used the extent of my vernacular. Now I write crap that means nothing, and has no flow. I like to think it's an improvement xD.
I was browsing through your poetry, and I love the emotion, the reality, the simplicity of all of it. Congrats on the DD - it is certainly well deserved!