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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
November 3, 2013
gossamer, and you by ~escap-ing
Featured by inknalcohol
Suggested by WinteroftheSoul
Literature Text
some people
(the lucky ones)
get songs stuck in their heads.
i, on the other hand,
am left with words
that beat incessantly against
the confines of my brain.
last week, it was "gossamer."
i thought it was whimsical;
that was pleasant.
i saw the word
every which way i turned:
a gossamer veil of sunlight,
a silk shirt like gossamer,
a spider hanging by a thread of it.
i hate the word now,
with all its whimsy washed away;
the hard g is too harsh and garish
against the roof of my mouth,
the double s too serpentine.
it feels numbingly stiff on my tongue,
like some sort of linguistic anomaly,
a could-be word that really shouldn't be.
today, it was your name.
(i never thought
proper nouns counted, but
evidently, they do.)
i didn't see you as much as i heard you,
somewhere,
in the whistling of the breeze
or the creaking of the hardwood floors.
your imposing yet warm presence
hovered somewhere
near the nape of my neck.
i admit that somewhere
in the recesses of my mind,
i hope that
my tongue never tires
of curling around your syllables,
no matter what scars
your consonants carve in my throat,
no matter what holes
your vowels leave in my lungs.
(the lucky ones)
get songs stuck in their heads.
i, on the other hand,
am left with words
that beat incessantly against
the confines of my brain.
last week, it was "gossamer."
i thought it was whimsical;
that was pleasant.
i saw the word
every which way i turned:
a gossamer veil of sunlight,
a silk shirt like gossamer,
a spider hanging by a thread of it.
i hate the word now,
with all its whimsy washed away;
the hard g is too harsh and garish
against the roof of my mouth,
the double s too serpentine.
it feels numbingly stiff on my tongue,
like some sort of linguistic anomaly,
a could-be word that really shouldn't be.
today, it was your name.
(i never thought
proper nouns counted, but
evidently, they do.)
i didn't see you as much as i heard you,
somewhere,
in the whistling of the breeze
or the creaking of the hardwood floors.
your imposing yet warm presence
hovered somewhere
near the nape of my neck.
i admit that somewhere
in the recesses of my mind,
i hope that
my tongue never tires
of curling around your syllables,
no matter what scars
your consonants carve in my throat,
no matter what holes
your vowels leave in my lungs.
Literature
To Consecrate
When you first met me,
All you could see was a snow white glove
jutting up from the filth I let them bury me in,
digits half curled
wrist arced and carpels tangled
as if I had once strained
to reach up for something more,
but had long since given up...
Your fingertips were my Autumn
as I walked backwards through Winter-
A sleepwalking shadow
spurred on only by sound of a melodic voice
and the faint whispers
of a promise
that I was worth more than ash and dust;
It's been two years since you first coaxed me up from the mire.
I opened my eyes into a hurricane,
reached out to grasp at the hem of your dress
only to come up short
when I found
Literature
Flowers and Rain
A city full of flowers. A city full of rain.
I watch over it through the gap in the crumbling brickwork. There's a little girl wandering in the street below. God knows how she got there. I can't see properly through the scope of my rifle, but it looks like she's crying.
When I see her face I remember something I haven't remembered for years. I was her age when the evacuations happened. At least they started as evacuations. The word implies that everyone was following a plan, but it was just mass panic within a few hours. Still, we call those days the evacuations, because that was the word they gave us. That's the word my parents used.
I re
Literature
a ribcage drenched in dust
i have your ribcage, you said.
what should i put in it?
i told you i'd always wanted a fire,
the kind that would fill my eyes with starlight
and pump my blood full of passion, but
you're made of wildflowers, you said.
a fire would burn you to ash.
you wanted to fill my chest with
the sound of a train, whistling
far away in the night;
with the sound of rain smacking leaves;
with the sound the wind makes
when it seems like it's trying to speak
and you wanted to throw in the
smell of midnight in august
and the feeling of sand being
sucked out from under your feet
when the ocean inhales,
and the strange little moment of
bitter
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this one was a bit hasty, but i wanted to get it out before the spark faded.
i have a bit of a love/hate relationship with the ever-vague "you". but anonymity it usually quite fitting.
there are a lot of things that might change. maybe some things to add. i guess we'll see as the time passes, but for now... sure.
(also, i'm experimenting with fonts. i quite like a nice, clean serif typeface.)
feedback questions:
is the piece cohesive? or does it just seem weirdly random?
also, does the font choice affect the poem? (using times new roman instead of the default verdana)
i have a bit of a love/hate relationship with the ever-vague "you". but anonymity it usually quite fitting.
there are a lot of things that might change. maybe some things to add. i guess we'll see as the time passes, but for now... sure.
(also, i'm experimenting with fonts. i quite like a nice, clean serif typeface.)
feedback questions:
is the piece cohesive? or does it just seem weirdly random?
also, does the font choice affect the poem? (using times new roman instead of the default verdana)
© 2013 - 2024 escap-ing
Comments101
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This makes me love all the words in the poem. 
I hate the words succulent and velvety. Blehhh.
I hate the words succulent and velvety. Blehhh.