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December 4, 2009
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Daily Lit Deviations for December 4th, 2009</u>



We are proud to feature today's Daily Literature Deviations!

Please show your support by :+fav:ing this News Article

Don't hesitate to comment or :+fav: the artists for their hard work!



Poetry



Featured by: RunningBear5858
Her KneesHer knees
They've got bruises on them
Her knees
are like lost puppies
her knees have got nicks and bruises in all the wrong places, her knees work for minimum wage. They've got scrapes all over them, they're like ashtrays they're like, an umbrella loaded with holes. Like a seashell | that no one's got time to listen to
And her knees can tell time. Her knees are like long lists are like long lists of history, accomplishments her knees shout out at the tops of their lungs, "We love life!"
Her knees are like crazy drunk parties her knees are like laughing 'till you cry her knees are mistakes, brought back to life and painting pictures and telling jokes and giving hugs and rolling on the floor laughing her knees
They've got bruises on them...
Her knees aren't hiding, her knees aren't crying her knees aren't ashamed but they think they are ugly | they think they are ugly they don't think they are special.
But her knees
Her knees are like stories and and her knees can tell stories, "this is

"Her Knees" by Reynbowz
This poem proves that you can tell
a lot about a person by just looking
at their knees. Whether they're rich,
poor, bruised, or well off, simple knees
can tell a whole story.



Featured by teenyxtinyxtina
NightThe peace of the night
Calms my ever-active mind
The serenity of its darkness
Has a strange soothing power
All encompassing, ever expanding
Night goes ever on
And it is impossible to see its end
But somehow, I am comforted
It is not the dark I speak of, but night
The infinite beauty of her midnight cloak
With jewels of burning amber and midnight blue
Set among her coat of invisible velvet
Imagination is set afire when Night is across the land
Visions of far-off lands and fathomless seas
You can only see these things, and more,
When your mind is calmed by the Night.
An ethereal melody plays in the background,
What does it sound like? What is its rhythm?
Only you can tell me, and only I can tell you
For it is whatever we make it
Maybe a lonely piano, playing in the distance
Or a mystic flute, on the fleeting wind
Or perhaps a delicate harp you hear
As you gaze up at the stars
Or perhaps it is the chime
Haunting and ancient, soothing and lyrical
It feels the wind and dances accordingly
Ne

"Night" by Zenith87
Beautiful and soothing, this piece
picks apart every detail we can imagine
about night, and assembles it back together
with personification and flowing diction.



Prose



Featured by: choirsoftheheavens
frayed ends“No, please god... not her...” He whimpers, his eyes moored to her flimsy, stranded body. He can see her heart palpitate, pummeling her exterior at such a rate, bruising her surface. His voice cracks, he can’t stand the sight of her trembling.
“No more... please.” His knees buckle. He reaches to comfort her fragile boned hands, so cold. he wants to kiss her knuckles, bring back the colour to her skin but his fierce breath hardly impacts. He feels so remote though she is so close, so close but not close enough.
-
Saturday nights were meant to be spent huddled on the couch, her in his warm grasp. Listening to his heart race, rising and falling with his chest. Laughing and crying over the clichéd love movies playing so late. Sunday mornings were meant to consist of tangled limbs and intwined fingers and warm kisses on her forehead and slight rays of sunshine dancing on their naked toes. Tangled sheets and tousled locks of hair.
Saturday nights w

"frayed ends" by crashcoursewomb
Desolation, desperation and slow
disintegration has never been as well
told as this. An accident can change a
past situation into a scary present. But
the love, that crashcoursewomb
describes so beautifully, gives hope
for better futures.



Featured by itsaki
The StorytellerThere was a time when the sun shone over fields of green and trees grew so tall that one could not see the tops. There were creatures called birds that flew through the leaves and there were animals called moles that dug and lived underground. These days are long gone. The sun still shines but the only birds here are the steel winged cretins that stalk our kind like birds of prey of old. The trees have long ago left this place and only skyscrapers are left, piles of the abandoned bones of mankind's handiwork. Did those skyscrapers appreciate being created? Like a child left alone in the play park they wonder when their mother will come to pick them up even long after all the other children have left. This world is left with many such things and they all have their story to tell. They all speak of a wondrous birth, of purpose, of life. But they also speak of the deaths of their creators, the ends of their purpose. They speak of their abandonment and their own wishes of death. I have wai
"The Storyteller" by Myriinth
A beautiful piece about the only
person walking the skeletons of a seemingly
post-apocalyptic city, the frames of cities
standing hollowed, telling him stories of
a lost past.



Foreign Language



Suggested by: Isaac-Volpe
Featured by: Magic-fan

Ciega condena"Los chiquillos llegaron temprano para el ahorcamiento".
La luz del alba se reflejaba en las mejillas blancuzcas de la condenada, que con los ojos vendados sostenía una pequeña balanza de latón.
A un lado, su abogado defensor, al otro, fiscal, juez, jurado, verdugo y amante.
La condenada lloraba entre gritos de júbilo del pueblo; que estaba de vacaciones, decían los jóvenes, con un clérigo, añadían las viejas, obcecada  de poder, argüían los románticos, ¡bruja!, exclamaban los comerciantes.
Nadie escuchaba, nadie intentaba comprender.
Pendiendo de una soga, delante de su amante y detractor, gritaba y suplicaba clemencia.
Los chiquillos llegaron temprano y se entretuvieron tirando piedras a la condenada, abriendo incontables, sangrantes heridas, que no eran visibles a los ojos de aquel que no miraba.
1184, Languedoc.
Patalea, llora, se ahoga, muere.
Su cuerpo yace lánguido, marchito su rostro, amarrado de su

"Ciega condena" by xNamelessDreamerx
This piece is powerful and full of
emotion. Anyone with knowledge of the
Spanish language would be treating themselves
by reading this.




For more information, including how to suggest a Deviation to be featured, please visit us at DailyLitDeviations
prepared by: innocencedied2nite
Add a Comment:
 
:iconzenith87:
Zenith87 Featured By Owner Dec 8, 2009
Thank you so much for the feature! I am hounoured :)
Reply
:iconnathanzachary:
nathanzachary Featured By Owner Dec 4, 2009
Some nice pieces here today. Thank you DLD for sharing them, and thank you to the wordsmiths for crafting them. :)
Reply
:iconxnamelessdreamerx:
xNamelessDreamerx Featured By Owner Dec 4, 2009  Hobbyist Writer
Buaaaa!

I'm so excited. I can believe it. It's like a dream become true... Well, no words...

Isaac-Volpe, muchas gracias, muchíiiisimas gracias, es muy grande lo que has hecho por mi, por mis escritos, así que mil millones de gracias! No tengo más palabras que todas las de agradecimiento!

Thank you so much, muchas gracias!
Reply
:iconseigner:
Seigner Featured By Owner Dec 4, 2009  Hobbyist General Artist
Felicidades por el DLD
Reply
:iconxnamelessdreamerx:
xNamelessDreamerx Featured By Owner Dec 4, 2009  Hobbyist Writer
Muchas gracias!!! ^^
Reply
:iconseigner:
Seigner Featured By Owner Dec 4, 2009  Hobbyist General Artist
De nada :D
Reply
:iconjamberry-song:
jamberry-song Featured By Owner Dec 4, 2009  Professional General Artist
Yay! :dance:
Reply
Add a Comment: