ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
He wakes up in Vietnam every night,
boot-clad feet trudging over mined ground,
trigger finger numb, back sore,
fatigue drenched from the monsoons,
and he prays to go home to her.
He finds himself next to her every morning,
dark bags under her eyes telling him
his twitching kept her awake again.
At breakfast she throws the dishes
and cries as the china shatters against the wall—
cries that she’s living in a combat zone
with a man who’s battling himself.
"Is there anything more destructive
than war?" she asks, and he looks at her
and says, “Love."
boot-clad feet trudging over mined ground,
trigger finger numb, back sore,
fatigue drenched from the monsoons,
and he prays to go home to her.
He finds himself next to her every morning,
dark bags under her eyes telling him
his twitching kept her awake again.
At breakfast she throws the dishes
and cries as the china shatters against the wall—
cries that she’s living in a combat zone
with a man who’s battling himself.
"Is there anything more destructive
than war?" she asks, and he looks at her
and says, “Love."
Literature
Knife
Remember that little human
boy who couldn't read aloud -
who couldn't hold a pen
because his slick corn oil skin
kept sliding past itself?
Boy, oh, boy.
And he was born a hundred
years too late for his cowboy
dreams. He rides herd on the
maybes and the somedays.
He sang a knife song - one
that sliced up the rigid spines
of teachers and parents alike
and parted them before him
like God-spoken seas.
Deft elision somewhere between
his teeth and tongue, lyrical, his
words in other men's mouths.
Knife song honed with lime,
polished with manteca.
Literature
You should never attack a poet,
we are the best at exploiting weakness.
the night you took a scalpel to my chest
& fed my heart to the stars,
you told me i could hate you
if i needed to.
with an exorcism
i tried to cast you out
of my body.
i was contorted limbs:
the language of tongues
trying to find myself
in the cosmos
of lit kerosene fingertips,
& the kinds of habits
that only choke me at 3am -
when my eyes aren’t yet heavy
enough for sleep;
my mind tells me to do awful things.
between fucking &
i-don’t-know-who-i-am-
anymore,
you are the calories
in the mathematical equation
scribbled &
scratched out
of me.
i think of shy moons
an
Literature
Actuality
when I was young, I wanted
to be a punk rocker
metal holes lining my body like
trophies of war, hair teased
and bleached and styled for hours
on end until it looked effortless,
inked up with words and symbols
I swore were profound with
a cigarette hanging lazily
from my fingers, lonely
for a reason
(and he told me, sweetie,
you are like a fucking eclipse,
the bloody dawn
God plagued us with
I always wondered
if mistakes understood
the reason they
came to be in this world
I guess not).
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
"When there is peace, the warlike man attacks himself." - Nietzsche
© 2013 - 2024 QuirkyCuriousBex
Comments27
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Awww 
Heartbreaking and true in so many cases. If only more people believed that it didn't have to be.
Heartbreaking and true in so many cases. If only more people believed that it didn't have to be.