Daily Lit Deviations for December 7th, 2009</u>
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Featured by: dreamsinstatic
Title of the piece by twistedambrosia
Often times the most complicated of emotions are captured
best in few words, and this poem is an excellent example of
that. Poignant and powerful, this poem is beautifully scribed
and emotionally consuming.
Featured by: TheBrassGlass
mussedeveryone ends up in the gallery
and all the people's portraits smile prim
but come no closer, close their eyes
closet themselves something criminal
waiting for a kiss
to unspell their dark room sorcery
one. last. time.
before the clock strikes one
are mice, before twelve, they've thrice
run away into the shells of these walls
dreaming little dreams of escape
and surrender; to think that one day they'll
take the cheese without springing a trap
Silent sleepers and a Bacchante
feeding dreams, awake, alike and frenzied,
slow, pouring alcoholic content from
their freely flowing smoke room memories
and maudlin memorized speeches
of that strangeness invading all the eyes
of strangers that look away.
makes me think of maybes
and all the people that are,
Medusa's sorrowed gaze
was undeserved on her hellish frame
with family like that
who needs Perseus, eh?
mercy killings, these, our own lives
falling slowly chock full of unwanted barter,
and formatted compromises,
"mussed" by y0urstalker
A sad and lingering piece about all those past night hours.
Featured by itsaki
Needs SayingIt's always the shy ones. Memories, that is. They hang back, letting bright moments of cartoons and Christmases hold your entire attention so they can creep away to a forgotten mental corner. They don't want your reverie; they want to be left alone.
Some memories shouldn't be.
Some have something needs saying.
When I was eight, I thought I was a horrible child. I was greedy and selfish, wouldn't eat anything I was given, treated guest children like they were stupid, ran off three of my aunt's maids, ran out the hot bath water, could have gotten my cousin killed, and very nearly did the same for myself.
Perspective is funny that way. My aunt's ultrasounds, the ones that showed an empty womb, make so much terrible sense now. To be pregnant one day and then the next be told that you weren't, that you had never been...at least a miscarriage can be buried. How could she mourn an idea? And where was there time to? She had lambs to feed, farmhands to pay, and poachers to drive off or survive,
"Needs Saying" by ErrantCrow
An amazing piece that is beautiful in its own "that's life"
sort of way, tales of a childhood in South Africa.
Featured by: Kitri-du-Lac
Not Perfect"It's not perfect, but it's mine."- Tim Minchin, Not Perfect
The dusty old piano is still looking strong, still standing even though it is topped heavily with books and boxes. I know that I could never be able to stand so proud without the weights, let alone with them. This piano, my piano, is a hero to me just for being around.
For days it has been open constantly, with a small pile of sheet music on the stand, ready to get played. And I do play that music- every time I pass by it.
Every piece I play remains embedded in my fingers, it is them that make it so easy to remember music I played once before and then did not play for years. But even the pieces of music I play daily hold great wonder to me. As the music flows when my fingers play automatically, it lets me think of the composition, just what it means to me. Although the best moment in every thing I play, every single time, is when I look down at my fingers, see their automatic movement and amaze at the swift, deft shift
"Not Perfect" by chislarina
This piece has a lovely personal feel. It portrays the creation
of sentimental feeling for an object well, by placing opposing
ideas side by side. The last line finishes it well, bringing it
back to the everyday beginning where it began.
Suggested by: Mep-Art
Featured by: Magic-fan
Je suis.Je suis une tortue, une tortue avec une carapace. J'encaisse sans rien dire. J'ai cette couche épaisse qui me permet de tout supporter. Les coups ne me font plus peur, ils me renforcent. Douleur, tu n'es plus qu'ombre. Tu es devenu mon double, mon mauvais double, ce mauvais moi que je ne veux pas voir resurgir, le faible. Il est désormais derrière moi, il me suit, guette le moment de se manifester, épit chacune de mes réactions. Mais il n'en est rien. Combativité, tu es ma nouvelle force ! Je rayonne de vitalité, je t'aspire, démon, tu n'es qu'une couche de plus à ma carapace. Je ne te crains plus, tu ne m'effraies plus. Tu es devenu une ombre parmi d'autres. Tu restes ce mauvais souvenir qui me hante. Mais grâce à toi, je sais savourer la vie, tu m'as appris que le malheur peut briser, mais j'apprends aujourd'hui que le bonheur me nourrit.
Je suis un caméléon, un caméléon aux multiples facettes. Je m'adapte, me
"Je suis." by Mep-Art
This is a powerful French piece that is definitely worth reading;
it will leave the readers wanting more.
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Prepared by: SirBret.